#also I LOVE how his rings(?) can glow. it’s such a raw detail to me

[fujii-draws]

Still thinking abt this concept

[yoonsshadow]

ETERNAL - i

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; murder, death, violence, blood, guns, burnt bodies, nudity [nonsexual], nightmares, drugs? [sleeping pills], a bunch of boys being in love

➳ word count ; 4.8k

➳ note ; I watched The Old Guard on Netflix [a serious recommend if you haven’t already seen it] and got hit with major inspiration. Nothing better than found-family and immortal soulmates. I put of a lot of time, effort and love into this, so please treat it with delicate hands. And please, please, give me feedback if you like it. Thank you, and enjoy :)

They have done this before, enough times—too many times—to be familiar with the routine. 

The nightmares, all too vivid and yet frustratingly vague, of blood and pain and death. Glimpses of a face they have never seen, memories that do not belong to them. The lingering thoughts of why another, why now, why at all?

They have done this many times, and yet it never gets easier, never makes sense.

⎯⎯⎯

When they submit to the clutches of slumber, it is beneath the glowing moonlight that shines through the broken ceiling of an abandoned church. Overgrown with vines that hold the crumbling walls together and hidden behind bushes and weeds and shadows, this building will be safe, for them. For now. It may not provide much warmth, or much shelter, but it gives them a sense of anonymity that they so desperately depend on. Right now, it hides them from the world. They are nothing but each other’s, so long as they are here.

Usually, sleep brings peace. Long ago did they learn how to banish demons from their dreams, memories of pasts both true and terrible, and so through sleep they find temporary solace from the demands of their long lives. They hold each other in their warm arms, forget about their worries if only for a brief moment. They are but seven men, seven soulmates, seven loves, existing together without burden.

Until tonight.

It is familiar, the weight that descends upon their chests, pushes against their rib cages. An invisible force both squeezing them and pulling them apart, flooding them with vague images, sounds, feelings. In sleep, they hold each other tighter, safer, but they cannot escape the myriad of memories and thoughts that fill their minds.

A pair of eyes, so brown that they are pure, so dark that they are nearly black, blink at them as sweat begins to shine upon their skin. These eyes are young, but they hold wisdom, maturity, that can only come with death. Witnessing it, causing it, experiencing it. These eyes are filled with desperation in this moment, but also a stubborn determination; they know what is coming, and yet they will continue to fight until their dying breath, as they vowed⎯⎯

⎯⎯a uniform, black, stained with dirt and blood, without any identifying marks. No dog-tags, but a tan line around a soft neck where they would normally hang. Trained muscles behind firm fabric, knowledgeable fingers clutching a military assault rifle. Steel-toed boots, scuffs through the polish, dirt in the seams and drops of red in the laces⎯⎯

⎯⎯heart beating through chest, adrenaline spiking, but something’s wrong, this isn’t supposed to happen, how did they know we were coming? Need to get out, need to get to cover, need to save⎯⎯

⎯⎯the enemies found them, caught them, have them, bound and bloodied in a dark cave or dungeon, they can’t tell. Chains rattle against stone where bodies shift for comfort, but no comfort can be found for bleeding wounds, broken bones, bruised skin. Eyes connect, know they’re saying goodbye, can’t speak but wish they could say something, apologise, curse, plead, pray. By the time footsteps stomp their way in, handgun cocked and aimed at their foreheads, they have already accepted that⎯⎯

Gasps echo in the silence as seven bodies jerk awake, trembling and sweating and aching with pains that another is experiencing. Their minds are still clouded, submerged within their dreams, but they know this routine. They know what they have just seen.

Hands scramble beneath their makeshift bedding as they reach for their journals, their pens, and begin to scribble whatever details they can remember ⎯ eyes, blood, pain, death. They’ve all clung to different images, and they desperately remember everything they can before it washes away with their wakeful clarity.

“I saw, um, eyes,” chokes the youngest, his pencil already sketching the eyelashes with careful precision. “Brown, dark. Looked like a girl’s.”

“She had to be military,” says another. “Maybe special forces? No insignia on the uniform and dog-tags were taken off. Black-ops?”

“I saw a glimpse of a scar on her hand. Might help to identify her.”

“There were others, too; a team. I have a feeling she was the leader.”

“It was a rescue operation, but I don’t think they succeeded. The enemies saw them coming. She was confused as to how.”

“Did you see the gun she was shot with? That’s military grade. It was either supplied by somebody on the force, or they were the force.”

“God, I have a headache.” Seokjin rubs his temples, a pain lingering behind his eyes but never ceding. “Never thought after three-hundred years that we’d get another one.”

Arms curl around him, a sigh breathed into his neck. “Me too, hyung.” Jeongguk nuzzles closer, finds comfort in the warmth of his lover’s broad shoulders. “I feel sorry for her. Now she’s going to have to deal with this too.”

“Hey, what did I say about pessimism?” Namjoon’s pointed look is directed towards the youngest, but the words are for everybody to hear. A reminder. “Our lives may be long, and hard, and difficult to deal with at times. But we have the opportunity to help people, to affect change, and, most importantly,” his eyes soften, “to have each other.”

“Wah, hyung’s going soft on us,” Taehyung grins, leaning his head on Namjoon’s shoulder.

Behind him, Jimin clings around his torso like a koala. “Yeah, those are big words for somebody who so often tells us how insufferable we are,” he agrees.

Sitting up, Yoongi joins the conversation with a voice still deep with sleep. “That’s because you are insufferable. But that doesn’t mean that hyungs love you any less. Eternal life would be extremely dull if we didn’t have you annoying us constantly.”

Taehyung and Jimin smile at each other, eyes glittering with something devious, and something close to love. “You all just bore witness to that,” Jimin says, pointing at Yoongi. “You all heard him say that, so you can’t yell at us for being annoying ever again!”

“Free pass!” Taehyung agrees.

Hoseok, still lounging his head in Yoongi’s lap, rolls his eyes. “Yoongi-hyung said it, but none of us did, so we can, and will, still yell at you.”

The two pout, but question it no further. They could spend centuries arguing over petty things⎯have, regrettably⎯but they’d much rather get along. For now, forever.

“Hyungs,” a small voice whispers into the silent air, drawing attention to where the maknae still hugs into Seokjin’s back. He’s pouting, and they want to coo at him, but his next words break them out of their reverie of adoration. “What about the girl?”

Your ears are ringing when you finally wake, images of your nightmares still clinging to your mind, so vivid, so real. They were filled with pain, and fear, and the bloodied faces of your soldiers as they were shot one after the other. You remember screaming for them, pleading, hoping against hope that they’d listen. But, instead, you had watched them die.

You hope that you didn’t scream aloud, didn’t wake your team. They deserve the rest, even if you couldn’t have it.

Muscles stiff and aching from a restless slumber, you shift in your cot, move to adjust the blanket. But your cot is harder than you’d like, your blanket out of reach. In fact, you can’t move your arms at all.

When your heavy eyelids finally open, you realise why your dreams had felt so real.

The stench of blood and death is so thick in the air that you can taste it, that bitter tang against your tongue bringing bile up to the back of your throat. Your body isn’t just sore, it’s screaming; it’s as though you can feel your muscles re-knitting together after being torn apart. And maybe it’s panic that crushes against your lungs, constricting your airways, or maybe it’s grief.

Because as soon as your eyes land on the dead bodies of your teammates, you can’t breathe.

Your throat is so sore from screaming and crying that the sounds escaping it are torn and scratchy, but you can’t hold them in. Not when you see your friend’s brain splattered over the wall behind her; not when you see your second-in-command holding her hands together, mid-prayer when the shot was fired.

You sob, and yell, and cry out until your throat is raw, and then when you have no voice left, you continue. You may not be dead yet⎯and for what reason, you don’t want to know⎯but you don’t think that you’ll ever truly live after this. How does one move on from their friends, their family, being slaughtered before their very eyes? How does one process the fact that they were left behind?

Through the crushing weight on your chest and the searing pain in your throat, you hear footsteps approaching. The heavy boots do nothing to hide their owner’s steps, impatient and strong, but you can’t find it within yourself to be afraid. The worst thing they can do is torture you some more, maybe even kill you, but you’d welcome death at this stage; you’d welcome reprieve from the sorrow that threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s a man, unsurprisingly, who walks through the mouth of the dark cave, ugly face covered by a mask pulled up to his eyes. He looks at you, something in his half-hidden expression that you don’t have the energy to place, and then says something in a language that you cannot understand.

Heaving a breath and swallowing blood, you meet his sharp eyes. “I don’t understand you.” Your words scratch their way out, hardly discernible, so you try again. “I won’t tell you anything, so just kill me and get it over with.”

This time he shouts, still angry but this time not at you, though he never tears his gaze off your crumpled figure. Like if he blinks, you may disappear.

Once again, hurried and heavy footsteps make their way into the room, a pair of men joining their comrade. These ones are holding guns. You can’t find it within yourself to flinch.

More foreign words are thrown at you, some that seem like questions, but your mind is too rattled, head too sore, to even try to comprehend what they might want from you. Your shoulders ache from where your arms are secured behind you, and your legs ache from hours⎯maybe days?⎯of disuse. So you sigh, level what you hope is a glare towards the two newcomers, and repeat, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Looks exchanged between them, hesitation, and then, “You should be dead. Why are you not dead?”

In a moment of weighted silence, you try to determine if they’re serious. Because surely they aren’t asking you how you are alive while being held captive by them. But they don’t elaborate, so you’re left with an even greater migraine than before. “Are you fucking serious?”

The expletive makes them simultaneously point their rifles at you, and this time, you do stiffen. You may be feeling slightly suicidal right now, but you also have reflexes.

“I don’t know why I’m alive.” The admission is spat from between your teeth, reluctant and bitter. “Why don’t you ask whoever it was that killed the rest of my team?”

“I killed your team,” one of them says. The first one. Without a gun, obviously having thought there would be no threat in entering this dungeon. “I killed you, too, shot you in the head myself. So tell me again. Why are you alive?”

“Maybe you’re a bad shot,” you reply. “How am I to fucking know why you let me live? Now do me a favour, will you? Either let me go or shoot me for real this time.”

You don’t have time to register the sound of the gunshot before the bullet goes through your forehead.

“Anything?”

A sigh is the only response that Namjoon receives. 

“Alright,” he continues, “what do we know for sure about her?”

“Honestly, hyung?” Jimin looks up from the laptop he’s perched at. “I don’t think we even truly know if it’s a woman. We saw her⎯their⎯eyes, but not much else. Like, sure, we think it’s a woman, we’re pretty sure of it, but nothing’s certain. The visions were really vague this time around.”

“He’s right,” Yoongi agrees, never looking up from the screen of his own computer. “I’ve been searching the military databases, but it’s hard to pinpoint covert operations that don’t technically exist. We didn’t get a dog tag number, or an insignia, or even an idea of which country’s military she’s in. I hate to say it, but we might just need to wait until tonight. Get some more pieces of the puzzle.”

This is what Namjoon was afraid of, not that he was expecting anything else. His boys are good, but even they can’t work miracles.

“I feel sorry for her,” Jeongguk hums, cheek pressed into the couch cushion where he’s taken a rest from research. Not that he ever really started; that was always his hyungs’ strong points. “I mean, she’s all alone right now, probably really confused, really scared. I know I was before you all found me.”

That sentence strains their hearts, makes them pause. Jeongguk had been alone for nearly a decade before they had finally found him, lonely and of unsound mind, unaware of the curse he’d been unwillingly given. They’d spent years helping him heal, helping him accept, and now they can proudly say that he is stable and content. Happy, even, sometimes.

You, however. You are in the exact same place that he was. Maybe worse, they don’t know.

Taking slow steps towards the couch, Hoseok gently lifts Jeongguk’s legs to place them on his lap when he sits. He feels the strong calf muscles beneath his fingers as he strokes the uncovered skin, bare only for their eyes, until the young one has relaxed his worried muscles.

“I know it’s hard, Jeongguk-ie,” Hoseok says, voice just above a whisper, soft and yet sure. “I know that we all want to find her as soon as possible, but we can’t just yet. Hopefully the next dream will give us more, but until then, we just have to stay focused. Let’s not get lost in that mental spiral, okay?”

Jeongguk hums, not fully sated with the answer but understanding nonetheless. “M’kay, hyung.”

The comfortable silence in the room following their conversation doesn’t even stretch five minutes before a figure slams into the building, flourishing his arms and announcing his arrival enthusiastically.

“We’re back, bitches!”

Seokjin follows behind Taehyung, closing the church doors after the younger had slammed them open and looking exhausted. “Taehyung chatted with the cashier for half an hour before he even asked for help. We could have been back hours ago.”

“Hey.” Taehyung directs a look at the oldest. “Her outfit coordination was unlike anything I’ve seen this century. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s as old as Hoseok-ie hyung!”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Hoseok asks Seokjin, who is smiling despite himself.

“Definitely a compliment. I’ll admit, she reminded me of that one fashion mogul we knew in Paris. The one...Jimin, you know the one I’m talking about. Red hair, lazy eye?”

“It wasn’t a lazy eye, hyung,” Jimin corrects, “she was just keeping an eye out in all directions.”

“Yeah, anyway,” Seokjin says, “none of that matters. We got the stuff. Took a while, but we got it.”

Taehyung empties his plastic shopping bag onto a wiped-down old table, cardboard boxes falling onto the surface. “I’ve got to say, modern medicine is pretty ground-breaking. I wish we were smart enough to have invented it earlier.”

“Do you think it’ll work?” Yoongi asks, sounding a lot less interested than he actually is. “I wouldn’t think that sleeping pills would affect us.”

At this, Namjoon bites his lip. “Usually, I’d agree with you, but I’ve been doing some thinking. If the pills aren’t hurting us, our bodies shouldn’t heal too quickly; they should still have time to take effect. Just like how we can get drunk but not have liver issues, or smoke but not get cancer.”

“But smoking’s still gross,” Jeongguk mumbles.

“So,” Hoseok ponders aloud, “if we take the pills, it should prolong our sleep so that we can lengthen the dream? Do you think it’ll work?”

“We’ve never been able to test it,” Namjoon shrugs. “The worst thing that could happen is our body processes it quicker than it works, and we have a normal night’s sleep with normal visions. It’s worth a shot.”

“I think a few of us should not take the pills,” Seokjin says. “That way, if the pills really do work, some of us can still wake up normally in case of an emergency.”

Namjoon nods his head in agreement. “Okay. We’ll rock-paper-scissors it tonight. Until then, let’s rest.”

The second time you wake up, you are significantly less disorientated. You know where you are, what has happened and, most importantly, that you should definitely be dead.

You’d seen the gun, heard the click, felt the bullet spilt through your skull. You know what a killing shot is, have dealt a few yourself, so you know that you should not be opening your eyes to an intense headache right now.

An acrid odour drifts through your dazed thoughts, a stench so strong, so unpleasant, that bile immediately rises and spills from your mouth. You don’t have much to vomit, so you spit mostly water and stomach acid onto the ground beneath you as you wretch from your aching throat.

No, not the ground. Something far worse.

When the tears from your eyes clear away and you look to the ground, you see what is digging into your skin, jabbing at your muscles; you aren’t sure why, or how, but you are lain across a pile of bones and scraps of cloth, sizzling flesh still warm to the touch and sticking to you in chunks. You are atop a pile of burnt bodies, unharmed and soaked to the bone with the reeking smell of charred flesh.

Your stomach is empty, and so you can only scramble from the pile and retch.

For several minutes, all you can do is allow your body’s attempt to empty itself on the ground. Even more so than before, your mind is overwhelmed with thoughts and questions and worries, most of which lead to the fact that you are lying naked in the middle of a desert, next to a pile of burnt bodies, unharmed and somehow alive.

You are at least thankful that you are already lying on the ground when you faint.

*

There are seven pairs of eyes⎯brown, warm⎯that look at you, look at each other. Words remain unspoken, for the pupils reveal every thought, every emotion. I care for you deeply, they say, now and forever. The words are not meant for you, not yet, but they feel familiar. As if you have heard them in every past life⎯

⎯Surrounded by trees, a sight which would usually calm you but now only acts as a hindrance, you run through the familiar forest without grace. Bare feet bleed trails of red through the undergrowth, sore arms never dropping the heavy weapons that slow you down so. You should not be alone, never usually are, but now you are accompanied only by your panic and the wolves that chase you. These ones, however, do not howl or gnash their feral jaws; they calculate, the way only a human can⎯

⎯Metal hangs heavy around your lithe neck, skin raw and bleeding beneath its unrelenting grip. Fingers grab into your filthy hair, knotting into your bun. Worthless piece of filth, growls a man. You are not unfamiliar with his tone, nor his insults, though this is the first time you have felt a glob of saliva being spat onto your cheek. Can’t even follow the basic rules. Somebody really ought to make an example of you⎯

⎯This room is bright, brighter than the last, and yet somehow glooms darker than all. Shadows hang heavy in the corner where invasive eyes hide, but you can look only to the man who sits in front of you, posture relaxed despite the tensity that thickens the air. Go on, he taunts as you are shoved to your knees, the pain nothing compared to the fear that fills you at the sight of the executioner’s sword. Show us that smile of yours. Grant the world one more. Grant him, he nods towards another figure who you refuse to meet gazes with, one last dazzling grin. You do not, but you do whisper an apology under your breath, one that will never be heard⎯

⎯Gold silk hangs from your broad shoulders, the fabric draping gracefully down your tall body. Each detail stitched into the delicate robe sparkles in the candlelight, patterns that tell stories of love and power and beauty. Jeonha, somebody says to you, a face that is hidden from your view. I am sorry for this, Jeonha. Gold silk soon turns crimson when the knife plunges into your back. You are not even allowed the courtesy of looking into your killer’s eyes⎯

⎯You had always thought that you would live longer, survive the odds set against you, but you know now, as your mother tends to the gash carved into your chest, that this time, luck is not your benefactor. It is not so bad, she assures, though you know the look in her eyes, see the light in them dimmed with grief of a life not yet lost. You wish to tell her everything, anything, but the words bubble up in your throat and you struggle to spit them out. She knows, though, you can see that she knows, and her calming hand rests over your heart, which beats slower and slower with each moment. I love you, my sun, my son. Rest well. Her hand grows cold, or maybe that is you. For you no longer feel, no longer worry, only close your eyes and fall⎯

⎯Urgency pumps your blood faster, the sound echoing in your ears, as your weeping eyes search around you. Nothing, not the chaos around you nor the wound in your shoulder, can stop your wobbly legs from moving, not when you have to find him. There you are, comes his voice from behind you, and you turn so quickly that you become dizzy. But he is there, wounded yet alive, and he is offering you a smile that you struggle to return. You fall into his arms, he into yours, hold each other with all the strength that you have. And when an arrow pierces through your heart, spearing through his chest, you are connected even when you fall, lifeless⎯

*

This time, you wake with a gasp and a speeding heart, images so vivid still lingering in your mind. Your chest is still sore where your heart lies, the organ heavy with another’s grief, and you are surprised to find yourself covered in your own tears.

Still in the dirt, still nude, still alive, and still confused, you know that the only way to survive is to keep moving. Memories of dreams that had felt so real may plague your mind for a while, but you cannot dwell. You have had nightmares before, strange and also plausible ones, and you know. You know that to submit to the darkness of your own mind is a death sentence in itself. So you stand up, dust off your bare skin, and begin walking in an unknown direction.

You only cast one glance back at the bodies behind you. Your team, in all probability. Your friends. You are leaving them in the middle of nowhere.

This, too, you do not allow yourself to dwell on. Not now. Not yet.

Though the night has long since begun, darkness creeping into every corner of the room, one figure lies awake, thinking. Listening.

He is selfish, he supposes, for choosing not to sleep in a time when it can be so important. He should be allowing the visions to greet him, remembering the details, soaking it all in. Instead, he blinks away his exhaustion in exchange for wandering thoughts. He is not ready to allow another’s memories into his mind; for his to enter their’s. He has unwillingly revealed his sins to far too many already.

Hoseok is afraid. And he is tired.

Around him, his six loves breathe deeply, bodies relaxed in slumber and minds lost to the visions of their eighth soul. Some stir, occasionally, and he is sure he’s heard one of the maknaes whimper, but all is otherwise silent.

He would die a million painful deaths just to ensure that they could maintain this peace forever. He supposes he has, already. But he doesn’t regret it. Not for them.

Though the silence is calming, it also beckons his eyes closed and his mind into darkness. So, in an attempt to battle the tantalising call of sleep, he rolls over, stands up, and quietly sneaks out of the crumbling building they’ve taken shelter in.

The air outside nips at his skin, prickling goosebumps down his back and arms, but it is always chilly at this time of year, in this part of Europe. He forgets which country they’re in. Possibly close to France, but likely somewhere in Italy. He can smell salt in the air, the ocean not far away.

Yes. Italy.

Through thick undergrowth and overgrown weeds he wanders, mind idle and busy all at once. His feet take him around the perimeter of the area⎯a consequence, he supposes, of living a paranoid life⎯but his thoughts are elsewhere. On a girl he has yet to meet. On you.

How will you react, he wonders, to this life? To them? Through the brief flashes he has seen of you, you are a woman who seems steadfast, capable, and determined. But he’d also seen your team; felt the love you hold for them. Will you be able to part from the life that you can no longer lead? Will you eventually accept them as your new family?

There are too many questions, too many things to worry about. This is why he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching him from behind until two arms wrap around his shoulders.

“You should be asleep.” The words are whispered beside his ear, warm breath fanning down his neck. He shivers, but doesn’t respond. “What’s wrong? Let me help.”

Hoseok sags into the strong embrace, allows the arms to tighten around his chest, and sighs. “I’m worried, Namjoon.” Namjoon hums, doesn’t say anything. “Is it selfish of me to not want to see her memories? To not want her in my head?”

A pair of plump lips kiss the tip of his ear. “Perhaps,” Namjoon says. When Hoseok stiffens, he pulls him closer. “But being selfish is not necessarily a bad thing. You are allowed to prioritise yourself every once in a while.” Namjoon can sense that Hoseok is not yet appeased, so he adds, “There are six of us here to take the visions when you can’t. And if you do decide to rest, there will be six of us here to hold you through it. Being selfish does not mean that you are alone.”

“I’m so tired,” Hoseok whispers, and they both know that he is not referring to his lack of sleep. “We’ve all got such baggage, so much hurt, and I wonder if adding the weight of an eighth will be too much.”

“Hey.” Namjoon gently turns Hoseok in his arms, holding him close still. They look into each other’s eyes, see everything that they have grown familiar with. That they have grown to love. “We will also have another person to help share the load. For now and forever, we are in this together. It’s okay to have doubts, or worries, but never forget that you are ours and we are yours.”

Foreheads touch and eyes close, the silence of the night engulfing them as they share each other’s heat. And here, they are okay. They still have fears, still have troubling thoughts, but they are not so bad when they are together.

“C’mon,” Namjoon mumbles. “Let’s go back inside. Whether you decide to sleep or not, we should stay with the others. You know how they can get about cuddle piles.”

This does make Hoseok breathe a laugh. “Okay. And hey, Namjoon.” He presses their lips together in a brief, soft kiss. “Thank you, my love.”

“My eternal,” Namjoon replies.

That night, they both allow sleep to take them. They join the others in dreams of bloodshed, heartache, and death. And they hold each other a little closer. And they are okay.

< prev ⎯ next >

[the-darklings]

—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 13.2k+

summary: “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

warnings: swearing, a dash of drama, a seasoning of angst.

notes: Wow. Suffering for a week was worth it because I wrote this whole thing in like 2 days. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comments on the last update. I’m a clown, it is known. I love you all though. Please enjoy. *rubs hands eagerly* :)

children of ares series: 01 | .... | 09 | 10 | . . | 12 |

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go wrong.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply there and it had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He did get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the sight of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right through him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had widened at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, pathetically in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course not. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker.  

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even is he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone.  

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He hates waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he waits. He paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to come back out already.

Come on, amore. Come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back.

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered.

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile.

No.

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and burning, burning, burning.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, back—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep in your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To me. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

fall.

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

He is fine, she signs when she releases your hand. Physically.

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

Got away in the chaos, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than self-assured is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help.

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

Ares. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

Your phone, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth. You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. Do not dare thank me. You saved my life.

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

Perhaps we are all more than that.

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team you never considered the notion they might have become something even more important. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We are, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again. 

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

You’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I failed—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did not fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in blood.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say sorry,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was far worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the waiting. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely breathing. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself onto your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind.  

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “Always. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. Tsk, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was very charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m sure.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have hated me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would grow on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so easy.

But that’s not the reality you live in.  

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once, you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object.  

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a dance next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You can’t—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘going on’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him.  

“John.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He has changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him—  

Of you.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

She’s a friend.

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards the Italian.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just barely.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid.  

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“Grazie.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree. 

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him. 

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your real name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you. 

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on him instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“Have a very happy life, John.”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only one other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what she did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part hers…and mine.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he concludes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so easily.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino would care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, hm?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for her. You owe her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t want this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath.”

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever final shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tell-tale click of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath.  

“Listen to me,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? Hmm? Do you remember? This is your blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of your negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your...make-believe, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “Hey, grumpy.”

How much has changed between you and Santino?  

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time.

You bought him this time and he regrets so many things. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even now, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less actually going back.

He could. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

Maybe because it is you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the least you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She understands.”

He knows you do. That you will. He hopes you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in a slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in the Italian’s hand and he pockets it carefully. He then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in a proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though.    

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You never did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the heir moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile.    

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “Buona notte,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and he inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he loves it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state he can’t get involved in such matters as a manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge.  

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone.  

“Lucky.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You know that scent. The strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of a large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peeks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid.  

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his mouth.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

He scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “Relax,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.  

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest.  

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My bad.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for sightseeing. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer only to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you.  

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it.  

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick, and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you his lungs haven’t given out yet.  

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes away from if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “Funny. Considering she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny that Gianna would come seeking to make amends now. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require.  

“Don’t tell Hector.”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“Careful,” you purr slowly and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so. 

“Like her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about either of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, not the individual. Besides, you of all people should know respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep.  

“Yes, it must be very hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are you here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“Cassian,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking nerve of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice.  

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.  

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall your hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you.    

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused sound at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though.  

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain it gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in the said oath, now isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have had to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing.  

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector does laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him.  

“If I were you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not yet. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“Relax already, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table alone, your appetite long since gone.

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him.  

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully and pinch your voice lower. “I’ve missed you, V. So good to see you’re alive and well, my dear.”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you are in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

This time it’s Winston who pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease.

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be here, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into a cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.  

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know what?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with.  

“For me? For me?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She knew. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you will see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression it’s not because he ordered her to do so, and more so because neither she nor Roberto wishes to witness this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what either of them wants right now.  

He did it to keep you safe.

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. Now.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone. But doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple: Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi without any additional information.

Now, you know the something in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed until this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth while he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time. So long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. Mhm. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me: ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth any price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, hm, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present. 

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his house.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s ash.  

“And he refused a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had no right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had every right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia. We do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree softly and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you.  

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the world, and he took it. You’re not foolish enough to believe it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his heroic actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? Hm?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“Ten days,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, hm? Did he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“No,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day eight, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston who contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino? 

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling the suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it. 

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, years all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. Only six. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in six hours.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it hurts. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a punishment. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be enough. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.  

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he should have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag John Wick into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or—  

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Santino.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My sister—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she wouldn’t do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your friends? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How dare you stand there and ask me that? After everything,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these years. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he states evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry he would just assume he knows how you feel better than you do.  

“Stop. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is you,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am not a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart.  

“I never cared about you being good,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same. With both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer until you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister die if it means keeping you safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I do need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it back.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know you’re only doing this in an attempt to spare him. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate.  

“Amore—”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “Don’t call me that! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your anything.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his eyes—

I will never abandon you.

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

an: ah, things we do for love, eh? :) 

jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind. reddit crew sorry for the delay but here he is as promised lol. as always, I can’t thank you all enough for supporting this dumb series. it, and you guys, bring me so much happiness it’s crazy <33

see you next time!!

[veiledpeaches]

chance encounters | part i: what secrets we keep

Summary: Between pages of meddling friends and societal expectations, all she actually wants is to find a happily ever after with Doyoung, even if it feels like that is no longer possible. 

part i x part ii x part iii x part iv x part v x part vi

word count: 3k

thank you @seasonblues, you’re an inspiration to me.

She has just clocked into the office when she spots Doyoung at his desk, typing away furiously at his screen. This morning he has the blinds around his office up, such that anyone entering the office can see the faint glow of the computer screen reflected on Doyoung’s countenance. She guesses that he would be leaving the office earlier today, since he’s dressed a bit more casually, electing for his fringe to fall loosely onto the tip of his eyebrows instead of its usual comma hairstyle, his pressed white button-down free of its tie. His lips are moving, presumably mouthing the words presented on his screen while his eyebrows are slightly furrowed in thought.

As she gets to her desk, she lets her leather satchel, plump with files, fall onto her chair before walking towards the Managing Editor’s office.

“Haewon!” Doyoung’s face lights up as he meets her gaze, a childish and toothy grin forming on his face as he takes the cup of coffee from her. “I have excellent news for you.”

“Morning boss,” she laughs, “aren’t you leaving tomorrow? I thought you were on leave today.”

Doyoung hums dismissively, taking a sip of his coffee. “They like it, the Evergreen winner. They liked his work.”

The Evergreen Writers’ Competition was a local youth creative writing competition that was also a popular event that publishers looked into to discover aspiring and potential young writers. Haewon had been promoting the recent winner’s work to Doyoung relentlessly for the past few weeks. Even though Doyoung had been generally unconvinced of the commercial potential of the novel, he had submitted her proposal of it to Headquarters for their consideration under Haewon’s ceaseless endorsement.

“They’re publishing it?” Haewon presses her hands together with glee, “They liked it?”

“They liked it so much they want me to bring both the original and revised manuscript when I leave tomorrow. Oh, I’ll need the cover artwork too. They’re planning on translating and pushing it out to the American audience.” Doyoung smiles knowingly.

“I told you it was good!”

There is a hint of a smile at Doyoung’s lips, “I have to admit I couldn’t put it down the whole time, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. But-” he pauses, “you need to admit the writing isn’t spectacular. The emotions are too raw, and his diction is unrefined-”

“These are things we can change with copyediting boss,” Haewon emphasizes, “with proofreading. We can make it better. But the world building is immaculate. It’s an incredible piece of work for a seventeen-year-old.”

Doyoung narrows his eyes, a smirk peeking from his lips. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with the way he looks?”

“Boss!” Haewon is scandalized, “he’s seventeen!”

“When I googled about him, I knew at once why Marketing said he would be good for press,” he laughs. “He looks more like he should be scoring on a game or scoring dates than scoring at a budding writers’ competition.”

While Doyoung has maintained a more professional relationship with her through the three years she has worked as his assistant, there are moments like these where Doyoung’s cheeky side slips through the cracks, reminding her of why she was so drawn to him from the very start. How effortless his humor is, how playful he actually is. The small crinkles that form at the corner of his eyes when his face breaks into a laugh. How wide his eyes get and how dramatic his gestures become when he’s talking about things he loves outside of work, like a drama he’d just started on, or the current political climate. The way he bends over her desk to explain to her about target readership in different export markets. And more than that. How much he loves reading, and his job, even on days he can’t agree with the directors. How he throws a disdainful expression at her when he overhears colleagues making sexist comments. How he tells her he’s trying to become a better listener, whether people need that or not. How convinced he is of his rightness and proud he is of his work, but not in the least satisfied with it. How attentive he is to every detail, whether it’s about Accounting’s expenditure records or about how her eyes remain a bit watery for the rest of the day after she receives a call from her mother.

Haewon rolls her eyes, but her smile is unwavering. “I’ll go prepare the documents you need now, boss.”

He nods and turns to his phone in his hand, and she’s about to turn and exit his office, when he speaks again, this time gentler, “oh by the way, Inhee told me you haven’t RSVP’d yet.”

He looks up from his phone, and then back at it again, his smile uneasy – a classic Doyoung gesture when he needed to ask about something he didn’t really want to. As if he needed to check his guest list again. “Would you be busy that day? I don’t recall you telling me you had to be out of town.”

She’s about to speak, when a breathless Lee Donghyuck appears out of the blue, rushing to Doyoung and sighing emphatically about this month’s sales numbers. She smiles and nods, exiting his office with a promise of talking later.

It’s just after lunch and well into Haewon’s food coma when her desk phone rings, startling her from a well-deserved but secret post-lunch doze.

“Dam-il Publishing, this is Haewon speaking.”

“Haewon!” The excited whisper is characteristic only of Nakamoto Yuta, whose wide-eyed gaze Haewon meets as she averts her eyes towards the Designers side of the office. “It’s me, it’s me!”

“Oh Yuta, that reminds me, I’ll need the proposed artwork for Cho Young Jun’s novel.”

“Cho Young Jun? The bald guy?”

“No! The prodigy! The Evergreen winner! I need it by today, Doyoung’s flying to New York tomorrow-”

“Oh, I’ve completed that weeks ago, I’ll email it over later whatever – listen, I heard what Doyoung asked you about just now. About the wedding.”

Haewon flinches, then realizes what Yuta would probably be thinking, and a small sigh of relief leaves her. “You mean Donghyuck told you.”

“I heard, Donghyuck told me – what does it matter… Is it because of the program? Did you get in?”

General nosiness aside, Yuta’s actually one of the few colleagues (other than Doyoung) whose company Haewon really enjoys. Which is why Haewon had told him about an application she made months ago, to pursue a master’s program in Literary Arts at Brown University. Needless to say, she had earned Yuta’s immediate and fervent support, knowing that studying English Literature instead of Creative Writing for her bachelor’s had been a cop-out on Haewon’s part and a regret she had drunkenly let slip to him at an informal company gathering.

She’d always wanted to study Creative Writing, and while she didn’t exactly need that master’s degree to become a writer per se, she really hopes to further her studies in fiction writing.

“No Yuta, I haven’t received news yet.”

“Shouldn’t you know by now?” Yuta has always been straightforward, “besides, why’re you keeping it a secret? You should just tell Doyoung; you’re so close, he’ll be happy for you. You shouldn’t have to feel guilty about taking your shot.”

The reality is, the situation is a lot more complicated than Yuta’s understanding. There’s the thing with leaving the company in the midst of this busy period when Doyoung needs his assistant, but there’s also the other thing, the bigger issue at stake. That Haewon is in love with Doyoung and might not necessarily want to see him walk down the aisle with a woman who isn’t her.

“It’s not that simple – besides, he’s been swamped ever since the acquisition.”

Dam-il Publishing Co. was a small local publishing company with a focus in Korean language fiction novels, until its recent acquisition by the large multinational New York-based Bertsman Publishing House. Despite the acquisition, Bertsman had allowed Dam-il to retain its name, knowing that it is an emerging trusted brand among aspiring and established writers, and a known publishing company in many Korean households. However, the acquisition had also brought Bertsman employees into the office, and the number of people were far too many for Doyoung to handle at the start.

Doyoung is also, generally, a less trusting person when it comes to work ethics. While he greatly appreciates his Dam-il subordinates and their efficiency, he has less to say about their Bertsman counterparts – in Yuta’s words, Doyoung finds them “fucking lazy”. Haewon has always been his key go-to person to check on their progress in their projects, and he relies on her effortlessly and wholeheartedly.

Doyoung is… something else. According to their mutual friend Johnny, Doyoung had majored in Finance in college, done inexplicably well and had received an offer from one of the big four financial consulting companies even before graduation. However, as Doyoung had told him upon graduation, that wasn’t the life he was after. He loved books and wanted to make a career out of it, so he started working for Dam-il as an Acquisitions Editor’s assistant right after graduation against the heed of his professors and university friends. He was, to say the least, smart and a fast learner, quickly making his way up the company ladder and was handed the highest rank of Managing Editor in just nine years (a fact that somehow only made Doyoung more attractive to Haewon).

Thanks to his work ethic and Dam-il’s excellent sales numbers, he’s now the Bertsman CEO Fulworth’s most trusted Managing Editor – something Johnny loves teasing him about.  

Yuta sighs into the phone, lifting her from her stupor against the quiet backdrop of a whirring air-conditioner and a bubbling coffee machine.

“Well nevertheless, you need to tell him soon, Haewon – especially if you can’t go to his wedding.”

Johnny is sitting in front of their living room window by the time Haewon reaches home. She’s completely exhausted, her cranberry lipstick visible only on the outer reaches of her mouth and her eyeliner leaving small charcoal patches beneath her lower lashes. It’s ten in the evening on a Friday night, but surprisingly Johnny is at home sipping red wine, his eyes relaxed and shut. His other hand gestures wildly and somewhat pretentiously like an overexcited conductor to what Haewon recognizes as the last line of Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got The World On A String.

“You’re home early,” Haewon comments.

Johnny swings around in his chair. “Haewonnie, I feel like I’ve gotten old,” he pouts dramatically, even though, Haewon thinks, his bright, enthusiastic puppy-like expression definitely begs to differ.

“Mark asked me after work if I wanted to hit a bar downtown with the kids tonight – but I actually feel drained. I had to say no.” The slightly annoying and yet endearing pout hasn’t left his face.

Just as Doyoung is Fulworth’s golden boy, Mark Lee is Johnny’s – constantly trailing after him at his company. Despite being almost thirty-two years old and the head of his department, Johnny loves hanging out with the young employees and interns, determined to keep his youthfulness in check.

Haewon grew up in the same neighborhood as Johnny back in Chicago, where Johnny was popular among the Asian kids as the kind older brother to them, fending off bullies on their behalf and bringing them to bookstores and ice-skating rings and bowling alleys. When he turned fifteen, Johnny moved back to South Korea to attend high school – a decision that surprised everyone in the neighborhood. But Johnny has always done what Johnny wants and exceled in every situation, so his parents agreed. While Haewon did not consider herself particularly close to Johnny when they were younger, Johnny has always been generous with his concern for others. When he found out from his mother that she was planning a move to Korea three years ago, he reached out to her and offered to share his apartment with her.

(“The rent is too expensive anyway,” Johnny had insisted, but Haewon knew even then that he could definitely afford it given his salary.)

Johnny is… pretty much Haewon’s lifesaver. Even before she came to Korea, Johnny had everything arranged for her. Understanding that she had majored in English Literature and loved books, he hooked her up with a publishing job at Dam-il under Doyoung, a deed Haewon has always been insanely grateful for. And while she had been shy and quiet upon her arrival to Korea, his cheerful demeanor, along with his puppy-like enthusiasm and child-like laughter had been more than enough to draw Haewon out of her shell. Even though she had been depressed and lost in life, Johnny had been by her side, cheering her up and restoring her usual happy glow.

Unsurprisingly, Johnny is the director of the product design department for a leading technology conglomerate. Unlike Doyoung, Johnny actually enjoys the ‘hustler’ lifestyle of ‘work hard, play hard’.

They met in college where they were both in the Business faculty. Despite being inherently different, the two became close quickly, bonding over a shared distaste for unnecessary societal expectations and parochial attitudes stereotypical of elitists in their country. While growing up abroad made Johnny more open-minded and gentler with the people he met, Doyoung’s open-mindedness is the culmination of years of observing people and their idiosyncrasies. The tough experiences of witnessing school bullying and students’ imploding from academic stress fueled a quiet and righteous, vaguely Robin Hood-like, anger towards societal insularity, that is now characteristic of Kim Doyoung.

“You’re not old – besides, who wants to go to a bar when you can drink in the comfort of your own home?”

“I want to! Haewon-ah, you’re acting too old for your age-”

Her phone rings, interrupting Johnny’s nagging monologue. She glances at the caller ID before picking up quickly.

“Hey boss, what’s up?” In the background, she can hear Johnny making a chant out of the words ‘is it Doyoung?’, leaning out of his seat to peer over eagerly. She nods, and a huge grin spreads over his face.

“So sorry to disturb you this late, but it’s kind of an emergency- is that Johnny?”

It takes a moment for Haewon to realize, but Johnny has since progressed from his ‘is it Doyoung’ song to a strange jingle that sounds like ‘my friend Kim Doyoung, my brother Kim Doyoung, my love Kim Doyoung’ to the tune of a lullaby. “Yeah it is, he’s lying spread-eagled on the ground now and crying out your name in despair-”

Doyoung laughs, breathlessly and colorfully, sounding like a musical instrument of his own and making Haewon smile as she walks into her room and away from Johnny’s antics.

“Say hi to him for me. Okay so,” his voice turns serious, “do you have Cho Young Jun’s file?”

“Yeah I have it with me right now, it’s in my bag.”

“Oh thank God,” Doyoung heaves a sigh of relief, “sorry, I might need you to bring it to the airport tomorrow. I need his personal particulars and the signed hard copy of his indemnity form.”

“No apologies needed boss – but, so urgently?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung sounds frustrated, and Haewon can almost picture him running his fingers through his hair, a gesture not in the least unattractive to her. “Well he’s still considered a minor, so royalties will probably go directly to his guardian for safekeeping. And… They want him to do press.”

“Okay, so I’ll reach out to our usual media and PR agencies – what does that have to do with-”

“No…” Doyoung sighs, “American press; talk shows, interviews – things like that.”

“He’s seventeen.” Haewon raises an eyebrow, “he’s totally unprepared for that kind of thing. Plus, his English isn’t fluent, last time I checked.”

Johnny has since entered her room and conjured the most dramatically shocked expression Haewon has ever seen, as if Doyoung had informed her that Cho Young Jun would be going into prostitution instead of doing press. She glares at him as she listens to Doyoung’s instructions, ending the call with a, “okay sure, I’ll bring them for you tomorrow. Good night boss.”

Johnny smirks as she finishes the call, “ooh boss. Kinky. Me likey.”

Johnny is the only person privy to Haewon’s admittedly rather long term ‘crush’ on Doyoung, catching on rather quickly since they met and letting her down gently with “he’s attached, Haewonnie”. In fact, it’s been three years since Johnny has shared that piece of information with her, but Haewon is unfortunately still hopelessly in love with Doyoung.

Ever the best friend, while Johnny has told her that he’s worried about her pertaining to this, he manages to make the situation more light-hearted effortlessly. In fact, he sometimes cracks jokes at her expense to her privately and not unkindly, while knowing when to offer her a shoulder to cry on.

“You’ve heard me call him boss a thousand times,” she rolls her eyes, pushing him out of her room to rest for the night, “also, you’re driving me to the airport tomorrow.”

Johnny drums his fingers against the steering wheel, his cheeks puffing up as he waits for Haewon’s text to get to his car at the pick-up point. They had left the house at eight in the morning to catch Doyoung at the airport just in time before his flight, and Johnny really needs to catch up on sleep once they get home. He is absentmindedly humming to Alicia Keys’ If I Ain’t Got You on the radio, when Haewon clumsily gets into his car.

“Johnny-” At once, he realizes she’s ashen pale, her lips quivering.

“What’s wrong, Haewon? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“John, I just… I just saw…”

“What?” He starts the car and begins the route home when Haewon’s next words make him pull up at the side of the road in shock.

“Inhee’s cheating on Doyoung…”

xx

w/n: this fic will be updated regularly until its resolution, look out for an update every Thursday at 9pm KST. 

talk to me!! here 

[acourtofhopeanddreams]

King and Queen in the North

Written for @bethnoel​ for the @gotsecretsanta​ where Jon and Sansa are crowned King and Queen together. I hope that this is what you were looking for and I wish you happy holidays! May 2020 be filled with love, laughter and warmth. 

Sansa and Jon are home and about to be crowned Queen and King in the North. Jon has his doubts, his past mistakes still fresh and raw, but he know that he wants to make Sansa the Queen she has been for a long time already.

Post-Canon Fix-It

Jon tensed his shoulders while his youngest sister draped the cloak around his broad shoulders. If it had been up to him, he’d be riding towards the far North right now, without obligations, without pressure, without a heavy crown on his head. But it wasn’t just up to him. It was also up to Sansa.

Once he had promised her to go wherever she wanted to go. And this was where she wanted to be. It was also where she belonged.

And he belonged next to her. He belonged with her. And despite the heavy weight of the crown and the pressure he already felt on his shoulders, he knew he would’ve never forgiven himself if he had fled to the North.

“Ready?” Arya curled her lips up into a smile. She was still shorter than him, but she was no longer the little girl he had once left behind. She had grown up. And she had grown up into a beautiful young woman ready to explore the world.

After the coronation.

“As ready as I can be.”  He let out a deep sigh. “She’ll be an amazing queen. I’ll just be standing next to her.”

Arya’s smile brightened. “I’m happy for you.”

Jon forced himself to smile at her. “I never wanted to be King. But she’s made to be Queen and if I’m the one who can make her one…” He swallowed. “I just hope this run will be better than the previous one.”

“Well…” Arya cocked her head. “As long as you don’t travel to the south and deliver the Kingdom on a silver platter to a pretty girl with dragons, I’m sure it will be fine.”

Jon bent his head. “I learned my lesson. I’m letting Sansa do the politics.”

“Good.” Arya nodded at him and she leaned on the tips of her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. “The North needs her, but it needs you too.”

“You’re the one who saved it by killing the Night King.” Jon wrapped his arms around her and lifted her feet from the floor. “You shouldn’t leave.”

Arya shrugged. “I’m not made to stay in one place too long, but I know the way home. I’ll come back. Promise.”

The bells started ringing and Jon straightened his back while he rearranged his cloak once more. “Here we go.” He stepped into the hallway.

A million candles lighted his path towards the great hall. The hallway was deserted and each and every step echoed loudly in the deafening silence.

But the moment he halted in front of the giant double doors he stopped breathing.

She looked beautiful. She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. There was a pretty shimmer in her eyes that had never been there before. And even though for once she was not wearing any complicated braids in her hair, having her hair down like that made her seem older and wiser and more a Daughter of the North than she had ever been.

And then there was the dress she was wearing. It was impossible to see all the details in the weak light, but he smiled when he saw how each part of her, her history and the North’s was present.

“San…” He shook his head. “You look amazing.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll be the most amazing Queen the world has ever known.”

Sansa bent her head and she tucked a strand of loose red hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Jon.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I really wasn’t a good King the last time we tried this. I’m really not sure if this is a good idea.”

“Are you planning on giving the North to someone else again?” Sansa raised her eyebrows, a playful smile around her beautiful red lips. “Because up until then you actually did pretty great.”

“That great that you had to challenge me in the throne room in front of my people.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “We all make mistakes, Jon.”

“Some a little more than others.”

Sansa reached for his hands and with her thumbs she rubbed her knuckles. “Jon…” She locked her glance with his. “We need each other. And you’re not the only one who made mistakes.”

“You were only a girl trying to stay alive in the castle of the enemy.” Jon raised his voice.

“And you were only trying to protect your Kingdom against a danger none of us truly understood. We needed her dragons, you got them for us and when it really and truly mattered, you did the right thing.”

“What if they will come here and start a new war?”

“They won’t.” Sansa shook her head firmly. “They’re soldiers without a leader, people without a Queen. They know if they start a war with the North they will lose.”

He wanted Sansa to be right, more than anything. The North had been through enough. Enough families had lost people they cared about. Enough buildings, houses and cities had been destroyed. Enough wars had been fought. And if Daenerys’ troops or her dragon would show up, it would be his fault.

“If you hadn’t killed her, she would have burned down Winterfell, all the people in it, everyone in all the cities surrounding it.” Sansa moved a little closer towards him. “If they come, we will be ready. But if I would be leading them, I wouldn’t come. We’re not the only ones tired of war and fighting. And they have nothing to fight for. They only have something to fight against.” Sansa pecked his cheek. “And we both know what’s stronger.”

Jon nodded. “Are you ready?”

Sansa smiled. “I was born ready. Are you ready?”

“I’m always ready for anything I share with you.” He reached for her hand and Sansa’s palm pressed to the back of his hand.

Her palm was sweating, but when she straightened her back and towered over him she looked already the Queen she was about the become.

With slow and steady steps they entered the great hall. All their bannermen, those who had fought, those who had survived, knelt down on the cold floor when they walked past them.

This was the North. These were his people. The crown was heavy, yes. But when he saw all those faces, happy because they didn’t need to bow for a foreign King anymore, for people who didn’t understand the North. When he saw Sansa, the smile around her lips and the way she carried herself while the entire crowd was watching. He knew this was the right thing to do.

When they reached the front of the great hall they turned around. The great hall was full, everyone who could be here, everyone who wanted to be here, everyone who belonged here, was here.

They still wanted him to be King. They also wanted Sansa to be Queen.

Despite their mistakes.

“Jon Snow, son of Lyanna Stark, raised by Eddard Stark. I hereby crown you King in the North.”

The crown landing on his curls was still heavy, a replica of the crown his brother had once worn, a replica of the crown countless of other Kings had carried.

Some had died. Some had not. But they all had one thing in common.

They were the North.

Like Jon. Like Sansa.

A small smile spread across his face while everyone around him started chanting. Louder. Deafening. They shouted, despite all the wrongs he had done.

“King in the North. King in the North. King in the North.”

It seemed to take minutes before the voices stopped and Jon cleared his throat while he lifted the wonderful new crown from the pillowcase Arya held firmly and proudly.

“Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, daughter of the North. I hereby crown you my Queen. Queen in the North.” He placed the crown, the giant dire wolf, on her red hair and when the crowd started shouting again it sounded like music, the most wonderful music he had ever heard.

Queen in the North. Queen in the North. Queen in the North.

The smile on his face brightened and he pressed the palms of his sweating hands to Sansa’s glowing cheeks. “Sansa Stark…” He spoke softly, even though he didn’t have to. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

Sansa smiled back at him and she curled her fingers around his wrists. “I do. You would’ve left with the Wildlings if you hadn’t loved me this much. And I have no idea, Jon Snow, how I can ever thank you, how I can ever show you how much I love you.”

“Marry me.” Jon blurted the words out and slowly he fell down on one knee. “Marry me, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.”

She kept silent for an awfully long time and then she reached for his hands and pulled him up again. “Of course, Jon!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and then her lips touched his.

The weight on his shoulders lifted. The crown all of a sudden didn’t feel as heavy any more and there was no longer a place where he’d rather be.

[katsukikitten]

Hollow

Katsuki didn't want to believe the rumor until he saw what it was for himself.

The news had a bad habit of spreading lies like wildfire more often than not.

And truth be told, he wanted this one to be a lie too.

But as he stands in the liminal space of the park long forgotten in the late hours of the night as his scarlet eyes watch the tall grey building across the street, he begins to wonder.

And wonder deeply, if the rumor is more truth than lie as he sees the familiar pattern falling into place before him.

The string of robberies, all at banks or jewelry stores.

The same punctual hour of three am, or 'witching hour' as someone *once* dear to him called it.

And lastly the unmistakable reports of the lingering, unmistakable smell of death.

*'I marked him...Suki...'*

He swallows as he watches a slim silhouette slip into the building before him.

The clouds overhead compete with the thundering roar of his heart as lightning darts across the sky. He wishes he could blame dunce face for the light show but he cannot. Again he swallows his displeasure as he watches.

As he waits despite being ordered not to follow up on this case.

Despite being begged by his close friend Kirishima and his good rival, Deku, to lie low.

To leave it to them.

Which he almost did, what with having to leave the country for a collaborative mission over seas and all.

But as he packed his extra hero suit neatly into his black backpack the news just HAD to mention the most recent robbery that reminded him too much of his last and only failed mission.

The news just had to describe the perpetrator in detail from first hand witnesses on scene.

The news just *had* to remind him of the anniversary of that tragic death of someone he held in his incapable arms as they pulled their last breaths to them.

Of your tragic death.

The thought pushes his feet forward towards something he knows he shouldn't see.

Something he doesn't want to see.

Still the ash blonde is sure to keep his swift steps silent as he seemingly polevaults across the haunting child's playground as more lightning stripes the sky. Rain threatens to erupt from the sky with each roaring shake of the clouds.

He slips into the cold lobby, eyes darting to every shadow to be sure the perpetrator is alone. His heart thuds harder into his ribs than it has ever before.

Harder than the league of villains appearing out of nowhere in the training gym.

Harder than being tied to a chair in front of those fucking fools that had kept him hostage years ago.

Harder still than the first time he grew the balls to kiss you, unknowing of the change you would inflict upon him.

When he was younger all he saw was black and white. Good and Evil.

That was until you showed him the world was painted in more grayed tones than he'd ever care to admit.

That most of them were people too, with jaded pasts, and maybe they just needed help healing.

The ones that *could* be saved anyway.

He was convinced you were one of them.

But Mother Death took you before he could ever find out.

Stealing you away from him as you took a blow aimed for him.

A blow you never would have taken for anyone else, nor even dreamt of it as you walked the fine line of grand larceny and petty theft.

Even now he can feel your last moments.

The awkward weight of your body going slack as the last of your fight comes tumbling out in a croaking, heart wrenching exhaled breath.

His retinas burned with the image of your eyes dulling in a matter of seconds, no longer sparkling with curiosity, with fire.

With love for him.

An image that he sees every time his long blonde lashes kiss his soft cheeks, reminding him of how weak he was.

An image that drove him to this bank tonight.

An image that he has fought himself over, knowing he will lose to the call of his revenge.

There will be no grey tones to paint the scarlet eyed man with not when he gets his hands on whoever hurt you.

No they will paint him in the blackest of blacks. The hue so deep it swallows all of the light in his heart.

The sound of a safe clicking open brings him crashing back to the here and now, his gloves groan from the force of his clenched firsts.

The sickening sweet smell of rotting fruit wafts his way as the perpetrator makes a sound of delight. Deft hands work quickly, before Katsuki can turn the corner he hears the satisfying click of the grated door opening inward to the vault. He exhales slowly, attempting to withhold his rage as he really isn't sure who or what will be on the other side of this corner.

You did say the dead you raised had lived on for months after you awakened them, that the ones that escaped your command for slumber would take on some of your habits.

But you also whispered through bloodied lips that you marked the person who killed you with the scent of death.

Either way Katsuki knew he needed to end this here and now.

It was just a matter of would he walk away a hero tonight?

Or a villain himself, hands dipped in the blood of someone who stole from him.

Who stole his one and *only* love.

He rounds the corner with ease but the explosion on his palm dies even as a fresh sheen of cold sweat coats his skin.

He cannot believe his blood red eyes as he stares as the perpetrator standing in the vault.

Humming a hauntingly familiar tune of a spell.

A spell to raise the dead.

The skeleton clinks as it moves unnaturally, pulling its calcified limbs with invisible muscles as it picks the lock to the safety deposit boxes. Throwing the contents into a labeled bag along with the file of the owner. Lightening flashes, illuminating the mouth of the darkened vault and revealing several sets of glowing, eerily beautiful eyes.

Or where a set of eyes should be.

But none as beautiful as the set that drags over the thick steel compartments that houses hundreds of thousands of yen.

Katsuki closes his eyes at first. Thinking the roaring thunder, dancing lights and the now pounding rain are playing tricks on him.

It all has to be. The anniversary of your death, the haunting nightmares he has had of late and surely the smell has him seeing incorrectly.

But when those scarlet eyes drink in the scene once more they are not mistaken as they rove over the familiar body.

No, he would never forget the shape of you.

This must be an illusion from some other villain to fuck with him.

It fuels a burning rage in his chest, so hot that for a sliver of a moment he cannot see.

Partially losing control as he sees red so deep it seems black.

But he comes to his senses when the first popping explosion on the bones sends calcium shrapnel into the air.

The sound making an odd addition to the hum escaping your lips.

You turn to face him, your features shadowed by the dark revealing on a malice laced smile.

"Katsuki-kun!" You sing song, as the hope of you being a cruel illusion dies in his chest.

"It...It can't be you, Y/N!" He yells, voice raw with unspoken emotion and untapped rage. Lightning strikes fast and close. Close enough that you can smell the smoke from the now charred brick.

Although the light show is the worst of Katsuki's problems as the rest of your hidden features are briefly revealed for a few short seconds.

That doesn't stop Katsuki from seeing something that will now haunt his every nightmare and possibly every waking moment as he is left with the unsettling color of your eyes.

As they are no longer a hue so gorgeously memzmerosing, no now they are a milky, filmed over white.

He notices too that your skin is no longer the right color, it has a sickly undertone, veins too deep in color from sluggish blood.

He tries to swallow the horror that tears up his throat.

He gets caught in his throat as he throws a few more explosions to the clinking and some rotting bodies to which you've awakened.

For every foe vanquished, you summon another, causing the stench of death to cling to Katsuki's clothes, skin, his very bones as he demolishes each animated figure one by one.

Soon the hot head is gasping for air, as your smile continues to be much too wide for his liking.

"Is that all you've got?" He gasps in angry ragged breaths.

"There will always be Dead, Suki." A phrase you had told him many as you pulled them forth.

Bending the afterlife to your unyielding will.

He dodges a fresh corpse turning in time to ignite his caramel sweat and launching himself into you at the same time. He slams you against the cold metal but the skin beneath his finger tips is colder.

Colder still is the heart that lies unbeating in your chest as his digits dig in bruising flowers on your shoulder.

"Who the fuck did this to you?" A mix of snarl and hurt. An emotion that Katsuki cannot place flashes across your features before twisting.

"Who do you think?" A laugh peels from your chapped, bluish grey lips, a laugh unlike your own. The weight of its echo causes Bakugou's stomach to knot as he slowly tries to place the pieces together.

When he cannot say one of the two conclusions he has come to you answer impatiently. A hint of a giggle clinging to your lips as mischief still somehow hangs in the white film of your muted eyes.

"It was me." This time you do giggle as Katsuki's handsome face contorts, reflecting the emotions that most be flooding his godly body, "Why do you think I used my dying breaths to ask a favor? It was my own blood in that vial that you poured into my mouth."

"Or maybe I could say it was you!" A cackle rings out, "You did this to me, Suuuukiiii-kun!"

His fingers dig deeper threatening to break paper thin skin that once used to be feather soft. Hot tears burn in the back of scarlet eyes but he blinks them away furiously.

Just in time as you spit thick blackened blood onto his face, little white larva crawl across his cheeks, threatening to push past his lips. He jumps back, gagging from the smell, from the sensation as he swipes with newfound anxiety at his face.

Another laugh echoes in the small confinements of the vault and in Katsuki's head.

"Why...why would you do this?" He hisses angirly, explosions dancing on his skin, "You always said you hated your quirk. You hated what you created."

"Necromancy has been unnatural and yet highly strived for since the first death of mankind." You say with a sugared voice as you shove him harshly against the unforgiving iron.

Hard enough that the vault gives way, bending beneath the force of Katsuki's weight.

"Do you honestly why I hated the things I summoned?" You lean close as shining scarlet eyes glitter from unshed tears, both from the stench of your rotting insides and the blatant hurt. When he does not answer you continue.

"I hated them because I *envied* them. They do not feel. They do not feel love, pain, sadness. They do as they are told. Plus if I had never raised myself from the dead how else would I get to have your whole heart?" You ask, shoving your hand deep into Katsuki's chest, holding his heart in your palm, fresh blood splatters your face to which to lap with your tongue. His face pales from the foreign object protruding from his chest and pales even further as you pull his beating heart from between his overly protective rib cage.

He slumps to the vault floor, the world quickly falling away from him.

He can no longer feel the pressure of your in his chest nor the icy cold vault walls.

He can no longer see your parted lips coming ever closer to his still beating heart.

He can just barely smell the rotting pungant stench that is you as he hears a sickening sucking bite.

As one does when they bite into a peach so juicy they must suck in to keep the sweet nectar from falling from their lips.

All in a matter of seconds before his conciousness blips out of existence.

"Not so fast, my little Katuski." You smile with ruby red liquid dripping from plump lips, "I didnt even get to give you a good bye kiss."

You lean closely pressing your glossed lips to his before pulling away.

Silence weighs heavy on the building of the bank.

Hell, the silence weighs heavy on the entire block as the storm begins to die after a short half an hour of gale force wind carried rain and lightning so fierce it fried the grid to the city.

A final flash illuminates the vault revealing a now two sets of milky unfeeling eyes with matching maliced lips.

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 15 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 1900

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, who are the best goddamn ego boosters a girl could ask for

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity,  @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany, @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings

((So because I don’t know how to use tumblr I JUST realized that copying and pasting tags doesn’t automatically make them active... to my requested tag list, I am SO SORRY! Please forgive me! Also, surprise! Now you have a lot to binge read!))

On the fourth day you fail to visit, Loki lets himself begin to worry.

He wasn’t expecting you back right away, not after admitting just how much of a monster he actually is. But he’s come to have faith in you, to the point where even if you are going to reject him for his crimes- he wouldn’t blame you if you did- he thinks you’d at least do him the courtesy of telling him. So the first day of your absence, he waits, trying to ignore the anxiety in his chest. The second day is spent in self-loathing; the third, hating the universe at large with more viciousness than usual. But the fourth… that’s when he lets a few tendrils of doubt creep into his brain. But not about your potential sudden change of heart- no. That doesn’t sit right with him.

It’s nothing. Most likely, you’ve left, just like everyone else, once realizing the depths of the horror of the man standing in front of you. Most likely, you’re moving on with your life without involving yourself with the villain. Most likely…

Then why does he still feel uneasy?

He glances where he knows a camera is positioned, tucked into the ceiling’s seams. How closely he’s being monitored, he’s never figured out, but he has an inkling that he could hang himself by his hair and no one would bother trying to stop him. So how to get their attention? He has little magic at his disposal, not enough to conjure anything disturbing, and his cell is lacking anything remotely useful.

With a sigh, he hefts his cuffs, twisting his wrists nervously in their prisons, unsure of so many things. Using as much strength as he can gather, the manacles are hurled at the glass barrier with enough force to make his bones ache and his teeth clench.

This may take a while.

X

Thor has never liked scavenger hunts- he lacks the brains for riddles his brother so gleefully loves- but a chase without clues is proving even more frustrating. Every inquiry about your whereabouts is met with indifference or confusion, and his visit to your offices was fruitless, as your colleagues don’t seem capable of anything but stuttering and terror in his presence. It is quite annoying. Why Loki prefers to rule through fear he will never know.

Loki. He sees you every day, from what little he can gather- no doubt he knows of your wellbeing. But he is not allowed passage into his brother’s cell…

“Thor.” A woman’s sharp voice cuts through his thoughts. “What the hell is your brother playing at?”

Ah. Very occasionally, fortune does favor him.

Maria Hill stands tapping a brisk toe. “He’s been intent on breaking out for the better part of three hours now. Can you please go talk sense into him? If there’s any sense there to reason with,” she mutters under her breath.

“Of course. Please, lead the way.”

In the depths of SHEILD, locked behind glass, stripped of his grandeur and posturing, Loki looks more himself than he has in a long time. Thor watches the muscles in his shoulders grind to a halt as he abandons his latest attempt at what looks to be smashing his handcuffs against the barrier. Neither the glass or the manacles are any worse for wear, from what Thor can see, but his brother is noticeably exhausted.

“Thor.” The relief in Loki’s voice is palpable. “You came.”

A small spark of happiness flares in Thor’s chest. When was the last time his brother welcomed his presence? “You wished me to?”

“Obviously.” Loki sets himself down on his cot. His hands rest in his lap, and raw rings of skin peek out from underneath his bindings. “Where is Y/N?”

For a moment, Thor only blinks. “The lady Y/N? Have you not seen her? I wished to ask you the same.”

A dark shadow passes over his face. “No. I have not.”

Maria is looking between the two gods impatiently, clearly not following the conversation. “Y/N? Who are we talking about?”

Something low grumbles in the back of Loki’s throat. “Y/N Y/L/N. An archivist under your employ. She has been- assigned to me, for however long I have been in SHIELD’s grip now.”

Her eyes widen just a hint. “You’re pitching a fit about your babysitter? Is she even still still here?  I would’ve thought you’d have run her into the ground a month in.” The incredulousness in her voice makes both Thor and Loki bristle.

“You do not keep count of those under your care?” Thor asks.

“We keep track of the important ones.” When the atmosphere of the room dampens to the point of stifling at the clench of Loki’s fists and the stretching of Thor’s shoulders, Maria backtracks. “I mean- okay. Get to the point. Why are you worried about her?”

“She has been absent for the better part of four days now,” Loki grinds out from clenched teeth. “And such behavior is… unusual.”

“Aye.” Thor nods. “It is unlike her to remove herself from Loki’s side for so long.”

“Okay- okay.” The agent rubs her temples briefly. Her migraine isn’t getting any better. “I have two semi-immortal beings worried about someone we hired a year ago on a lark. Wonderful. You realize she’s just on vacation or something?”

Loki looks to Thor with a glance that clearly communicates everything he isn’t voicing. “Perhaps I could verify her whereabouts,” Thor says casually, unwilling to alert Hill to his brother’s turmoil. “To ease his mind, if nothing else.”

She sighs. “If it’ll get him to calm down, fine. Go find Stark, he’s been fiddling with the security system anyways.” She leaves mumbling something under her breath, shaking her head and looking like she needs a very strong drink.

Once she’s gone, Loki visibly deflates. “Thor-”

He holds out a hand. “I will investigate the matter,” he says calmly. “I am sure she is fine, brother.”

Loki nods. “Just- be certain.”

It strikes Thor, in that moment, that as meaningful as you are to himself, he has not begun to scratch the surface on your worth to his brother.

X

Stark is, as predicted, sequestered into a room full of glowing screens, his attention on all of them at once. “Sparky the Hammer-Bro. What can I do for you?”

Thor lets his eyes rove over rows of code, none of which he understands. “I need to view security recordings. The Agent Hill said you may help.”

“Uuuuuuuuuuuumsure.” The genius waves a hand, dismissing several rows of numbers. “Anything in particular?”

“Five days ago, roughly. As for what I seek- I believe I will know when I see it.”

Stark raises an eyebrow. “Cryptic. Fun times! Uno momento, por favor.” One by one, computer screens are filled with a past SHIELD, going about its business. It could be any given day- agents roam, papers filed, choice global secrets exposed and others hidden. But Thor zeroes in on the one displaying you and his brother, in some sort of tense conversation. Loki lashes out, and you reply with remarkable composure- enough to apparently reassure him you aren’t going anywhere. In his head, Thor adjusts every opinion of you he’s ever had.

You talk for a while more, underscored by Stark’s idle whistling from the corner. You leave, bag tucked under your arm, and say goodbye to a scant few colleagues. Outside, a car pulls up in front of you, and you go to open the door- only, it’s opened for you, by gloved hands belonging to an unseen being. While they grab you by the arms, another man in a suit is busy administering a blunt object to the back of your skull. You crumple into the waiting vehicle. The door is shut. It pulls smoothly away from the curb, as though you were never there at all.

To Thor’s right, static electricity shorts out a bank of monitors.

And now Tony is talking, leaning in to examine the footage- “Who- wait, isn’t that your brother’s pet? What the hell-?” But Thor is already gone, hurrying in a way that magically clears everyone from his path before he even arrives. Every thud of his heel echoes a crisp and succinct no, no, no, no, no, no

Loki has been pacing, but he pauses to turn his sharp gaze on his brother. “Well?” Thor can’t even open his mouth before green eyes turn deadly. “No.”

Thor’s mouth is suddenly dry. “Brother-”

There’s an inferno behind Loki’s voice, one that Thor has only ever seen herald destruction. “Bring me the director. Now.”

X “Let me get this straight,” Fury drawls slowly, in an obvious effort to try his prisoner’s patience. Even Thor is having to keep his fingers from curling into fists. “Your babysitter- who has apparently stuck around for the last ten months, even though by all accounts she should have run screaming from the room- has been kidnapped by a mysterious force, and you want me to release you in order to go on a harebrained rescue. Unchaperoned.”

“Yes.”

Fury snorts. “No.”

“I would be with him,” Thor argues, “and I would not let him-”

“-escape off-world with his magic in tow? Pardon me if I’m not inclined to believe you.”

“You don’t understand!” Loki looks incredibly close to breaking something, and for the sake of their argument, Thor very much hopes he doesn’t. “She is in peril and you would sit back and do nothing-”

The director holds up a hand as the door opens and Hill slips in, holding printed camera stills. “HYDRA, most likely,” she says, pointing out various details in each photo to her boss. “Why they’d target her I have no idea.”

Fury sighs. “Fantastic. Let me ask you something, Mister mortals-are-ants-beneath-my-boot. Why the hell do you care?”

Too many thoughts to count flit across Loki’s face, and Thor has had a thousand years to catalogue every one of his brother’s expressions. “Is it not enough that I simply do?” Loki asks, apparently at a loss for words, and Thor can’t help but notice everything he isn’t saying in that one question.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he continues, almost vibrating with desperation. “Everything you want to know, that is in my power to tell. I swear it.”

Fury’s eyes narrow. “The Chitauri? The Tesseract?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Deal.”

Maria startles. “Nick-”

“No, Hill, don’t start with me, not now.” He nods at Loki’s cell. “If you would.”

Maria unlocks Loki’s cell and releases his manacles with the grace and poise of someone who has a revolver trained at her temple. Once his hands are free, she tenses, as though expecting a quick death- but he simply rubs his wrists, in the places they bleed slightly.

“You’re insane,” she says as Fury leads her out of the room, not bothering to lower her voice.

“Insane saved the world, once,” he shoots back. “How much worse can this be?”

“I can think of a few-”

The door closes behind them.

The two gods look at each other. “Four days is a long time,” Thor says softly, unnecessarily stating the obvious. “I would not even know where to look. Perhaps the captain would know-”

He stops as a rage of green flares up to Loki’s elbows, mirroring the fire that has suddenly blazed to life in his eyes. His voice is haunted by things unknown- “I have her.”

[ren-c-leyn]

To Duel a God...

 It’s been a while since I’ve done a short story for this blog, thought I might give it a try since I’m still under the weather but want to try to stick to the habit of writing. This is a fusion story that I’ve been squirreling away prompts for for a while. I’m excited to finally have enough pieces in place to write it.

 The prompts in question are these 1,2,3,4,5,6 by the always amazing @thependragonwritersguild, this one by @thewholekitandkabobble, these 1,2,3,4 by the lovely @givethispromptatry, and these 1,2 by @humdrummoloch. Thank you all for your hard work to make so many amazing prompts ^-^

Story warnings: This is a fight story, so there is fictional violence. It also mentions death in passing, but nothing in any great detail. There is a little swearing, as well.

~

 It started with an old memory; a tiny cry from the void of hollow emptiness that had been eating me alive since that living nightmare.

 Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t have to be any of those things to become a great hero. After all, heroes of legend are not the strongest or the wisest of us. They are those who had the selflessness and courage to do what was right.

 But I know I am not one of those people. I had never been one of those people. If I had been, I would have been able to save him. If I am now, I would be able to avenge them now.

 Perhaps my first warning that I still wasn’t one of those people should have been the way her face blanched at my statement and argued with me for an hour over it. Or, perhaps it should have been in my statement itself.

 I’m going to challenge a god to a duel at sunrise on the anniversary.

 Maybe they’d even add a line to the adventurer’s hand guide dedicated solely to warn against my insanity at the end of this: ‘Protip: Don’t challenge gods to duels.’

 “You must understand! It was a hard fought victory; a truce that you are threatening to tear apart!”

 “I don’t care. I promised nothing and was privy to no truce. I walk my own path and care little for the gods and their business.”

 My best friend, my former comrade, the woman I had shed sweat and blood and tears with just searched my face with a lost sort of expression, similar to the one we had both worn that day, the anniversary, as we stared at the piles of corpses stacked up to impossible heights.

 Eventually she sighed, shoulders sagging as her eyes closed.

 “Why do you always do this?” she asked, voice tired and raspy.

 “Why do you always ask me that when you know the answer you’ll get?”

 And those dull, rust-colored eyes opened partly again.

 “What’s going to happen to everything after you are gone?”

 “I dunno. I’ll be dead, my friend. Figure it out for yourself.”

 She snorted.

 “So you admit this will be what finally kills you?”

 “It’s more that I admit that I cannot guarantee it won’t, even with my so called talents. Still... can we really just sit back and say we’re fine with how things turned out in the end?”

 “Obviously you cannot, and I cannot stop you. Go then, Payback. Do what it is you do best. I won’t join in your foolishness, but I will stand witness to your duel. I trust it will take place in the usual ring?”

 A grim smile crept onto my face as I turned away from her desk and began to stride to the door.

 “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 With my friend and queen’s permission, or at least reluctant surrender, on the matter, I set about issuing my challenge. This proved to be the hard part. No priest or priestess in their right minds were willing to send my message to the war god, not even those of questionable sanity wanted to get involved, and several temples threw me out on my ear, quite literally. The last of which was the war god’s high temple itself. 

 Well, fine then. If I couldn’t get my challenge to the bastard through a third party, I’d just have to do it myself.

 I climbed up the pillars, ignoring the indignant shouts of priests and temple guardians as I scaled up the front of the so called holy site, clawed my way through the ornate carvings depicting great battles and heroes, and then finally drug my armored arse over the lip of the roofing to get on top of the building itself.

 Standing as straight as I could, I cupped my hands to my mouth and inhaled. Then, all at once, I roared up to the sky.

 “WAR GOD!!! I CHALLENGE YOU IN SINGLE COMBAT FOR THE HONOR OF MY FALLEN FRIENDS! COME TO THE HILL OF ROSES ON THE SUNRISE OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DAY YOU BUTCHERED THEM LIKE THE COWARD YOU ARE AND I SHALL HONOR THEIR MEMORIES WITH YOUR HEAD!”

 Then, there was silence. A dead silence that was quite out of place for any part of the capital city. I wasn’t even sure if the people who heard me issue my challenge were breathing, but I couldn’t care less. They could hide in fear all they wanted, but I had faced god beasts and their other minions in the fields of battle during our war against the gods. I had looked servants of death in the eye, and even played cards with one during my queen’s negotiations for peace. There was nothing for me to fear from the other side.

 Still, I found the silence a bit uneasy. Was I being ignored? Usually, my opponents responded to my challenged rather quickly. For example, you know the wizard accepts your challenge when a crimson bolt strikes. You know a thieves’ guild leader accepts your challenge when you have a knife and a dead snake pinned to the inside of your inn door the next morning.But how does one know when a god decides to accept a challenge?

 Blood red lightening shot down from a cloudless sky and shattered an ancient oak that had been on the grounds for centuries.

 I guessed that answered my question. The bastard had heard me alright, and it looked like he accepted my challenge. A broad grin split my face. Good, this would be fun.

 Two weeks passed with nonstop training and uneasy anticipation. The nightmares of the past came and went in tides, mixing in with the present. Instead of falling victim to them, I used them to motivate myself, remind myself why I had to do this.

 Then, the fateful morning came, or rather, the pre-dawn darkness before a fateful morning came. The queen and I stood on my usual dueling grounds, a flat-topped hill crowned with blood-red roses. It was a fitting place to die... for my enemies. Neither of us said a word to each other as we watched the eastern sky, waiting for our old enemy to appear. 

 Just as the deep blues of night began to turn yellow, and rays of sunlight began to caress the rosebuds, we felt it. That familiar stomach-twisting sickness from raw power. Both of us tensed.

 Red lightening struck again, dancing in the center of the ring before us. It balled up, glowing brighter, and then went out entirely, revealing a tall man in strange armor made of heavenly metals and fangs and claws and hides of god beasts. A giant sword rested in his left hand, and a battle ax as broad as the queen’s shoulders rested in his right. Behind him was a cloaked figure I recognized as the commander of the war god’s army. She gave a nod to the queen and I, and we gave a nod back.

 “Well, mortal, I believe we have a score to settle. Yes?” the war god’s deep voice growled out slowly, mockingly. “It shouldn’t take us more than a minute.”

 I grinned up at him.

 “I would think not. I should have your ugly head ready for my wall in thirty seconds.”

 He howled out a laugh.

 “You think you can kill me?”

 “I think I can try and if I can’t then at least I can be an obstacle. I might even be able to make you bleed, or worse. Whose to know if we don’t fight?”

 He chuckled darkly with a smirk to match.

 “You will be lost in the land of the dead long before you make me bleed, mortal.”

 A dark smile of my own surfaced.

 “ I’m already as dead as my mercy. Come to think of it, you’re the one that killed me, on the inside anyways. You see, after you lose everything good in your life, all you can do is laugh. Laugh because you somehow managed to die along the way, but can’t remember where. But don’t worry, I have just enough mercy left in me to just make my vengeance killing you, instead of killing everyone you care about and turning you into a living ghost too.”

 He sneered at me.

 “Bold words for the empty shell of a pitiful creature. Don’t worry, I’ll put you out of your misery today. Witnesses! Begin the proceedings.”

 “Yes,” the queen and the general answered instantly.

 They both stepped back into the roses on opposite ends of the massive ring. Part of me wondered if they’d be okay, but it was a little late to take that into account now. They ran us through the dueling formalities, asking us to bow to each other, step back the appropriate number of steps, get into our stances, and then they began the count.

 “Three, two, one, you may begin.”

 They hadn’t even finished saying begin when the war god was bearing down on me, bringing both of his massive weapons down on each of my shoulders. I heard the queen scream, but I could only grin.

 Invincibility is a real good time. Whenever someone tries to maim you, they always end up taking the damage. I just wish I had clothes to support that fighting style. Well, the cost of this armor was nothing in comparison to the priceless look of shock on the dumbass’s face when his own divine weapons bounced off my bones and sunk into his shoulders.

 “H-how? What sorcerery is this?!” he hissed as he stumbled back.

 “Oh, I guess no one told you. What a pity, for you. I’m the last person you want to fight. Every time you hurt me, it just reverberates back to you. My friends call me Payback.”

 He laughed.

 “I see, I guess I’ll have to stop fighting you like a mortal, and fight you as an equal!”

 Lightening struck me and I felt it burn down to my bones. His weapons glowed red and he swung at me. Instinct kicked in and my body jerked out of the way, but the sword still caught my hand, leaving the first wound I had received on a battlefield in years.I retaliated with my own blade, going after joints and thinner spots of the armor. He blocked, dodged, countered, I ducked, rolled, and stabbed.

 The longer the deadly dance of steel and lightening strikes went, the more of my blood dripped onto the trampled grass and hardened earth.

 Ah. The one person I can’t defeat. Lovely.

 And despite myself, I started laughing at the thought. Laughing as I rolled under his ax’s head and came up right in front of him, only to be kicked in the gut by the boot. I went down, and red lightening made sure I stayed down. As I laid there, jerking uncontrollably, I heard the heavily armored boots advancing on me.

 Then, there was a bright white light.

 “Enough,” a woman’s voice echoed.

 “Out of my way, Life, the punk challenged me, not you.”

 “The battle has been decided, War, lay down your arms.”

 “It has not ended, it was a duel to the death.”

 I heard her laugh, laugh right in his face. Had to hand it to her, she had nerve. I respected that. As much as a person spasming in the dirt can respect anything, of course.

 “What’s so funny?” War demanded.

 “In accordance to the treaty we made with the humans, duels to the death are prohibited.”

 “Then why did you allow him to issue the challenge?!”

 “I assumed to accepted knowing that you weren’t allowed to kill.”

 “And if that mortal were to have defeated me, would you be hovering here in my defense as well?” he demanded.

 “Of course, of course, it is my duty to uphold the treaty. Now take your bow, do your boasting, and let us return.”

 I blacked out about half way through his big victory speech. Whether it was from boredom or the lightening still working its way through my body, I couldn’t say.

 When I woke up, I was laying on the floor in the queen’s office while she scribbled something down with her quill.

 “Still breathing?” she asked after a moment.

 “Yeah....”

 “Good.”

 There was a long stretch of silence between the tense good and the end of whatever it was she was writing. When she put the quill down, though, I knew I was in trouble. She slowly turned in her chair, rust eyes narrowing at me.

 “You know what? I’m gonna say it: you deserved that. You deserved all of that, including the awful speech he gave at the end of your duel. What kind of idiot challenges the war god to single combat? He’s the god of combat you twit!”

 And it was half way through her speech that I realized Life had even less mercy than I did.

[cerisedreams]

Walking along the picturesque streets of downtown New Orleans, the women weave by souvenir shops, restaurants, and colorful buildings, looking for a place to do lunch.

Misty does most of the talking, Cordelia paying careful attention to the words being thrown her way. She eagerly tells her about the swamps and rambles animatedly about her animals; The crocodiles she’s brought back to life, the singing of the cicadas, toads amongst between the bushes, the glow of the fireflies that illuminate the air around her shack like stars on a summer’s night.

Cordelia is captivated by Misty’s magic, how she lights up when she speaks, and she’s glad to have the day to themselves. She’s never had someone quite like this in her life, and she feels giddy with happiness.

They settle for a cafeteria Cordelia frequents. Misty is starving, and Cordelia snorts when she tells her so, a faint blush coloring the Cajun’s cheeks.

Misty places a hand on the small of the shorter woman’s back protectively as they make their way through the shop; It feels oddly intimate, but it also feels familiar and safe. Cordelia appreciates the act of kindness, however small it might be.

The place is scarcely crowded. They stand in line, Cordelia scanning along the walls for open tables when she feels a hand slip into hers, fingers intertwining. Misty’s rings are cold against the warm skin in between Cordelia’s fingers. She glances over to find Misty, eyes focused on the menu, and nudges the taller woman’s shoulder playfully.

Misty smiles without taking her eyes off the words on the wall–that pretty, open smile reserved for Cordelia only. Cordelia’s eyes lock on Misty for a moment too long, and Misty can feel Cordelia watching her because she turns, and Cordelia beams at her like there’s no one else in the world besides them.

The Cajun doesn’t know what they’re doing, but she knows they both need this. Cordelia needs it, but neither of them is brave enough to say they shouldn’t or figure out why.

When they place their order, Misty asks her what she wants first and when she pulls out a few ones out of her purse, Misty waves the money away and insists it’s her treat. In return, Cordelia offers to find a table while their food is ready though being reluctant to let go of their clasped hands.

Misty manages to spot her easy enough, placing her coffee along with two sandwiches and a styrofoam cup of orange juice between them. “A’ight, coffee with two sugars for ya ma’am.”

“Thank you, Miss Day.” Cordelia feels the abiding tension she relentlessly carries on her shoulders melting away as her companion slides into her seat.

Misty loves that she is starting to know Cordelia well enough to read her without having to ask what she’s thinking; Loves that she knows all these little details about the older witch, like how many sugars she takes with her coffee, or that she doesn’t eat ham or celery. How she takes comfort in her habits and routines, and how she’s modified them to allow Misty into her daily life.

She feels incredibly lucky to witness this soft side of Cordelia no one else gets the chance to see.

“So Miss Delia, tell me about your mornin’!”

Cordelia stares at her quizzically. She’s not sure what Misty means. Of course, she knows what she means, but she doesn’t comprehend why she’d be interested to know. Should she tell her about the boring paperwork she filed away? Or about the single cup of coffee she had before sun-up? She really hadn’t got much done that morning.

Misty seems to understand, giving the blonde’s hand an encouraging squeeze, empathetic. It’s hard to see how someone as amazing as Cordelia thinks so little of herself, and it makes her throat bob with emotion.

Misty hates it. Hates everything Cordelia’s been put through to make her so insecure, so spooked of being cared for.

The swamp witch laces their fingers together, and Cordelia’s grateful for the anchor from her thoughts. She plays with Misty’s fingers absentmindedly. The younger woman takes a bite off her sandwich and relaxes back into her chair. She’s halfway done with her meal when Cordelia answers her question.

“It was okay. Not as busy as other mornings, since it’s Sunday…” She trails off, unsure.

“Are ya growin’ anythin’ new in the greenhouse?” Misty questions excitedly. She knows the headmistress has been working hard in there, and she wants to give Cordelia the chance to share it with her.

Cordelia’s lips quirk up slightly before fully breaking into a smile. “Yes! There are these orchids I’ve been meaning to grow but never had the chance. They seemed to like the place in the garden I planted them in because they’re blooming already.”

Misty listens devotedly, her gaze darting between Cordelia’s eyes and her moving lips, glad to see the woman talking freely about the things she’s passionate about.

“If you’d, uh, maybe you can help me with them?” Misty can hear the uncertainty underlying Cordelia’s words, the fear of rejection lingering on the tip of her tongue. “Only if you’d like to, of course…”

“Of course! I’d love to, Miss Cordelia.”

The headmistress bites into her own sandwich and the conversation dies down. Misty is getting used to their comfortable silences, and even though she’s a naturally chatty person, she takes these silences as opportunities to study the fascinating enigma that is the witch before her–the way Cordelia bites her lip when she’s nervous or baffled, how she stutters minutely when engaging in casual conversation, the way the skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs.

Misty loves that laugh. Treasures the very few times she’s heard it.

The swamp witch finishes her juice, tugs at their still tangled hands. She knows Fiona and Cordelia had a very heated argument following Hank’s death. It’s not her place to pry–and she doesn’t mean to. Misty just wants to make sure Cordelia is okay.

“What happened with your mom?”

Misty stares openly at her, making Cordelia’s lips twitch in discomfort. Mind going back to that night in the dining room, glass strewed on the floor, Cordelia’s breathing hitches. Not being particularly skillful of her magic, such a forceful display of power had definitely surprised both Goode women; It had felt so excruciatingly raw, hot-blinding rage imploding and then… gone. Taking a long sip of her coffee, she doesn’t remove her hand from Misty’s.

People come and go from the cafeteria, and Cordelia follows them with her gaze. Misty watches intently as the odd pair of blue and brown flit around the room, deep in thought. The concealer around Cordelia’s brown eye creases slightly, bruise peeking under it.

“M’sorry, shouldn’t’ve asked…”

She does not expect Cordelia to tell her, sensing it is a delicate subject for the woman. Misty realizes then that Cordelia hasn’t shared much about her family, and she wonders just how alone the older blonde is.

Cordelia takes a deep, settling breath. She twists one of Misty’s rings gently around her finger. “I made a mistake.” She weighs her words before meeting Misty’s eyes again, “Hank is– was not who he said he was. His name was Henry Renard… A witch hunter.”

Cordelia picks at a napkin and Misty swallows thickly. “Henry was hired to kill me and the girls…”

The younger blonde waits patiently for her to continue. She waits as Cordelia takes another sip of her coffee, fidgets with the napkin, twists another ring.

“Whenever a new girl came to the academy, he would track her down and kill her.” Cordelia’s breathing picks up and her shoulders tense. “He married me because it was convenient, because his mother-in-law was the Supreme. Fiona was really pissed at me when she found out.”

“It ain’t your fault, Delia…”

Cordelia nods, unconvinced, and Misty doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how to fix it. She figures being here with Cordelia is enough, for now. She decides to stir the conversation away from Fiona before Cordelia gets upset; That’s the last thing she wants.

“What d’ya say we get outta here? Day’s still nice!”

They collect their things and throw away their trash. Misty opens the door for her, the noise of chatter and clinking of cutlery fading away as they step into the sidewalk. The taller blonde suggests they keep walking around, and Cordelia doesn’t protest when she feels an arm wrapping expertly around her waist.

Misty needs Cordelia to feel this inherent protectiveness inside of her. She needs her to be aware of it and know that it’s there, for her–that she can have it, even if she feels she doesn’t deserve it.

Misty is far from stupid, she’s perceptive enough to know this is the consequence of being Fiona’s daughter, the result of Hank’s actions.

“Thank you for taking me out today, Mist.”

“‘S my pleasure! Ya don’t have to thank me.”

Cordelia tilts her chin up and the fondness with which she looks at Misty has the latter going weak at the knees. Eyes shining with what can only be described as awe, it sends a warm shiver up Misty’s spine. Hands clammy, heat pooling at her cheeks, her heart pumps rapidly and she has to do something.

Misty comes to a halt, drags them into the privacy of a narrow alley between buildings. She pins Cordelia’s hips softly against the wall and steps into her space, a question dancing at the back of her throat. Cordelia must know what she means because she nods eagerly right when the younger blonde searches her face for any sign that this isn’t what she wants.

The headmistress captures rosy lips in her own, sweet and tender, and Misty’s blue eyes glint green under the sunlight. She can taste peach lip gloss, bitter coffee, and can’t help breaking the kiss when her lips twist into a bright, full smile. Cordelia knows she shouldn’t get used to this; She shouldn’t get used to Misty, but maybe it’s too late for that.

Misty notices the conflict in the woman’s worried lip, tugs it away gently with a ringed finger. Cordelia sighs blissfully, and with hands on her dress pulls Misty in for another, longer kiss.

She thinks that perhaps, with Misty here, she can allow herself the things she’s always stopped herself from wanting.

- Excerpts from Hold Tight (Hold on to Me)

[fernwehbookworm]

Woke the F*ck Up- Chapter 2

August 6th, 2017

Lena was very aware that if someone was going to recognize her, now would be the time. Only the thin veil of colored contacts, glasses, and makeup covering up her tattoos hid Lena Luthor. The driver dropped her off outside and Lena quickly ducked in. The hostess stood behind a black podium marking down something in front of her.

“Hi,” Lena says to get her attention.

The hostess looks up. Surprise and recognition pass over her face and Lena readies herself to calm a screaming fan. Then confusion as the girl looks at Lena's eyes. Lena even sees the girl's eyes flit to her wrist, looking for her tattoo. Deciding she is mistaken, the girl finally speaks.

“How may I help you?”

“Yes. I'm meeting someone here. Kara Danvers.”

“Yes, Miss Danvers is already here. I'll take you to your table.” She grabs a menu and heads further into the restaurant.

Lena can see her then. Through a wall of windows that lead out to a deck overlooking a pond. Kara's hair is down this time. It cascades off her shoulders, exposed in that off the shoulder shirt. Kara's fingers drum on the tabletop. She obviously got here early and it makes Lena smile. When the hostess leads Lena outside into the soft glow of overhead Edison bulbs, Kara shoots to her feet, practically knocking over her chair in the process.

Kara takes in Elena as she walks toward the table trying to think of something to say, anything to say. The red dress fits every one of the curves that Elena hid under bulky sweatshirts the past two mornings.

“Hello, Kara.” She says.

“H-hi Elena. Umm… would you like to sit?” Kara internally groans at how lame that sounds. But then Elena laughs and nods. She was right, that laugh is either illegal or it's illegal not to make her laugh, Kara can't decide. The dimples appearing on her cheeks from the smile are just as dangerous.

“Kara, you can sit now.” Kara is suddenly aware that Elena is sitting and looking at the menu. Kara sits quickly with a blush burning her cheeks.

“So how was your concert?” Lena asks, still perusing the menu.

“It was really good. I think Alex had the time of her life. She even got front row seats.” Lena freezes at that. She doesn't remember seeing a beautiful blonde woman past the blazing lights of the stage. To be fair, she usually ignores the crowd anyways.

“Lena Luthor is really talented. I still just want to give her a hug though.” Elena laughs again and Kara is sure she wants to make her laugh as much as possible.

“I'm sure that she would let you if she knew you for even just five minutes.” Kara blushes again.

The waitress comes then, Elena ordering the chef special sushi and a glass of red wine. Kara gets potstickers and sticks with water.

“What are potstickers?” Elena asks. Kara gasps.

“Only one of my all-time favorite foods that are like a little bit of heaven in every bite.”

“Well, then you'll have to let me try one.” Lena is slightly stunned by the serious thinking expression that crosses the blonde’s face and the pause that follows.

“You should know this about me now. I don't share food. But this is the first date so I will allow you one bite of my all-time favorite food. Not a whole potsticker. On bite. Understand?” Elena mimics Kara’s serious expression.

“I am honored.” Then a smile spreads across her face.

“What did you do yesterday then, after you practically plowed me over in the park?” Kara blushes at the memory.

“Oh, umm. I had a training session with my friend James. Then I hung out with my best friend Winn for most the night. Pretty low key for the most part.”

“Training session?” Elena asks.

“Oh right. I'm an MMA coach, but basically, anyone can sign up for lessons at the gym I work out of. James was a friend of my cousins and signed up at his suggestion.”

“MMA as in Mixed Martial Arts? How did you get into coaching that?”

“Well, I started out as a fighter. Had a pretty good record too. Until an injury put me out for a year. After that my sponsors dropped me, it was going to be too hard to get back in, and my heart just wasn't in it anymore. Now I coach part-time.”

“That explains so much,” Elena says, almost to herself.

“Explains what?” Kara asks.

“All of that.” Elena gestures to Kara vaguely with her wine glass before taking a drink. When Kara understands another blush burns her skin and she is pretty sure that Elena is doing it on purpose now. A slight smirk confirms that suspicion.

“So what do you do, my mysterious traveling, night working, woman?”

“Ah, well my career details are more of a fifth date kind of deal.” Kara’s brow furrows in concentration and a crinkle appears between her eyebrows.

“Okay.” Elena is startled by Kara's quick acceptance of her answer.  

“You’re okay with that?”

“As long as that means we have four more dates then yes, I'm okay with that.”

“I didn't agree to a second date yet,” Elena says.

“But you just agreed to a fifth because I want to know what you do for a living, ergo you agreed to at least four more dates.” Elena seems to ponder this.

“Okay.” Kara grins as she looks up at the server arriving with their food, grinning even more. Kara glances up and meets Elena’s eyes, chopsticks hovering halfway between the plate and her mouth.

“One bite,” Kara warns as she moves the pork-filled potsticker across the table.

Elena rises slightly out of her chair to meet Kara. Brown eyes never leave blue. Elena bites down on the soft dough slowly. When she pulls away slightly she closes her eyes and makes a not so innocent moan of delight. The sound instantly shoots through Kara, settling uncomfortably between her legs. Three dates. It suddenly makes sense.

“That was delicious. But I'm not sure if I've tasted heaven yet.” Elena’s eyes meaningfully look Kara up and down. Kara gulps.

This woman was dangerous. Kara decided to get a little payback though. Just as slowly as Elena did, Kara places the other half of the potsticker in her mouth. She chews slowly, never taking her eyes off Elena's mysterious brown ones.

“Then you don't need the second bite. Maybe you'll find your little bit of heaven in that raw fish you insisted on.” Kara teases. She thinks she sees a blush creep into the pale cheeks, but the lighting out here makes it hard to see.

“I doubt it. I've been searching for a long time.” Elena says, suddenly serious. She clears her throat then.

“So if you coach part-time. What do you do with the rest?”

“I like to think I'm an artist, but you have to actually sell for that to be true. So it's a hobby until then. I have enough from my fighting days to hold me over for a while longer. Then I'll have to get a real job or get back in the ring.” Elena makes a face.

“What's that face for?”

“I just can't picture the girl who hit on me while wearing a cardigan fighting in a ring for money. Even then I don't like the idea of that pretty face all black and blue and red from blood.” Kara laughs.

“I'm used to it. Plus, you can't be black and blue if no one lands a punch.”

“You just told me you had an injury that took you out for a year.”

“I didn't get that one fighting,” Kara says, a haunted look appearing on her face.

“What happened? I mean I don't mean to pry so you don't have to tell me.”

“We have probably wandered into at least second date territory I believe,” Kara says.

“So I think this counts as one.” Kara cocks her side to the side and Lena is again reminded of a puppy.

“Coffee was pretty first date-ish. And besides, I despise small talk.”

“Okay. But that definitely means I at least get three more dates.”

“Deal.” Kara takes a deep breath.

“I was in a car accident with my adoptive father. I ended up in a coma after multiple surgeries. Jeremiah didn't make it. Some drunk idiot ran a red light and rolled our car, hitting his side first. By the time I woke up I lost six months. It took another six months to recover. One celebratory dinner for winning a championship turned into losing a year, my father, and my career. Which is why I don't drink.”

“So you're adopted. You are right, definitely at least second date material. Also good to know about the drinking thing. I won't be buying a bottle of wine for our third date then.”

“Yup. My parents died in a fire. The Danvers adopted me when I was eleven. I miss my parents but Eliza and Alex are the best things to come out of that tragedy.”

“I-I'm adopted too. Kind of. My mother died and my father brought me into his family. But… it wasn't good. Not like you. So I left as soon as I could.” Kara reaches across the table and touches Elena’s hand. It feels like sunshine is pouring into her.  

“I'm sorry about that. How did you get away then?”

“In my family being the best wasn't good enough. So I graduated early from high school and college. I started my career right at eighteen. Never went back.”

“So you’re like super smart?”

“I guess. I don't do anything with it though. So probably not anymore.”

“Well do you do what you love?”  

“I used to love it. Now I'm not so sure. Why are you grinning like that?”

“I'm getting closer to figuring out what you do. A night job that requires travel. Something you can start at eighteen. Also, something that loses its luster after a couple years.”

“Kara, I just told you I had a tragic childhood and may or may not hate my job and that's what you get out of it?”

“You'll share more soon. I can see you have some walls up. You'll let me in when you're ready. For now, I focus on what you do tell me.”

“You, Kara Danvers, are very dangerous to me.”

“Will that be one check or two?” Both women are startled out of their bubble at the sudden appearance of the waitress.

“One please,” Kara says, handing the woman a card before Lena can protest.

“Kara, you just told me you work part-time. I can pay for dinner.”

“I asked you out. I told you I have enough left from fighting.”

Lena is a little relieved considering she only has cards in her name and that would certainly be noticed. Kara somehow managed to eat all twelve potstickers while they spoke. Lena still had half of her sushi left. The waitress put it in a box after returning Kara's card to have her sign.

“Thank you for dinner Kara. You… surprise me.”

“Well, surprises aren't over yet. We have another stop before this night is over.”

“Oh?”

“Come on.” Kara grabs the hand not clutching the to-go box. Heat sears up Lena's arm at the touch but she refuses to let go.

Kara leads them out onto the street, crowded with the beginning of National City’s nightlife. They walk several blocks, Kara pointing out various restaurants, her favorite bookshop, and her favorite place to run.

“How often do you run?”

“Six days a week. Every morning starting at seven thirty.

“Wait how far do you run then? It was like 8:30 in the park.”

“Oh umm… depends on the day. Usually only like five miles but umm… I needed a distraction yesterday so I think by the time I was done it was fifteen.”

“Fif…fifteen.”

“Yeah. I had a lot of...energy to burn off.”

“And then you went and had a training session.”

“Yup.” Kara says, popping the 'p.’

“Dear lord. Never again will I complain to my trainer.” Kara blushes.

“Would that trainer be for your job?” Elena sighs.

“Yes. How do you manage to find all these little details.”

“I think I was a reporter in another life.” Kara jokes then pulls Lena to a stop outside a building.

“This is our next stop.” Elena glances around.

“CatCo?”

“Yeah, my friend Winn is letting us in. He may or may not have hacked the systems to loop security feed so that we can go up. It has my favorite view in the world. Cat Grant used to interview me up there.”

As if on cue a small man appears on the other side of the doors. He turns a key and holds it open for the two of them.

“All right. I can buy us an hour. Like literally. I paid the guards not to kick us out for an hour. Ms. Grant will never know you were here though.”

“Thanks, Winn. This is Elena. Elena this is my best friend Winn.” He holds a hand out and Elena shakes it.

“Do I know you? You look awfully familiar.” Elena clears her throat.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I guess I just have one of those faces.” Winn makes an unconvinced noise.

“I'll be at my desk if you need anything, Kara. Remember. One hour.”

“Thanks again, Winn.”

Kara leads Elena to an elevator and presses the top floor. The elevator ascends in relative quiet. It's slightly eerie with the building being empty.

“So your favorite view in the whole city?”

“Yup. You'll understand when you see it. It always made me feel like I was flying. Cat Grant would interview me personally. We always did it on her balcony because she knew I loved the view. I wouldn't answer any questions unless she let me sit out there.”

“Wow, quite the negotiator then.” Kara laughs and the doors open.

“Not really. I had people who would do it for me. Winn was my assistant manager back then. He followed me from high school on because he was a great friend. I don't know what I would do without him.”

“Sounds like you two know each other pretty well.” Elena tries, trying to figure out just how good of friends these two were.

“Yup. Winn has had my back through everything, even all my terrible dating choices.”

“All? Has there been a lot of terrible dating choices?” Kara stops with her mouth half-open.

“Well, mostly just one. Wow is this really a second date topic?”

Kara leads Elena through empty desks in the mostly dark office. The only thing lighting their path was the safety lights. They go through a giant glass wall into an open office and out onto a terrace.

“This is incredible.” Elena gasps out.

“Yeah definitely. It's always better at night too.”

“Okay, I think this qualifies as a third date. New location and everything.”

“Okay…” Kara looks wearily at Elena.

“So… terrible dating choice?” Kara groans.

“There was this guy, Mike. He was a fighter too. We met at a tournament. We dated. Everyone told me he was a player and I didn't listen. I fell hard and fast. Looking back it was a very toxic relationship, to begin with, but I didn't break up with him until I caught him in bed with another woman.”

“Ouch.”

“Yup. Your turn.”

“What makes you think I have a terrible dating choice?” Elena tries to evade.

“Everyone does. And I have shared far too much at this point to not get anything back.” Elena heaves a sigh.

“My college girlfriend. If you can call her that. Mostly we just used each other to forget or to feel something, I'm not sure which. We both came from terrible families. Then one day I woke up and realized I was in love with her. I kept it from her because Veronica wasn't capable of love. Right before we graduated she dared me to do something and I did. It got me this job and I asked her to come with me. She told me no because we weren't anything. I told her I loved her then and she just left. Not a single word. Just stood up and walked out of my dorm room.”

Kara reaches over and grabs Elena's hand where it rests on the guardrail. The whole time she had just stared out over the city, not willing to make eye contact.

“I haven't loved anyone since. I dated this one guy for a long time, but I couldn't love him. Sometimes I don't think I can anymore. Most of the time I just feel numb and chase things that help me feel something, even if it's temporary.”

“I'm sorry Elena. No one should ever have to feel like that.” Elena shrugs.

“You grow used to it. You accept it.”

“You shouldn't have to.”

“But I did. My life has been fucked up for a long time Kara. I accepted it. But I think that's why you scare me. I have a feeling that if this goes anywhere I’m going to screw it up. I self-sabotage.” Kara reaches up to push Elena's hair out of her face and tuck it behind an ear. Elena finally looks at her.

“I'd rather feel something than nothing at all even if it's for however long you’re here.” Kara kisses her. It burns more than Kara’s touch. It sears all the way to her heart. Elena's fingers tangle in Kara's hair and pull her closer. Elena can feel Kara’s tongue tracing her lips and she parts them to let it pass. Someone moans and neither are sure who.

Elena begins backing Kara towards the wall of the building so she can get more purchase on her body. Fingers trail down Kara’s side and play with the skin just under the hem of the silken blue shirt while Kara leans against the wall. Elena’s touch seems to bring Kara a but back to her senses. She reaches down and clasps both hands in hers while continuing to kiss the dark-haired woman, pulling them safely away from her skin. Kara finally breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against Elena’s.

“As much as I enjoy the idea of more, that's all you get until I get more from you.” Elena groans.

“You are a dangerous woman Kara Danvers.”

“So are you. But, I'm not a one night stand kind of girl and this may be the only guarantee I have of a fifth date.”

“Well, we are already three in and the night is young.” Elena counters.

“Nope. This is the last stop. I am going to call you a cab. Kiss you goodnight and then go home and take a cold shower.” The mental image of water running off Kara's abs was almost too much for Elena. She wasn't used to being denied what she wanted.

“So I have one kiss to change your mind?” Elena quirks an eyebrow at Kara. Kara audibly gulps.

“That is not what I meant.”

“It's what I heard.” Kara groans and pulls out her phone to call a cab then call Winn. Elena moves to continue looking out over the city.

Kara comes up behind her, hands braced on either side on the rail and the heat of her front on Elena’s back.

“I think I like this view better than Metropolis. There is something cleaner about National City.”

“My cousin lives in Metropolis. I've been there and I agree. Although I am a little biased to National City.”

They stand there for a few more minutes before Kara whispers that it's time to go. Elena follows with one last glance over her shoulder. Kara rubs Elena's hand with her thumb where their fingers are intertwined. When they get off the elevator Winn is waiting for them. Outside, Elena can see the cab.

Elena tried very hard with the kiss to persuade Kara to come with her. But Kara, though swayed, wouldn't be moved. Elena climbs in the cab but stops before shutting the door.

“How are you getting home?”

“Oh, Winn is taking me.” Kara leans in close to whisper.

“I promised him the scoop on our date. If I don't do it now he'll just ask in front of my sister and then I'll have to tell everyone.”

“Well let's give him a little show then.” Elena pulls Kara down by her shirt for another lingering kiss before giving her a small push away. Kara was too stunned to even realize the door was shut until the Cab rounded a corner.

“You okay or should we call it a night?” Kara blushes.

“I'm fine Winn. Suit’s in the van?”

“Yup! New and improved. It is my new masterpiece.”

About a block away, Winn opens the sliding delivery van door with a flourish. Kara gasps as she takes in Winn’s masterpiece. Winn was never one to go small. On a silver mannequin, in full display is her new suit. A red and blue, hooded jacket with armored vanguards. A tactical belt wraps around the waist. Blue pants that look lightly armored are tucked into calf-high red boots, perfect for running and silence.

(This is based on Plastic_Pipes Stealth Suit. I am a huge fan of their art.)

“Winn… It's perfect.”

“Also it's made with the newest bullet-resistant material.”

“Bullet resistant?”

“Bulletproof is too bulky. As long as your not shot at within ten feet you should just get some nasty bruising. Lightweight plating lines you arms and outside of the legs for extra protection. The belt has your basic various restraints and knives. We can add your preferences later.”

“You are the absolute best Winn.” Kara practically leaps into his arms, her own wrapped around his neck tightly.

“Want to try it out?”

“Yes! I need to take this sexual frustration out somehow and punching people is a great way.”

“Okay, now you have to dish while you change.”

“Wouldn't dream of anything else.”

**

Lena tosses her purse on the counter of the kitchenette. She changed hotels after bringing the random girl home the first night. Better safe than having paparazzi knowing where she was or having a stilted woman showing up over and over. The master suite was simple. Definitely made for extended stays with a full fridge, stovetop, microwave, and dishwasher. It had a quite large and comfortable couch and a flat-screen TV. The king-sized bed felt like she was sleeping on a cloud the night before.

Lena decides to take a nice long bath in the large tub in the bathroom. The hotel had even supplied lavender bubble bath which Lena was more than happy to use. As she poured the liquid into the running water she realized it was a scent that she had been smelling all evening. Kara wore something with lavender. That reminder just ignited the heat between her legs that had managed to cool off on the cab ride back to the hotel.

Quickly Lena slips off the robe she had put on while filling the bath and slides slowly into the nearly scalding water. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the rim of the tub. Kara is behind her eyelids. Smiling at her book at the coffee shop. Then babbling in the park as the sweat drips down her forehead. Her taut stomach still heaving from the exertion of her run. Oh, those abs. Then Kara is pushing her up against the wall of CatCo. Kara’s tongue is exploring her mouth and Kara’s hands are sliding down and begin to pull up Lena's dress. Nothing stops them this time.

Lena's hands make their own path, sliding against her wet skin, kneading at her breast., She rolls a nipple between two fingers. All the while, Kara is the new star of her fantasy. Kara's strong arms wrap around Lena and carry her to one of the couches they passed earlier. She doesn't bother to remove the dress, only hicking it up high enough to pull Lena’s underwear down. Kara’s lips leave Lena's mouth and begin to trail down her jaw, then her neck, sucking at her pulse point and causing Lena to gasp. One of Kara's hands knead Lena's breast and the other slides down, cupping her mound. Lena’s legs tighten around Kara's waist from where they were when Kara carried her. Slowly Kara dips her finger into her slit and begins circling the swollen bundle of nerves.

Lena can hear her own gasps reverberating around the bathroom as her hands play out what she so wished Kara was doing. Slipping a finger inside herself, she begins pumping in and out, a steady rhythm that will take her to the edge but won't allow her to fall over it. Lena loves the feeling and keeps herself there until her limbs shake and water sloshes out of the tub. With just a curl of her finger, her over sensitive body finally climaxes.

Lena relaxes into the still warm water, enjoying the after-effects of her release. After a few minutes, she hears her phone ringing in the other room. Jessica is the only one who calls her. With a sigh, Lena gets out and wraps the robe back around herself.

“Yes, Jessica?”

“How did it go?”

“Fine.” Lena can practically hear Jess roll her eyes.

“Lena you haven't dated since Jack. I want details.”

“Well, I'm currently talking to you so the night didn't end like I hoped.”

“Well, some people do actually wait a couple dates before jumping into bed with someone. How did the actual date go?”

“Really good. We ate at the Fusion place, walked around a bit, and I think we either bribed our way in or broke into CatCo Worldwide Media just so she could show me the view from Cat Grant’s office.”

“Wow, that's impressive. How did she manage that?”

“Her best friend works there and I guess he dabbles in hacking.”

“This girl must really like you. Are you going to tell her?”

“Like the idiot I am, I promised her I would. Besides she won't 'jump into bed’ with me unless I do.”

“Sarcasm noted and ignored. Just don't wait too long. I know you like having someone like you for you, but give her a chance to like all of you.”

“Do you enjoy being my mother?” Lens teases.

“We both know your mother doesn't give that great advice.” Lena laughs.

“Very true. I'll see you tomorrow Jess.”

“Yes. I'll meet you at ten for breakfast downstairs and we can go over your schedule this week, which reminds me, Cat wants an interview.”

“Jess I'm supposed to be off.”

“Don't whine. You are. Mostly. We will talk about it tomorrow.”

“Ugh! Goodnight Jess.”

“Goodnight Elena.”

Lena rolls her eyes as she hangs up. Putting on an old shirt and shorts she climbs into bed. She clicks on the TV for the background noise as she opens her notebook and stares at the lyrics she has been working in for the past couple of days. They were missing something and Lena was having trouble figuring out.

“Sources confirm that a standoff between members of Cadmus and National City's police force has escalated. Cadmus has captured a pair of unnamed detectives and is trying to leverage them for ten thousand dollars and safe passage.

The detectives are being held in the warehouse district. Police have the area surrounded. This just in. We have live footage from our helicopter.”

Lena looks up to the television. A bright spotlight shines down on flashing police lights. An obvious standstill has occurred. A small group of the gang, members who were slowly taking over National City, must have been stuck inside the building. Every way looked blocked by heavily armed police. This was going to end in bloodshed. Lena forgets her notebook in favor of turning up the volume.

As she watched, a lone figure sprints across the roof of a nearby building. Lena peers closer. She thinks it's the figure from the picture but the outfit is different. It doesn't just look a regular sweatshirt, though a hood still obscures the head and face.  

“We aren't sure what we are seeing here but it may just be the Vigilante.”

The figure shoots something across to the occupied building, it latches onto the side of the roof access doorway.  The figure ties off the other end and then soars the gap between the buildings. Lena feels her heart rate accelerate at the scene.

Just as fast as the figure appeared, it disappeared inside. The next few minutes were tense with anticipation. The helicopter couldn't see or hear anything that was happening inside. Suddenly there was movement on the ground. Police began moving into the warehouse, guns raised. On the roof, the hooded figure sprints out of the building. With a running leap, they pulled down the line they had attached earlier and swing out of sight. The helicopter tries to follow but the figure is gone. On the roof, police burst through the door, guns raised, searching for the vigilante.

“It has just been confirmed that both officers have been rescued and the five alleged members of Cadmus have been apprehended with minimal wounds and no casualties.”

Lena turns the television back down and flips to a new blank page of her notebook and begins to write.

**

“Well, at least we know the material works,” Winn says as he examines the bruise already forming on Kara's arm back in the van.

“You are a genius, Winn. Hacking those security cameras was amazing.”

“Yeah yeah. You both are pretty great.” The occupants of the van jump at the newcomer's voice.

“Alex,” Kara says, bracing for another fight.

“First, I'm glad you're okay. Second, what in the hell were you thinking? They were armed Kara!”

“I know, I got shot.” Concern passes over Alex's face as she steps inside to examine her sister.

“Relax. Winn is a genius and I'm only bruised. How’s Maggie?” Alex visually relaxes.

“She's okay. A black eye and a split lip. They put the zip ties on too tight and she has bruises on her wrists and ankles. She is very impressed by a certain Vigilante and her new outfit. Oh, and apparently she is calling herself Power Girl now.” Kara blushes and ducks her head.

“Well, they can't very well keep calling me The Vigilante.”

“And now they know your female. Earlier they weren't even sure about that.”

“They would have figured that out eventually.” Alex rolls her eyes.

“Nice suit Winn.” She finally acknowledges his presence. Winn gulps.

“Th-thank you, Agent Danvers.”

“Winn I'm not going to hurt you. But if anything happens to my sister, I will kill you and no one will ever know.” Winn swallows hard and nods vigorously.

“Now you two clear out. They are looking for you. Go home and lay low for the rest of the night.” Kara opens her mouth to argue.

“Not tonight Kara. Please just go home.

Kara nods and stands to hug her sister. Alex leaves without another word.

“You were on the news, you know?”

“Did you record it?”

“Of course.” Winn reaches over to hit play on one of his computers.

**

August 7th, 2017

Blurred eagle eye images of the Vigilante are everywhere. Newspapers, magazines, posters. Some calling for her arrest, some wanting to reward her. Her. One interview with Detective Maggie Sawyer names her Power Girl. Detective Sawyer was one of the hostages in the standoff the night before. Rescued by the masked crusader in an impressive show of heroism. Police scour hospitals for gunshot victims because the detective said the Power Girl had been shot in the shoulder during the confrontation. When only male victims were found, rumors began to circulate that Power Girl was bulletproof.

Lena laughed at that while she sat on the park bench reading the paper. A couple of kids walking past were debating the truth in the rumor. The sweatshirt was becoming unnecessary as the sun rose but it was helpful in hiding who she was, no one would expect Lena Luthor to be wearing shorts, an MIT sweatshirt, hair in a messy bun and glasses. Most people tended to forget she had a masters in Nuclear Science and Engineering from there. Not that she had stayed current on any of that over the past five years. It had mostly just been the biggest 'fuck you’ Lena was able to give Lillian. She did everything Lillian wanted until she turned eighteen and then after that, she did nothing Lillian wanted.

Lena flipped to the next page, the gossip column saying she was spotted somewhere in Mexico for her two-week vacation. If only people knew how much she hated that intense sunlight and unrelenting heat, they would never guess she was there.

“What coincidence, seeing you in the park I told you just yesterday is a regular running place for me.” Lena smiles but doesn't look up.

“Well if it's the only way I'll see you shirtless.”

“Then you'll be disappointed today,” Kara says as she sits down next to Lena on the park bench.

With a frown, Lena looks over at her. Sure enough, Kara is wearing a faded t-shirt and running shorts. Her phone is strapped to her arm with headphones drooped over her shoulders. Sweat glistens on her skin, evidence of her long run. Kara spreads herself out on the bench, arms wrapped over the back and everything. If a man were doing it Lena is sure she would be annoyed but the look on Kara was very pleasing.

“This is rather disappointing. Guess I'll just go back to reading then.”

“Yeah Elena, you should catch up on that news about Power Girl. Definitely not at all embellished.” Kara says sarcastically as she glances at the front of the page.

“Every story has a kernel of truth. I watched what happened last night anyway.”

“You were up? It was like three in the morning. Why were you up?

“I uh… took a bath after our wonderful two dates and then I was doing some umm… paperwork. I have never slept much anyway.”

“I don't think you're telling me the whole story but 'every story has a kernel of truth.’” Lena feels heat flush her cheeks.

“I'll tell you about my paperwork later.”

“I'm holding you to that. Now, for our fourth date, I wondered if you wanted to come to this charity fight I have this afternoon. We can get dinner after.”

“I get to watch you kick someone's ass? For charity?”

“Bonus, I am typically shirtless during such fights.”

“Oh, I am so there, but only if I can buy the winner dinner.”

“Agreed, but only if you understand that this will be our fourth date and I am no longer going to hide how much I can eat, especially after a fight.” Lena pretends to ponder that.

“Well with my job I should be able to afford it.”

“Oh, you have no idea what you are promising.”

“I'll be fine Kara.” Lena laughs.

“Okay… I'll text you the address.”

“Okay, but Kara I thought you were done fighting?”

“I am, but it's for a good cause. Much less intense.”

“What's the cause?”

“Children's Hospital, I think.”

“All right. Text me the time and place.” Kara leans over and presses a quick kiss to Lena's cheek.

“Goodbye Elena, you look beautiful by the way.” Then Kara is jogging away before Lena can respond.

Lena's fingers press softly to the burning Kara’s lips left. Lena was feeling again, and it was scaring the hell out of her.

**

The room is actually pretty packed. Lena remembered to grab some cash for dinner and her checkbook to donate. Luckily admission was a pay as you see fit thing so Lena made out a check to the charity and folded it in half, hiding her signature, before stuffing it in the jar at the entrance. She always was a sucker for children's charities. With so many people together, Lena opted to wear a ball cap also, hoping it was inconspicuous enough.

“Elena!” Lena turns to see Winn jogging through the crowd towards her.

“Oh, hi. Winn right?” She asks when he gets to her.

“Yeah, I was trying to get your attention across the room. Kara's getting ready but she asked us to look out for you.”

“Us?”

“Me, Alex, and James.”

“Alex? Her sister?” The name comes out as a squeak. Lena didn't know she was going to be meeting Kara’s friends, let alone her sister.

“Oh yeah,” Winn says as he leads Lena through the crowd.

“Seeing as how Kara didn't warn you her sister would be here, just a heads up, Alex is also a very intimidating FBI agent.”

“Wonderful…” Lena mumbles under her breath.

They get to the side of the caged-in hexagon ring. Two seats are open right up front next to a red-haired woman and a slightly intimidating black man.

“Hey guys, this is Elena. Elena, this is James and Alex.”

James stands and holds out his hand for Lena to shake. His grip is almost too tight for comfort but Lena just marks it down to his size because he towers over her. Alex stands a little more slowly and reaches out also.

“So you are the girl my sister won't shut up about.” Lena blushes as she sits. Alex purposefully changes seats to sit right next to her.

“Ah, I guess,” Lena says, trying to figure out what to say. Winn was right, Alex was intimidating. Her eyes looked like they were looking for every weakness in Lena's already weak disguise. She feels the heat creep into her cheeks as she tries to ignore Alex’s probing eyes.

“I feel like I've seen you somewhere before.”

“That's what I said!” Winn says a little too enthusiastically from Alex’s other side.

“I guess I just have one of those faces.” Lena's automatic response.

“Yeah…” Alex is unconvinced.

“So, I've never been to something like this. How long do they last?” All three laugh. Lena looks at them with confusion.

“It's a charity thing so it will only be about fifteen minutes. Three, three-minute rounds. But that also depends on how out of practice Kara is. It's just someone Kara used to train before they got signed last year who asked her to do this but she hasn't been in an actual match in for about four years.” James says.

“Since the accident?” Alex looks at Lena, a little shocked.

“Umm.. yeah. I mean she sparred with her students but nothing with an audience.”

“Will she be okay?” Lena asks, suddenly concerned.

“Well, I think she will be now. I think she wanted to show off for you.” Winn chimes in.

“I'm going to get something to drink.” James stands suddenly and disappears.

“That was weird,” Winn says, watching him go.

“So Elena, what do you do for a living? Kara hasn't told me.” Alex asks.

“That's because Kara doesn't know. I umm… I promised I would tell her on our fifth date.”

“Why is that? Are you some sort of secret agent? Alex knows all about that, being all FBI and stuff.” Winn blabbers out, Lena now seeing how he and Kara could be such good friends. Lena laughs.

“No, nothing like that. And nothing illegal.” She puts in, looking at Alex.

“My job, it's something hard for people to deal with, who I really am. And I just want to see if this, whatever it is, is real first. I hope you understand that and don't try to go digging or do something FBI-ish.”

Alex looks at Lena for a very long time. Then she nods slightly. Lena let's out a breath she didn't know she was holding and faces forward to wait for the match to start. James returns with four waters and a bag of popcorn to share.

Alex begins giving Lena a rundown of the basic rules. Different hits get points which three different judges score over the three rounds. There is a minute break between rounds. She starts listing some of the fouls while Lena tries to remember everything. Soon a man in a nice suit and a microphone stands in the center of the ring. A cheer erupts around the crowded bleachers surrounding the ring.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Everyone! Tonight we have a special event for you. Now as you know, all of tonight's profits will be going to National City's Children’s Research Hospital. So please, buy merchandise and food. If you feel so inclined you can donate back at the door as you leave as well. Now, back to the main event. In the Blue corner, in her first fight in her hometown, we have Leslie Willis aka Livewire!” The announcer's voice booms over the sound system, cheers erupted as a woman with bleach blonde hair tied in a braid comes down one of the isles.

She is intimidating. Twin lightning bolts are tattooed on her for arms, matching the storm of electricity crisscrossing on the under armor shirt.

“Kara trained her?” Lena leans over to yell in Alex's ear over the noise.

“Yeah. She likes to go by Livewire. Don't ask me why. Her and Kara have this like frenemies vibe after Leslie signed on with Kara's old coach. Leslie asked her to do this fight for good publicity after Leslie knocked out a bouncer at a club.”

“Kara has a very interesting life,” Lena says and Winn laughs.

“You don't know the half of it.” Alex elbows Winn in the stomach and it sounds painful. James actual looks confused.

“Don't mind Winn. He gets excited about new comic books, everything is interesting to him.” The announcer interrupts any further comments.

“In the red corner, agreeing to leave her retirement for this one night only, our very own, Kara Danvers, aka Maiden of Might!” The crowd roars their approval. Lena laughs.

“Maiden of Might?”

“Yeah, that was all Cat Grant after her first interview. Said she was like an innocent role model to young girls everywhere or some shit. She was never able to shake it and secretly I think Kara likes it.”

Kara walks down the aisle by James. She was shirtless and Lena feels like her brain might fry. A black and blue sports bra with black spandex and matching black and blue gloves is all she wears. Her hair is pulled back tight in a braid. No glasses. Lena can't believe how great Kara looks without glasses. A bruise is blossoming in her right arm, probably from some misplaced training punch.

The announcer begins laying down the basic parameters for the fight that Alex had already listed for Lena. James stands up and helps Kara get ready. He seems to be giving her a pep talk that Lena can't hear over the buzz of the crowd. Then Kara spots Lena and grins, the effect slightly off-putting from her blue and red mouth guard. That doesn't stop Lena from smiling back.

The announcer calls for the women to enter the ring and Kara winks at Lena before climbing into the platform and through the gate. James closes it behind her. Both women pace, eyeing each other. A referee enters the ring, then indicates the start of the match, a bell rings. The sound of the crowd is deafening.

Each woman begins to circle the other, occasionally throwing a jab and then jumping back. Lena can already feel herself on the edge of her seat. The announcer is roaring his commentary over the speakers.

“Kara jabs right. Leslie has a nice block. Both are looking for a break in the others guard. Leslie shoots for the leg. Kara is pinned against the cage, off-balance but has a good grip on Leslie's torso. Kara's leg is free but she is still pinned to the cage…”

The man keeps up a constant stream of words. Apprehension builds in Lena's chest. Kara knees Leslie's in the stomach twice, then twists out of her grip. They circle again. Leslie shoots for Kara's legs again, but she dances away. As soon as Leslie hits the ground, Kara jumps in her. She gets two blows to Leslie's head before the other woman blocks. Leslie jerks up her knee and hits Kara in the back. It knocks Kara off balance enough for Leslie to throw her off and roll away. Quickly, they both jump to their feet. After a few more exchanged blows, Kara gets in one more blow to Leslie's stomach before a bell rings.

James jumps up and meets Kara at the gate. He begins toweling her down and squirts water into her mouth. She nods at whatever he is saying.

“Kara may have won that round. But she spent a long time pinned to the cage.” Alex tells Lena.

James jumps back down just as the bell rings again.

“I know she's been coaching but man it's like she hasn't missed a day.”

“Yeah, she is doing great.” Winn laughs nervously.

Back in the ring, they circle again. Leslie tries to throw a punch, Kara steps back, grabs Leslie's arm and uses the forward motion against her. With little effort, Kara basically throws Leslie into the fence. The woman recovers quickly. Just in time for Kara’s fist to connect with her nose. Blood explodes across Kara's torso as Leslie’s nose clearly breaks. Kara knees her in the stomach and Leslie stumbles away as quickly as she can. Then she dives for Kara and wraps around her torso. The extra weight makes Kara fall against the cage and struggles to escape.

After a few more tense moments, the bell rings. James hops up like the first time and tries to get Leslie's blood off her. Across the ring, Lena can see Leslie's coaches trying to stop the bleeding.

“Should she be fighting like that?” Lena asks.

“Yeah as long as she stays conscious. It doesn't look like a bad break, it can probably be reset after the match.”  Alex says, watching her sister carefully as James gives her more water.

“Last round. But I think Leslie will have to score major points to win at this point.” Alex almost mumbles to herself.

The bell chimes again. Leslie attacks much more aggressively this time. Her exhaustion and pain make her sloppy though. Kara easily evades and blocks. Another sloppy punch. Faster than lean can blink, Kara spins and kicks high. Her foot connects with Leslie's head. Leslie goes down instantly. Kara falls on her and gets in one more punch before the referee pulls her off. Leslie is already coming back around but the ref holds Kara off. The bell rings as Leslie climbs to her feet again. Both women are sent to the corners they started in. Lena can see the judges talking.

“Now they are comparing scores. They’ll announce the winner in a second.” Lena is thankful for Alex keeping her in the know.

Sure enough, soon the referee and the announcer are back on stage. The ref, with one of Kara's hands and one of Leslie's in his own, stands center mat.

“Remember ladies and gentlemen. This was a charity match, so the real winners here are the children. But enough if that. It's unanimous. The winner of today's match is… Kara Danvers!” Cheers erupt but Lena can hear a few boos mixed in. The two women shake hands, Leslie's nose still bleeding. Then Kara raises both fists and James jumps up to celebrate with her. He lifts her in a huge bear hug, heedless of sweat and blood.

Finally, the two join those on the ground and Winn and Alex both hug Kara. Then Kara turns to Lena.

“So what did you think?”

“That was… intense. I'm really glad you won. I would hate to have to take Livewire to dinner.” Lena teases. As if on cue, Kara's stomach growls.

“Speaking of which…” everyone laughs.

“Come on Elena. I'll show you around. I have to shower real quick and change but then we can go get food.” Kara strips off her gloves and intertwines her fingers in Lena’s. Weaving her way through the dispersing crowd, accepting congratulations as they go.

Kara leads Lena into a hallway and then into a small locker room. Lena barely has time to take in the new room before Kara has her pinned up against the cold metal lockers, lips pressed against hers. Lena feels her hands settle on Kara's waist as Kara's hands cup either side of her head.  It's over almost as quickly as it began.

“God, I wanted to do that since I saw you,” Kara whispers, her breath hitting Lena's lips with how close she is still pressed.

“Well, I wouldn't have objected to it earlier.”

“Ugh, my sister was there. Plus I'm not too fond of PDA.”

“But that's always the fun part.”

Kara doesn't respond but kisses her again, deeply. Their the tongues mingle across one another. Lena's fingers trail across Kara's exposed abs and Kara pulls away again.

“Okay seriously, I have to shower. Wait here I'll just be two minutes.”

“Or I could come with you. Lena teases. Kara looks like she is seriously considering it, then she shakes her head.

“Nope. Two minutes. Then I'll give you a tour of the gym and we can go get dinner.” Lena sighs as Kara pulls away. She quickly grabs clothes from a locker and disappears back through another doorway. Lena can hear the water turn on and tries very hard not to visualize Kara. Lena makes a decision then to tell Kara tomorrow. She pulls out her phone to call Jessica.

“Hey, boss.”

“Jess we both know you're bossier than me.”

“But it's your name on my paychecks.” Lena laughs.

“True. Also, I need you to do something for me.”

“You're the boss.”

“Can you rent me a studio somewhere in the city tomorrow?”

“Recording new material?”

“Yes. But I'm going to tell her.”

“You were serious.”

“Yeah, I am. Jess this girl is so good. I'm afraid I'm going fuck it all up.”

“You probably will. But I'm not going to let you run away from this if it's something real. I haven't seen you write as much in the past four months as you have in the past two days.”

Lena hears the water turn off.

“Okay, I’ve got to go. Just rent me a studio somewhere, I'm sure there’s one in this city.”

“Will do boss.” Lena rolls her eyes as the line goes dead.

Kara appears then. Her hair up in a bun and glasses on her face. Lena laughs. Kara is back to wearing a cardigan, this time a light blue one, over a white shirt and khaki capris and flats. She cocks her head to the side.

“What's so funny?”

“Just you. Literally fifteen minutes ago you knocked someone unconscious. Now you look like a librarian.” Kara blushes and tries to respond.

“Don't worry. It's cute. Just gives me a little bit of whiplash.” Kara grins.

“So my sister and friends want to have dinner with us. You can totally say no and I'll tell them to buzz off but…”

“You want me to say no to your scary FBI sister, who by the way I didn't know I was meeting today.” Kara blushes again as she moves to tangle her fingers in Lena's.

“Sorry, guess I should have warned you. Alex wasn't supposed to come originally but she finished her case early.” They begin wandering through the halls of the building. It looks like a multi-purpose gym. A room with bikes, one with weights and various machines, they even passed by a pool with lanes.

“Okay, we can go get dinner with your friends and sister.” Kara kisses her cheek.

“This still counts as a date though, right?”

“Am I still paying?”

“Boy, I hope so.”

“Then I guess so.” Kara squeals and kisses her.

Someone clears their throat. Lena and Kara had wandered back into the gym. Now almost empty except for the janitorial staff and the three people waiting on them. Kara pulls away with another blush but doesn't drop Lena's hand.

“Hey, guys, ready for dinner?” Kara tries and fails for nonchalant.

They go to a restaurant downtown. The restaurant side of it is packed so they sit on the bar side and order off the bar menu. Mostly it's all deep-fried appetizers. Kara orders about three for herself. The other three order nachos to share. Lena gets a salad, earning stares from all around the table.

“My trainer would kill me if I ate all the deep-fried food.” She says in response to the staring.

“Now we really need to know what you do,” Winn says.

“Not today. Trust me. I'm sure Kara will tell you as soon as I tell her.”

“Anyway, James, how did your article on the docks finish up?” Kara tries to change the subject.

“Well, I was down there during the standoff. I almost got a picture of the Vigilante but she is fast.”

“Don't you mean Power Girl? That's what they started calling her isn't it?” Lena asks.

“Yeah sure. But I think she has someone helping her. I went in after the police cleared out the warehouse to take some pictures. There are way too many blind corners in there for one person to move so smoothly through five guys.” Kara laughs.

“So, you think she has a sidekick or something?”

“No. Not a sidekick. But someone who helps direct her where she needs to be.”

“James I thought your article was on smuggling. Not on vigilantes.” Kara says.

“It is. But Cadmus was doing the smuggling and Power Girl is like on a crusade against them.”

“I don't know James. It could be dangerous getting that close.” Kara says, Alex starts to cough after taking a sip of her water.

“Sorry, swallowed funny.” She manages to choke out.

“I'll be fine Kara. It's part of my job.”

“I don't like it. You were already mugged back in Metropolis.”

“Which is why I am taking lessons with you.”

“That doesn't stop bullets.”

Lena grips Kara's hand under the table to stop her.

“Kara, it's his job. I believe James here knows when to back out of a bad situation. He doesn't seem like a reckless person. I know I've only known him for two hours but I've read his articles and seen the pictures. He does a good job at providing hope in a time where there is very little.”

“Thank you, Elena. See Kara. Now can we drop this?”

“Fine. I've said my opinion.” Kara sits back, sulking. Then her eyes light up as she sees the small stage in the corner being set up.

“I forgot! It's karaoke night!” Kara all but yells. Groans are heard all around the table.

“Elena you have to sing with me.” Kara looks directly at her as dread fills Lena's chest.

“No sorry, I don't sing.”

“Please…” Kara whines. Lena almost gives in, sure she would give Kara the moon if she asked like that.

“I-I can't Kara. No.” Kara looks like a scolded puppy and Lena has yes on the tip of her tongue.

“Kara we can't all sound like angels who fell from the sky.” Alex saves Lena.

“But it's so much fun.”

“It's okay Kara. I'll sing with you.” Winn pipes up. That makes Kara smile.

Soon their food arrives. Lena contentedly eats her salad as the group of friends converse easily. She has to do it left-handed though, Kara refused to let go of her right one, as if worried Lena will run as soon as she does.

The whole thing is a little surreal for Lena. How this is someone's daily life is beyond her. This may also be the longest she's been completely sober in years. She hadn't even thought about drinking or smoking one of the joints in her hotel room since Saturday. Was that right? Was her date with Kara only last night?

“Hey, Elena? Are you okay?” Lena didn't realize she had stopped listing until Kara squeezed her hand.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, just thinking.”

“Okay, well Winn and I are going to go sign up for Karaoke. Last chance to come with.” Kara wiggles her eyebrows and it makes Lena laugh.

“I'm good.” Kara shrugs and follows Winn to where people were signing up. James heads to the bar to grab another beer.

“Are you really okay? I mean you really zoned out there.” The concern in Alex’s voice is surprising.

“Yeah. Actually better than I have been in a long time, which basically has me wondering how I could screw something up.” Alex’s face goes soft.

“Well, Kara seems to really like you but…” Alex glances around.

“Hurt her and I can make you disappear and no one will ever know.” That makes Lena laugh.

“Trust me. It would be noticed if I disappeared. But I'll take the warning seriously from an FBI agent.” Alex is about to say something else when Kara and Winn come back.

“Okay! Winn and I are third with our wonderful duet.”

“What are you singing?” Lena asks.

“You'll see,” Kara says as she digs back into her second plate of mozzarella sticks.

Lena is really glad she decided on bringing plenty of cash. Kara wasn't kidding when she said she could eat. James returns with another beer for himself and Alex. Winn sucks down some sort of fizzy orange liquid while Kara plays with Lena's fingers. Lena was realizing that Kara was a very tactile person, which was weird because Lena wasn't but with Kara, it felt so right.

After two poorly done renditions of songs Lena barely knows, Kara and Winn practically run to the stage. When the music starts to play Alex groans. Lena looks at her in question.

“They love this song. They even have a little dance routine and everything.”

Sure enough, as Don't Go Breaking My Heart plays and Winn and Kara sing, they dance. They are both really good too. Lena is impressed.

“They were both in show choir together in high school. They also did the musical every year.” Alex explains as they watch the pair having a ball on the small stage in the overcrowded bar. At the end of the song, there is applause from all around the room and even a couple whistles. The friends return to the table breathless and grinning.

Lena excuses herself to the restroom but actually grabs their waitress on the way. She pays for everyone's food and James and Alex’s bar tab before returning to the table. After a few more minutes, Alex starts looking for their server.

“Don't worry. I already took care of it.” Protests sound around the table of how she shouldn't have.

“It's the least I can do. You guys have been great to get to know today. The bar tab is taken care of too.”

“Elena…” James tries to start.

“Nope don't worry about it.”

Lena is saved more protests by Alex's phone ringing. It's a short serious conversation.

“Well thank you, Elena. I have to go to work. I'll see you guys later.”

“Yeah I should go too, I have to hit the streets.” James follows Alex through the crowd.

“Well I guess that's my cue to leave so that you two can have an actual date,” Winn says as he slurps down the last of his drink.

“Hey Winn, call you later?” Winn grins.

“Sure thing. I'll be… browsing the web.” Kara nods as Winn follows the other two out the door.

“So…” Kara says, turning to Lena.

“So…” Lena raises an eyebrow.

“What did you think?”

“Of what? You beating someone up? Or you sounding like an angel on stage.” Kara grins.

“About my sister mostly.”

“She's pretty scary. But she cares about you. And so doesn't Winn. Have you two really been friends since high school?”

“Yup. I saved him from being shut in a locker. I had been taking fighting classes since the Danvers adopted me so I went all Karate Kid on those bullies. What about James?”

“I don't think James likes me. He kept avoiding my eyes and only talked to me like twice.”

“Yeah, that may be partially my fault. James kind of asked me out right after I asked you out so I shot him down. He seemed cool but I think it's a little weird for him.”

“Why didn't you tell me that? Winn was all teasing about you showing off for me at the match.”

“Well, I kinda was. It's been a while since I had an actual match so I knew I couldn't lose if I had a pretty girl to flex for.”

“Dammit, Kara. Now I'm thinking about your muscles. Do you enjoy leaving me sexually frustrated?”

“Definitely. Your eyes do this thing where I can see little flecks of green behind the brown when I get you all hot and bothered.”

“Hot and bothered? How old are you?” Kara just shrugs.

“Come on. Let's let someone else have this table. We can go for a walk before I kiss you goodnight.”

“My hotel isn't far from here. We can walk that way. Don't worry this isn't me trying to take you home. I think I respect you too much for that.”

“You think?”

“Those abs are very tempting.” Kara just laughs and grabs Lena's hand and pulls her through the growing crowd.

Outside, the fresh air is a welcome relief. The heat of summer has subsided and is replaced with street lights and a light breeze.

“So are you free tomorrow?” Lena asks.

“I am after two. I am coaching some self-defense classes at National City High. It's just during their gym periods so it's scattered throughout the day.”

“Wow, that's, really cool actually. Is it because of everything I read that's going on?”

“Yeah. It will just be basic stuff but hopefully, it can save someone someday. Well hopefully it won't be necessary but I feel better doing something.”

“I get that. So I'm going to be working all day but I did promise to tell you what I did. Does it count as a fifth date if you watch me work?” Kara grins.

“It sure does. Do I get to know where?”

“No spoilers. I have to rent some space in the city so I'll text you the address tomorrow. You won't be able to tell anyway because it's a building with like thirty different companies in it.” Jess had texted her that much earlier  Kara sighs but squeezes Lena’s hand and nods.

Lena pulls Kara to a stop outside her hotel. Kara looks at the sign and then to Lena. Her jaw working as she tries to say something.

“Kara?”

“This is the Hyatt. The premier hotel in National City.”

“Yes…”

“Elena…”

“It will make sense tomorrow Kara. For now, will you kiss me goodnight?”

That brings Kara out of her struggle and she presses her lips to Lena's. Lena can still feel the gears turning behind Kara's eyes, even as they close. It makes the kiss much less heated, not that Lena would need the heat tonight. She was already feeling slightly guilty for using Kara in her fantasy last night. Kara was so pure that it almost made Lena feel dirty… God Lena had to stop those thoughts. When Kara broke the kiss, Lena smiled softly.

“Just remember when I tell you the truth, I did all that I did because ever since I met you, you broke all my rules. I wanted to make sure that this, whatever this is, is real. I…”

“Elena, goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow. I like you and I'm sure nothing will change that. Well unless you're some sort of bigtime drug lord because you are obviously loaded.” Lena laughs nervously.

“No my job is nothing illegal. Goodnight Kara Danvers.” Lena walks inside, glancing over her shoulder at Kara as the doorman opens it for her.

[creative-horror-network]

The Fog Report - Los Angeles Haunted Hayride 2019

Welcome back, intrepid listeners! The season is drawing to a close but that hasn’t deterred me from hitting a third haunted locale, although in this one the haze you’re walking through is less fog and more kicked-up dust. Probably has something to do with that weird-looking fairground tucked away in the trees there…

Started in 2009, the Los Angeles Haunted Hayride has taken up residence in Griffith Park, in and around the grounds of the Old LA Zoo. Already a fairly eerie place with its trails past abandoned enclosures and cages, the Hayride has consistently utilized the environment to create terrifying tableaus and vignettes, seen and experienced from a tractor-pulled trailer - something done for Halloween in many other parts of the country but a relative oddity in the big city. Though its themes have shifted and changed over the years, this year new owners Thirteenth Floor Entertainment have given the Hayride a unifying story and a setting from which to place their event: a cursed town called Midnight Falls.

Anyone who has read my last two articles about Dark Harbor and Knott’s Scary Farm (or who just knows me in general) should guess why this alone finally pulled me to the event. This was my first ever visit to the Haunted Hayride, so my expectations were not so effected by previous years; it’s all fresh eyes and raw opinion here.

The Event

Before I even get to the venue itself, can I just say how enjoyable just the walk there was? Unless you’re parked in one of the upper lots, you’ve got a little bit of a trek through a nighttime park ahead of you, and I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said this was “tucked away.” in the wilderness. The natural darkness and night noises certainly helped me get into the mood as I trudged up the path and saw the flickering orange glow in the distance.

Once you do get there, you find yourself in the town square of Midnight Falls in the midst of its 13th annual Halloween Festival, 1985. The Hayride itself, as well as three mazes, several concessions and a handful of slight-up charge escape rooms can all be accessed from here, but as a zone in itself the town square is well worth wandering around in. The roaming monsters - townsfolk who have been cursed but seem to be in good spirits - are more interactive and funny than outright scary, engaging visitors with humor and giving Midnight Falls the character of a cheesy 80s horror-comedy. Each character is an archetype of the era and each is a very distinct, from a jock werewolf to a hook-nosed Miss Midnight Falls to a snappy goblin server from the local diner (hi Reggie!), just to name a few of the myriad citizens.

This feels like a genuinely happy medium between the heavy thematic elements of Knott’s and the party atmosphere of Dark Harbor. You’re at an in-universe fair, and they play that up without it detracting from the scarier elements. It certainly evokes the spirit of a local Halloween: I spent a good chunk of my teenage years in the small mountain town of Idyllwild, and they also have (had?) a Halloween carnival, so I can say big props for reminding me of that feeling. Couple that with the amount of atmosphere and the commitment of the actors in their improv with guests and each other, and you have a nicely immersive, if tongue-in-cheek, experience.

It’s also good to know that the event is small, considering what it actually offers. The night I visited I managed to get there right around opening and was able to get through most everything in two hours. That doesn’t mean its not worth visiting, but don’t expect a marathon session like a theme park haunt.

The Hayride

As stated before, the hayride is the namesake and main draw of the event, a chance for Angelenos to board a hay wagon (and sit in real honest-to-goodness hay) and take a ride through the Old Zoo, now the outskirts and foothills of Midnight Falls. This attraction is presented as a sort of weird origin-story, demonstrating how the land fell under the Halloween hex and riders in the midst of it happening.

This is a wholly different kind of trip than one would make on foot through a maze, and is a proper ride in every sense, with each scene being staged in such a way that it only transpires as the hayride passes. The main ingredient is the live actors lurking in the dark that rush at the trailer and menace the riders, usually after a theatrical beat in a scene plays out, I’d never done anything like this before and it was honestly impressive, each scene having its fair share of startling surprises: highlights for me were a ghostly girl leaping from a cliff (possibly reenacting a suicide), a werewolf gang unleashed from some of the old animal cages, a amorous couple in a convertible being mauled by a Sasquatch, a close encounter with a ghost train, and a giant spider emerging from a stone structure.

I wasn’t able to take any picture while on the hayride, mainly out of respect for not ruining the moment and trying to present for it. Trust me when I say that even if the scenes seem a little cheesy, the fact that they’re part of this spooky hayride experience makes it fun. I actually feel like this is a decent entry point for people leery about going to a haunt, as it struck me as being less intense than being in the midst of a maze. Pro tip for first-timers: sit in the middle. The folks on the left and right get all the attention, so the heat’s off if you stick to the center.

The Mazes

As an added bonus, Midnight Falls has three mazes as part of its spooky neighborhood. Each is fairly short but exceptionally well put together for something built in the middle of Griffith Park, and I walked away from each fairly impressed.

The first maze I visited, Midnight Mortuary, takes you through the town’s funeral home, its backyard, morgue and chapel. The monsters here are a mix of the ghoulish staff and some goat-masked figures in white robes; perhaps a cult of some kind? More Victorian Gothic than grisly and gory, creative use of space and good set design are strong in this maze, and the startling finale helps put the random goat-people’s presence into perspective.

My favorite maze was definitely Trick or Treat, simulating a trip through a Midnight Falls neighborhood where every house has a resident surprise. This outdoor maze is unique because anyone visiting can actually ring the doorbells of the houses to see what wacky scare emerges. Since almost all the scares are guest-driven, the reward for courage comes when most of the monsters give you real candy! It’s a cute detail, and it really plays on the horror-camp and the tropes of Halloween: my favorite bit is the Devil-themed “home haunt” at the end that looks like some earnest kid built a strobe-light maze through their yard and garage. Big props for creativity.

Rounding out the three is Roadkill Ranch, ensuring no meat goes to waste in Midnight Falls… because if it’s good enough for your tires, it’s good enough for their fryers. While the effort was there, I’m personally very tired of the bloody Hellbilly theme for mazes as a whole, so this one did not really impress me. It did have some choice scare moments and a good strawbale layout in the back of it, making you weave through while masked ranchers hid in the dark, but I just think the trope has been done to death.

Final Thoughts

Though small in stature, the LA Haunted Hayride is big on personality and dark charm, offering a main attraction that isn’t offered anywhere nearby and a collection of scary sides to go along with it. The overarching setting of Midnight Falls is a huge boon to the event, and I hope it sticks around for the foreseeable future, along with its cast of characters. I’d love to see what they can add to it if it continues to expand.

What gives this an edge for me and makes it stick out, even from its larger competitors, is the festive quality of the Hayride. Halloween is not just the backdrop of the season here for spooky stuff, it’s positively dripping with Halloween flavor. Not many haunts actually make the holiday their front-and-center, and I’m super grateful that this does. It’s hard not to feel spirit (pun intended) of All Hallows Eve here, and I didn’t realize how much I missed that kind of vibe until I was there.

If you’re local and you can make it, the LA Haunted Hayride is worth a visit. Come kill a couple hours here and feel a bit of that Halloween magic, both terror and humor - trick and treats, if you’ll pardon the expression. And hey, if you’re not anywhere near LA, go see if anyone near you is doing a haunted hayride. It might help kindle that jack-o’-lantern flame in your soul too.

Anyway, I’ve got a lot of Midnight Falls dust to brush off my clothes. Until next time, I’ll see you in the fog.

The Los Angeles Haunted Hayride runs most nights in October and every night during the last week until November 2nd, from 7 to 10:30 or 11pm depending on the night. More details and tickets can be found here.

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 28 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: I am really proud of and happy with this part; I cried like four times while I edited it. While I’m writing I can never really tell how my stuff is turning out; only reading over it later do I get a real feel for it, and this one made me feel some BIG emotions, which is always the goal with Duckenzie. As for the details, as usual: There are basically an infinite number of combinations of food you can put in tinfoil dinners; here’s 30 examples. The fire pit enclosure is built like this (but with brick instead of gravel), the copper pit itself looks sort of like this, but embedded in the pit. Obviously, both Duncan and Kenzie manifest Pyrokinesis in this part. In my AU, neither Kenzie nor Duncan are as powerful as their Michael/Mallory selves, as I mentioned before (more about that later); and Duncan’s right, Kenzie is more powerful than he is, and she always will be. ROCK A LITTLE is MY favorite of Stevie’s solo albums, so I made it Kenzie’s favorite, naturally. It’s wildly underrated in my eyes, an album with very strong feminine energy, and an incredible album to dance to (like Stevie, I think of Kenzie as always dancing). TALK TO ME is one of my favorite Stevie songs, period; it’s about the connection you have with someone when you can see who they really are, the assurance sent out that you love them unconditionally; of course it fits Duckenzie, because their love for each other is absolute. I also wanted to play on the idea of them needing to talk to each other out loud versus being able to really hear each other--that is, feel what the other is feeling--without words.The sound system built into the stone path is something like this. I cut Duncan’s dream off before Michael’s snow goes evil--I wanted the moments after they wake up from the dreams to be happy and sexy, but he will find out about his Michael!otherself soon enough, just as Kenzie will learn of her Mallory!otherself...very, very soon, in fact. I realized after I wrote this part that @spellman made a gifset awhile back featuring both of the scenes Duncan and Kenzie dream about, which is so perfect, here. I also really realized consciously for the first time that while Michael’s hair is blonde and Mallory’s chestnut-brown, my Kenzie’s is chestnut-blonde and Duncan’s is a russet-brown, which is sort of a lovely dichotomy between the two universes (I live for shit like that). Don’t worry, Kenzie’s going to get a ring (my dream ring asdhdjdgsh), but i wanted her initial acceptance of Duncan’s proposal to be more organic, and I’m so happy with it here--Duncan is ostensibly offering himself rather than anything material in that moment, which was SO important to me. Can’t wait to write the scene where Duncan calls Madeline Momby to her face for the first time. Soon. The next part is Big Cosmic Vibes and I can’t wait for everyone to read it. As ever, your asks, comments, likes, edits and reblogs mean everything to me.

Kenzie ran up the stairs towards the bedroom, heart hammering. What is that place. That place surrounded by black oaks, growing impossibly close together, so quietly, with no wind? Like a doorway. Like that hidden door that flew open for us when we met. It’s one of those places. There was one on that balcony that night; the roses, the solitude, the quiet beauty of that evening. That was a thin place too. I see that now. Duncan and I were meant to meet each other that way, in that thin place; to see each other. To recognize each other.

Because--what. We’re fucking Soulmates. I think that’s what it means. I don’t know. But I think so.

Kenzie pitched herself down to her suitcase, tossing it sideways, unzipping it in the fading light of the bedroom. The window was still open--the coming night was drifting in, tossing the tiny flowers in her hair. Kenzie thought of how Duncan had appeared in the doorway that afternoon; after he’d fucked her so passionately on the silken softness of this vast bed, left the loving marks of his attention on her--you have magic in you that you’ve only begun to discover, Duncan Shepherd. Together we are going to do something incredible, something we can’t see the exact shape of yet, but when we’re together I can feel the magic growing, like a tree that took root in the center of my body, and now it’s shooting up and its leaves are reaching through my arms and my throat and around my heart and filling my mind with their gold and every part of me is tingling with it, it’s like the way I feel when we fuck, it’s so beautiful and intense I can’t breathe. It’s the rightness of it that moves me so much. It’s the exact right thing. You, and the energy that is being stirred up between us. It’s our destiny.

She wrapped the grey cardigan around her shoulders and pulled out Duncan’s Brooks Brothers’ cardigan after it--for him. Let him wear it tonight, wrapped in the scent of me now, as once it smelled like him so much, comforting me when I told Momby I loved him. The tender way he wrapped it around me after that first night--I saw the promise in his eyes. Even then, I knew. We both did. 

Kenzie stood and gathered Duncan’s discarded shirt from its pile beside the bed, then flipped the slender copper standing lamp beside the door on before she left--it illuminated Cupid and Psyche in its rich glow. Kenzie stared at it, bathed in the soft light; her eyes drifted over the flowers in Cupid’s hair, sweet alyssum, a crown for a prince of beauty. My prince. Maybe someday we can hang this picture somewhere in the garden house.

Kenzie suddenly felt like crying. Fuck. I love him so much. Oh, Kenzie Lou. You must have really paid your dues in another life. Just be grateful for every minute, every second with him. Watch the wondrous way the light is kindling up in his soul. It’s so beautiful I could just die.

Kenzie started at the stop of the stairs, then stopped.

I wonder if I can do that. What Duncan did. Appear somewhere else.

She gathered the cardigan and Duncan’s shirt in her arms against her chest, tightly--then Kenzie closed her eyes, biting into her lip. The deck. I want to be on the deck. For a moment, there was nothing--the silence extended, nothing moved, there was no sound in the house but the whispering rattle of the summer wind upstairs through the open window; the softest calling of a loon out on the lake, far off.

And then, she shifted. And she felt the wind on her cheeks distinctly, could feel the change in the air; the richness of all the scents of nature. Kenzie opened her eyes. Duncan was coming through the deck door from inside, the fireside cooking kit under his arm, a long box of tinfoil atop it, and in his other hand a carefully-balanced serving plate of the cold chicken seasoned with lemon pepper, red chili pepper and garlic, raw carrots and celery and some of the little sweet peppers, also tossed in the seasoning and olive oil--Kenzie could see them glistening in the low light.

“Baby. I did it. I just did it.” Kenzie hopped on the heels of her sneakers, overcome; she clapped her hands and rushed to him, carefully gripping the bottom of the plate, setting it on the deck’s round wooden table. Duncan stared down at her, puzzled for a moment, then a dawning expression of understanding came into his eyes.

“You appeared down here. You moved. Like I can. Fuck.”

“Dunny. I bet you can do things I do, too. Try it. Try moving something.”

Duncan blew air out of his nose, set down the other things he was holding. “Okay.” He closed his eyes for a moment, held his palm out flat towards the serving tray. For a moment, one of the carrots shivered, then rolled; back and forth, as if pushed by a particularly strong gust of wind. Then as Kenzie’s eyes focused on it, it shot into Duncan’s palm, leaving a trail of olive oil along his skin. Duncan grinned at her, his blue eyes lifting up in the shadows that had begun to gather around them, flashing almost white; then he laughed in amazed wonder, throwing the carrot into his mouth and crunching it with a triumphant immediacy, and Kenzie hopped on her heels again, laughing with abandon, too.

“This is fucking amazing,” he whispered as he swallowed. His hair was wind-tossed, his expression achingly sincere; his eyes seemed to be an indigo sky with drifting, shadowed clouds. Kenzie ran to him and threw her arms around him; she could feel the goosebumps that covered him now, and immediately unfolded his shirt in her hands, pulling it around him--he slipped his arms through, his expression full of aching affection for her.

“And now it smells like me,” she added, gently holding out the black cardigan as Duncan worked at the shirt’s buttons. He took it from her, almost reverently, pulled his arms through it and as Kenzie watched, heart aching, he brought the sleeves up to his nose, closing his eyes.

“It really does. Since I can’t really fit into any of your other clothes, this is the next best thing.” He gathered her against him. Kenzie, my sweet little firefly. We can do magic. Can you feel that? The air is vibrating because of us. It’s coming from us. Kenzie buried her face in the softness of his shirt, gripping onto the edges of the cardigan, lost in the feeling of him; you’re so much bigger than me, my sweet Dunny, you’re so warm, you could be my blanket at night, my coat in the winter. You are. You’re my shelter from everything. And here are the tears again; tears forever and ever. I don’t think I’ll ever stop crying again.

“Kenzie, cry as long as you want to.” Duncan’s lips were at her ear, the night wind drifting as the sun began its final descent below the horizon. “You can always cry with me, baby. I love you. I’ll kiss every fucking tear.”

The fairy lights along the deck had come on, and there seemed to be a hundred of them, in dipping echelons all along the sides of the surrounding fence, lifting up to the lintels. Kenzie noticed tiny lamps, embedded in the ground along the sides of the stone path, for the first time; they extended all the way to the dock and encircled the gazebo. Duncan must have set the timer, Kenzie thought, and more tears leaked from her eyes. Baby, you’re so thoughtful. You remember all the little things I say even when I don’t realize you’re listening. Duncan didn’t speak, but she felt the drift of his reply: everything you say I hold close to my heart. I wish I could memorize all of it--I wish I could tattoo your sweet voice onto my skin. It’s heaven to listen to you and I feel blessed that you would chose me to be the one to hear the things you say.

Kenzie looked up from the halo of his arms, past his earnest, dark-sky eyes, her gaze drawn up in shock--with a little gasp she realized the stars were coming out in earnest now, their cascade immediate, overwhelming, and deeply clear already. Nothing hindered the sky here; Duncan had been right. None of the haziness of neon lights to impede nature’s opulent display of cosmic wonders; a billion pricks of light were bursting in heaven, each one with a story so vast and infinite, Kenzie knew, it was enough to make one sob. She bit into her lip, pressing her cheek into his warmth again, closing her eyes; fuck, baby, that’s too fucking beautiful, I can’t stand it. She felt his cheek fall against the top of her head, and his arms held her so tightly they seemed to be crushing the breath from her lungs, but she didn’t care, no, no, to be inside his arms this way was the sweetest of all things, and she wanted it to go on forever. The thought of him letting go of her now made her want to wail like she was a little girl, bereft from the loss of Momby holding her. Her tears began to wet the front of Duncan’s shirt--she tried to lean back, upset to sodden it, but he shook his cheek against her.

“It doesn’t matter, baby, it doesn’t matter--I love you, I love you--”

Kenzie sniffled, letting out a shuddering breath, breathing the deep jasmine of his clothing into her; then she murmured “I’m hungry, baby, and I want music.”

“Mhmm, Princess Kenzie.” Duncan leaned his face down to her, kissing her wet cheeks, her mouth with tiny, tickling, pecking kisses--soon Kenzie was laughing through her tears, unable to contemplate anything but the sweetness of his touch now. Her stomach rumbled; Duncan gently let go of her and turned back to the dinner supplies.

“In the corner there, baby, you’ll see there’s a stereo setup.” Duncan nodded to the left side of the sliding door that led back into the cabin as he began to pull out two long sheets of the tinfoil. “Put something on. You’ll see. There’re hidden speakers all along the path,” Duncan said, “--and some in the gazebo, too. The music will echo everywhere. You can even hear it out on the lake for a little ways.”

“I should have known you’d know how to make tinfoil dinners without me telling you,” Kenzie shook her head, stepping away from him to where outdoor stereo system was protected under an awning that seemed to have been built specifically for it--she pressed a round power button and a menu came up on the interface with endless options; Sirius XM, Spotify, Pandora, and a digital library of over 100,000 songs. “Never met a rich boy who could cook like you. Then again--I didn’t meet many rich boys before you. Not my crowd.”

“I’m the only good one. Most rich people are terrible. Take it from someone who’s been around them their entire life.”

“That’s exactly the sort of thing a rich boy would say, Mr. Shepherd.” She turned back to him, sticking her tongue out, wrinkling her nose. Duncan had a laugh playing around his mouth now, glancing between her and his work as he arranged their dinners carefully on the foil sheets, the cold chicken in the centers surrounded by the vegetables, wrapping up the edges, making two foil lids to place atop them. She went back to the stereo, opening Spotify, searching for a specific album.

“But you actually are good, baby,” she said, over her shoulder. “You’re so good it makes me want to scream, honestly--and the fact that you aren’t hiding it anymore is something you should be proud of. I remember this one interview I saw of yours on TV last year--oh god, this is funny to think about now, baby--but you were so stoic in it, I thought, god, he’s so fucking handsome, but he seems so cold. Well. Duncan Malcolm Shepherd: you’re a big faker.”

She looked back at him, smiling, playful. She could see the blush on his cheeks in the glow of the fairy lights, the admission on his face. You’re right, of course, baby.

“Guilty. I am. Or, well, I was. I was good at it, too.”

“I saw through you, right away. I never would have gone home with you otherwise.”

“I couldn’t believe it when you said you would. I was so fucking nervous, Kenz. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I wanted you. The minute I fucking laid my eyes on you. It was like being slapped in the face. My heart just--fucking stopped. Like I--I recognized you. Like I knew it was you.” Duncan was wiping his hands on a cloth napkin he’d tucked under the serving tray as Kenzie hit PLAY.

“This is my favorite of Stevie’s solo albums.” Kenzie came over to him, sitting at one of the deck chairs, its spindly finely-wrought metal reminding her of a throne. Duncan was taking the fireside cooking kit out of its box; he leaned over her to kiss her, and she lifted her hands up to this cheeks, holding him against her for a moment. I can’t wait...the first line echoed into an electronic wind-up--it rang out over the stone path and seemed to skim across the lakeshore, dancing off onto the serene surface of the water. Now that I love you…the riff of an electric guitar bled out, flitting away from them on the deck, down the lights, through the trees, and Kenzie rattled her head from side to side with the music, grinning now. Duncan dipped away from her, laughing at her. Love you love you love you--she could hear him humming against her mind, could feel the sincerity of him, like a mantra whispered into her ear.

“I’m gonna go get some wine,” she said, hopping up. He nodded, the portable stove-top under one arm, their wrapped dinners on the serving tray in the other. “Get that sauvignon blanc, baby--I think you’ll love that one.”

“It’s nice to have my own private sommelier,” Kenzie drolled, blowing a kiss towards him. Duncan made an overdramatic gesture of ardency, as though he’d been smacked in the chest with cupid’s arrow, pretending as though he were about to faint. Kenzie laughed delightedly. I love it when you’re like this with me. No walls up, unafraid, unworried. Just happy. She hopped up from the chair, watching him over her shoulder as he stepped carefully down to the fire pit on the brick inlet at the bottom of the stairs, admiring the curls at the back of his hair, the wideness of his shoulders, the smooth skin at the nape of his neck.

 Kenzie felt compelled to look above her again, at the radiant tapestry she knew was coming out there (the stars the stars galaxies the universe our universe, so vast in itself, so infinite), but forced herself on inside, through the sliding door at the ground level, to the side of the deck, closer to the kitchen. Soon we’ll lay under them and I’ll look for hours. I want to savor it. I want to wait a little bit longer before I really drink it in. I feel so overwhelmed--just getting to be alone together like this is a dream I never want to wake up from.

Kenzie moved through the side-room here, styled similarly to the front room; this alcove had several bookshelves, the books therein all of a similar, nature-oriented slant (she spotted Jack London and Henry David Thoreau as she walked past them), and another standing statue--this one was Artemis, her starry bow distinct, her hair tied back, a hound traipsing at her bare feet. Child of the moon; her only lover, Kenzie thought. To run always in the sweet embrace of the night--a night like this, but one that never ends. She could hear the music drifting in from the deck, Stevie’s distinct wail melting around her (well she dances around in circles, she’s got that feeling now)--the kitchen was half-lit by two identical, tiny lanterns that hung over the windows that looked out on the forest. Kenzie went to the picnic basket, now resting on the counter--Duncan had emptied it of their lunch and cleaned it--and pulled out two of the wine glasses, grasping one of the wine bottles that lined the lower shelf of the fridge (that sauvignon blanc--Duncan really does have excellent taste when it comes to wine, I’ve loved everything he’s picked out). She hesitated at the window, opening the wine with the bottle opener strapped to the top of the basket, looking out to where the dark pines dipped down. Her mind reached out to that circle of black oaks she knew lay just beyond. The gateway to another world.

She shivered, then made her way back outside.

The sharp smell of smoke on hickory hit her nose as she pulled the sliding door open with her elbow--Kenzie started with excitement as her eyes fell on the fire that now roared beyond the deck, its brilliant titian-white flaring up into the darkness. She could see Duncan standing to the side, illuminated in the light of it. He was staring down into it, standing beside the coppery basin of the firepit, his hand on his chin--he took her breath away for a moment, his expression serious and far-away, his blue eyes reflecting the licking flames with an eerie, ethereal beauty. There was something about him, silhouetted in the flames that way, that made her pause--stilled the excitement that had bubbled up in her, pressed strange apprehension into the corners of her mind--then it passed, as a vague dream, and Kenzie made her way down the steps, the wine and glasses in her hands.

“Shit, Dunny, you sure got that going fast,” she murmured, holding one of the glasses out to him. His eyes skirted to her--only then did Kenzie see the strange expression in them closely, the depth of his disbelief, his confusion. For a moment, they were both silent--the only sounds were the crackling fire, and Stevie’s soft voice--

No explanations and I tell you no...you say...nothing...that is how songs are written, stories are told, rumors are started...

“Kenzie.”

“Fuck, what is it, Duncan? What’s wrong?”

“I--the fire. I think I...I don’t know how I started the fire. I was piling the hickory in the pit and sort of, I dunno--thinking about the fire? I was thinking about it, imagining it. And then there was a fire. It was just--there. Kenz. It was just fucking there, flaring up like I’d doused the wood in gasoline and lit a match. Only I didn’t. All I did was think about fire.”

“Are you telling me you started the fire with your mind, Duncan?”

“Yes. Kenzie. Yes.”

Kenzie cupped her hand under his, which held the wine glass she’d handed him, limply. She dipped the bottle down into the rim, pouring until the glass was entirely full. Then she did the same for her own glass, setting the bottle on the round brick-lined slab of the pit’s outer enclosure.

“I wanna try.” 

Kenzie clinked her glass against his--as Duncan watched her, that confusion still in his fire-lit eyes, she gulped at the wine, draining it halfway. Then, Kenzie turned to where the portable cooking stove was sitting beside the pit, still unlit in Duncan’s distraction. She knelt down in front of it.

Fire, she thought, gathering the warmth she felt on her back from the pit, the flickering orange dancing at the corners of her vision. Fire. She imagined pulling elements out of the air--carbon dioxide, oxygen, nitrogen--whirling them together, combining them.

Then, the little stove was lit; she could see the blue flicker of the flame burst up from the element at the bottom, could feel its little wave of heat spurt out towards her hands.

“Fuck.” She looked up at Duncan, whose fingers were pressed on his lips now, his eyes intense on her--a smile broke across his face, his grin kindling her heart up like the flames. As she watched he drank deeply from the wine she’d poured him--knew he felt in need of its heady courage, drifting in confusion.

“Holy shit, baby.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We can--we can make fire.”

Kenzie stood, noticing her legs were shaking. What else can we do. What other wonders, my love. How far does this magick go? She stood facing him for a long moment--the rich scent of the fire was flushing down her senses, its flickering heat drifting her hair back around her face. She could see the white glow behind his eyes, the power that was hovering inside him in this space, beside the fire he had made. And Kenzie knew, with certainty, that it was because of her that this fire had woken inside him. Knew that it was her light that had brought him to life this way. And the deepest joy filled her, like the sunrise, like the dawn bursting over a cool horizon, dancing over a field caked in dew, warming the earth and everything it could reach--spreading itself infinitely, selflessly, without reserve. That’s how I feel towards you, beloved. I could give endlessly, and never grow tired; the more I give to you, the more I have to give.

Duncan rushed against her--she heard the pattering arc of his wine spilling onto the stones, sizzling droplets hitting the blazing fire. His lips fell into her hair, against her forehead, onto the space under her eye, the dip below her ear. She knew he could feel her; knew she didn’t have to speak, that he didn’t want to either, just wanted to bask in the glow of their extraordinary fire with her. You can talk to me, talk to me, you can talk to me, you can set your secrets free, baby--

“I wanna dance with you.” She was grinning into the sweet-smelling skin of his neck, straining up to him, his arms gathering her fiercely into him. “I love this song so much.”

Duncan laughed, pulling away from her. She could see the glittering tears, the fire reflecting them like diamonds in his eyes. He was shaking his head. “I don’t dance, baby--.”

“Oh yes, you fucking do!” Kenzie gripped the edges of his shirt, pulling his mouth down to her, lost in the woodsy scent along the prickly hairs there, smiling against him, beginning to sway, dipping her head back and forth. “How are we gonna get married if you won’t dance with me at our wedding?”

Duncan groaned at that, his longing absolute; she watched his face shift from embarrassment into one of absolute surrender. You got me. His body relaxed again from its momentary tension; the fire popped, a flare of brilliant orange flitting skyward, and he began to sway with her, leaning his forehead down onto hers as she gripped his collar possessively.

“Here it’s only us,” she whispered into the bridge of his nose. “There’s nobody else in the whole world, baby, just us, just me and you and this magick, this night--”

“Kenzie, Kenzie, my Kenzie…” Duncan murmured her name over and over, swaying against her, his face shifting, his lips falling down to speak against her mouth. The blue fire of you is so strong tonight, Duncan, beloved--it envelops me, fills the corners of my mind, the secret spaces of my body, the very center of my soul, but it doesn’t devour, no--it makes me greater. Inside your love this way, I am more whole. I am more myself than I ever thought possible. She leaned away from him, clutching his hands so he was supporting her weight as her head fell back, feeling her hair cascade down to brush along the soreness at her back, the memory of his devotions--Kenzie’s chin turned up to the stars again, finally. I’m ready now, baby. I can look now that I’m holding you. Her eyes opened--the multitude was there, as she knew it would be, and the sun was gone. In its absence, the infinite expanse of the hidden myriad; the unseen world. The cosmic tide.

Oh, let the walls burn down, set your secrets free, you can break their bounds, cause you're safe with me, you can lose your doubt, cause you'll find no danger here

She was gasping with it--the feeling of his hands, the absolute devastation of the stars above them. Who knew there were so many stars in this universe. I never really knew until this moment. They seemed impossibly bright and distinct, and she was shaken with them--had known she would be. They seemed to stare at her, at Duncan, at the fire they had birthed out of the ether; the stars seemed to know her, know them, and bless them. Those stars seemed to know and confirm what Kenzie knew in her heart to be true. Our destiny: to be together.

“I know,” he whispered. “There’s nothing like it. Nothing.” The fire popped again--the scent of burning hickory drifted up anew to them. Kenzie could hear the sizzling vibration of their dinners inside the stove’s rounded pot, forcing her eyes down from the heavens, her stomach rumbling again. Duncan was pulling away from her, reluctant but with purpose, draining his wine glass. “I’m gonna go get the blankets, baby. Let’s bring our dinner into the field. Let’s eat under the stars. The fire’ll be fine until we get back. It’s a strong fire--I--I know it is. I made it. I can feel it. How strong it is. It’ll last until morning.”

Kenzie felt her heart pounding in her throat--the certainty and strength in his gaze was so beautiful she felt faint with it. She nodded. He smiled (the smile of an angel) and stepped away from her, full of purpose. Kenzie drank her wine off as she waited for him, turning back to the fire, gazing deeply into it.

Pyrokinesis, that’s what they call it, she thought. The ability to create and manipulate fire with the mind. So we can move things, move ourselves, and create fire. I can heal people’s minds with soothing calm if I concentrate, if I will my healing gold--my energy--into them. And I invoke something in people now, too. Devotion. Trust. Goodwill. I always did, I think, but...now it’s stronger than ever. Now it’s something I can see immediately. And I think Duncan’s becoming that way too, as the light of our love really seeps into him, really touches his soul. The shadow in him will always be there, because it’s as essential a part of him as his deep goodness. The shadow is the outward self for him, the light the self within. For me, the light is outward, and the shadow within. Together we create something infinitely powerful.

Duncan was coming back, the picnic blanket tucked under one arm, two of the thick quilts under the other; his expression one of earnest happiness that clenched at her heart. Kenzie lifted the lid of the little cooking pot with a cloth napkin, a plume of steam rising up as she did, and knew their dinner was done. She placed the sizzling foil wraps on the serving tray with a pair of tongs; she dipped down to the burner underneath, hesitating for a moment, then, concentrated, drifted her fingers against the element, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the fire had burned away--sucked back into the air, back into the energy it had occupied before. Thank you, she thought, sending her gratitude out into the night. Thank you for your gift.

“Wow,” Duncan breathed, watching her, eyes wide. “That was so beautiful, Kenz. That was so delicate and lovely. Everything you do is so lovely--the way you do this...this magic. It’s like you’re creating tiny worlds with your hands.”

Kenzie picked the tray up with both hands, smiling shyly at him. “It sort of feels like that, honestly. A tiny movement but with a huge, intricate thing inside it. It’s sort of like that.”

“I can see it. When you do it. Yours is more powerful than mine. Mine is clumsier, I have to concentrate for longer. Yours is...it’s so graceful. It’s an innate part of you. I think mine is stronger when you’re near me. When you’re away, it’s much smaller.”

“You’re in luck. I’m not going anywhere, Duncan Shepherd.”

“Baby,” he breathed, leaning down, eyes closing, brushing his mouth with aching tenderness against hers. She longed to touch his hands, but their hands were full--to the stars, the stars, her heart was pleading.

“Let’s go, baby, show me,” she whispered, and he nodded, stepping away, looking back to her. Come on, Kenzie Lou. This way.

------

They’d stepped off the path, away from the illumination of the house with its strings of fairy lights, the lamps lining the stone walkway. Here there was the outline of the forest to their left, and ahead, a thinner line of trees that she could in see beyond, see the dip of a slope, the skyline ahead, the slightest residue of night-kissed clouds drifting here, soon to dissipate. She could see the halo of Duncan’s curls, the dark slant of his back in the black cardigan, almost like a long cloak in this light, his towering height and the mounds of the blankets under his arms. He cocked his head back, his face shrouded in shadow but his eyes sharp azure, brimming with a titillating innocence here, in the balmy night, in the warm grasses, away from the clear path but knowing all the same. Kenzie felt faint with the surety she felt from him--knew how deeply he had hoped to show her this, whatever it was, knew how he had longed to, waited for this moment.

“The slope is a little bit sharp here, baby, so be careful, go slow,” he said, and she followed him through the thin line of trees, their whispering leaves brushing against her hair, as if they longed to kiss her. Kenzie’s eyes were adjusting to the dark now, and she could see the tiny bursting glow of fireflies drifting through the grass, along the treeline--she looked up and saw that the slope fell down in a slant of longer grasses, half-grown with early summer, and then drifted out to a field that extended for a hundred yards ahead, the forest surrounding on all sides. She felt sure the road lay somewhere far off into the distance to her right, but it wasn’t visible from this vantage, and they seemed to be utterly cut off from the modern world. Inside this vision before her, there was nothing but the open grass, the dark trees, the night in its full, fallen glory, and Duncan.

She followed him down the slope, eyes on her feet to keep herself steady on the incline, hands carefully gripping the corners of the tray, its deep heat soothing. Duncan looked back at her again, and she met his gaze, drifting out to him. Can’t wait to hold you soon. I’m gonna hold you under the stars and never let go. The slope ended and they were treading into the grasses now; into the center of the field. There were more fireflies here, but there was a surprising lack of other bugs--one of the fireflies drifted onto Kenzie’s hand and she looked down at it affectionately--hello, little one--its pulsing light crawling up her arm for a moment, then drifting away again out into the air.

Duncan stopped where the grasses seemed to dissipate, there was a flat circle of short grass here that almost seemed man-made, though Kenzie knew, somehow, that it wasn’t--the grass here just grows this way, she thought, certain. It’s always been this way. Duncan laid the picnic blanket down and then gathered the quilts atop it, then turned to her and grasped the tray. Kenzie smiled at him, sitting, gathering one of the quilts around her shoulders, and Duncan set the tray between them, settling down beside her.

“Kenzie. Look up.” Duncan’s hands reached out to her, gripping her fingers, steadying her. I’m here with you, Kenzie, my love. Then he drifted his head up, his adam’s apple dipping, his mouth opening a little, his eyes shining with impossible brightness (my love, she thought, your beauty is infinite, like these stars, I love you so much and when I die I’ll be reborn to find you again, I know it, I know, Duncan, I’m not afraid), and Kenzie did the same--lifted her eyes to heaven.

The stars were so distinct, so gloriously bright, so effulgent they seemed to burn her eyes. To try to contemplate all of them was like trying to sift out unique grains of sand from a desert; there are simply too many, too much--there’s too much, like the way I feel inside your love, there’s just too much, I can’t describe it, I can only feel it, Kenzie thought, her breath sighing out in a shivering gasp. She felt Duncan’s hands clutch her fingers more tightly, felt him lean closer to her to comfort her, the warmth and the scent of him drawing near.

“That’s the Summer Triangle,” she was whispering, her voice aching in the vast, illuminated shadows. His affection for her in this secret place felt like he was touching her on every part of her skin, and she felt tears on her cheeks again--it doesn’t matter, with him I can always cry. “Lyra, Cignus, and Aquila.” Kenzie pointed up, dipping her finger eastward to an area where the clusters of stars seemed their brightest; one star in particular pulsed in almost the exact center of the sky, its brilliance like a beacon shining down on them.

“What’s the bright one, there,” Duncan asked, his achingly beautiful hand drifting up to the centermost star. She glanced down at him again; Duncan’s eyes seemed illuminated with white once more, like balls of strange, lapis-tinted fire. His gaze was heavenward, the wind blowing his curls across his temple, into the blue nebula of his eyes; he reminded her again of a pious saint, the beautiful visage of some fresco of an angel in a holy temple; my beloved, you’re what the poets speak of, what the painters of the ages have sought to capture with their brushes and their paints and their hands. I chose you. I choose you--tonight, and for every day to come. And I, too, am infinitely blessed.  

“It’s Vega.” Kenzie brought her lips against the stubble on his chin--she felt Duncan turn his face down to her, his nose, then his lips brushing against her forehead with urgency, his hand coming up to hold her steady against him. Stay here, Kenzie, let me feel you in the sweet star-kissed darkness. “It’s one of the brightest stars in the sky, especially this time of year. It’s not that far away, at least, compared to most stars--only 25 light-years--then again, one light-year is over 5 trillion miles.” She grinned at him in the starry shadows; knew he could see her smile when his very white, straight teeth flashed back at her.

“God, we didn’t even need to bring that stargazing book, I guess it doesn’t matter that we forgot to bring it out here with us. I should have guessed you knew so much about the cosmos--everything you own has stars and moons on it.” His hands drifted down her arms, and Kenzie shivered, the bliss of this moment encompassing her.

“I don’t know that much--I mean, look at all of them,” and she blushed as his gaze stayed, steady, on her instead. “Look baby, look.” She pressed his chin up--Duncan’s eyes skirted to heaven, then back to her as if drawn by an invisible current. “There are so many. It would take my whole life to learn about all of them.”

“You look like that painting--Star of Heaven. The one I took the picture of you leaning on. Your hair is glowing, Kenz. Like it’s full of stars.”

“Let’s eat, baby,” Kenzie said, lost to any other reply, trembling under the weight of the emotion she felt here, in this place, with him, the fireflies drifting in languid arcs of bursting light, the sky awash with incalculable wonders. He was nodding, but his hand was drifting through the waves of her hair, as if tethered there, unable to break away.

“Eat your dinner, Duncan. Do as I say.”

“Yes, Princess Kenzie.” His hand drifted away, but Kenzie could see the reluctance on his cheeks in the bluish shadow--the moon was still corn-husk bright, but it was surrounded by wisps of cloud that seemed to swirl around it, and it alone--the rest of the sky was almost shockingly sharp and bright under the wide, open space of the field here, to a degree Kenzie simply couldn’t make sense of. Like all the other magick around us lately, I’m going to just accept it, and bask in its wonders.

They both unwrapped the foil at the same time--a plume of smoke drifted up from each, and Kenzie couldn’t help but wriggle with excitement again at the wonderful scent that rose from them. She stabbed into the tender chicken with her fork, bringing it up to her lips, blowing eagerly, then popping it, hot and juicy, into her mouth.

“Ugh. It’s perfect, Duncan. Everything is perfect.” Their hands came together again, feeling desperately for each other.  

“Kenzie. Today, in the woods--in that circle of oaks. Did you feel like--I dunno. Did you feel like we were in another place? It felt like we weren’t even on earth anymore. It felt like we went to another world. Did you feel that way? And I was calling you those strange names, but I don’t know where I heard them, or if I was imagining them, making them up, but...I don’t think so. I don’t think I was. I just--I don’t understand--the fire and--”

“Shhh, Dunny. I don’t know either. But I’m not afraid. I think--I think something is nearly here. It’s so close, can’t you feel it?” Kenzie set her fork down; drifted the very tips of her fingers down his palm, opened to her on his knee. Duncan looked up, as if the sky was less overwhelming than her eyes in this moment, less overwhelming than the strange wonders they’d experienced today.

“Yes, baby. I feel it.”

“We just have to--we just need to be patient for a little bit longer, I think. I think soon we’re going to understand things a lot better. Really soon. I just have this feeling, as if we’re standing in front of the next door on the path, and our hand is on the knob, and we’re about to turn it--”

“--And there’s just this little bit of time between the us and the door opening,” Duncan finished. “Yeah. Yes, baby. Yes. Okay.” He leaned down to his dinner, then, and she could feel the blue of his mind soothing, calming, settling down to indigo tranquility. They were both quiet then--they ate in a sweet silence that Kenzie cherished.

A little time passed--Duncan pushed his dinner away, his foil empty, and laid down on his back on the picnic blanket, one of the quilts under his head. Kenzie felt full and deliriously happy; Duncan pulled eagerly at her hand and she leaned down to him, pulling the other quilt over their legs, tucking her head down into the crook of his arm, breathing deeply at the smell of him--sweet jasmine, sharp cedar, the rain on a spring day in a green forest. Kenzie could feel something nagging at the blue patina of his thoughts again; something he was fighting to find words for, something that seemed vast and deep. Something from the woods. Something about those oaks all growing together, and the flowers in their swirling pattern. And my gold--the healing press of me against him now. The way I can soothe him so utterly, the way he knows it’s not just how much he loves me, or how much I love him, but an ability that I have. The magic that is mine and mine alone.

For awhile they laid there in the quiet, staring at heaven. Its dome of brilliant stars seemed almost unreal--simply too great, too imperceptible--and their thoughts were unclear to each other; his hand drifted through her hair, and Kenzie pressed her lips on the softness of his shirt under his breast. The moon drifted out from a cloud, then dipped behind another. Vega shimmered from the center of the sky--it seemed to look down directly on them, watchful, protective.

“Kenzie,” she heard his whisper, so soft she almost thought she’d imagined it.

“Yes? What is it, Duncan?” Somehow Kenzie knew that the thing he was going to say was going to shake her. Suddenly she was afraid--there was an immensity to this moment, a swooping, dropping sensation in her body. She tried to move her arms more tightly around him. Brace yourself, Kenzie Lou. This is the beginning of the revelations.

“In that circle in the woods....in the middle of everything. I had a realization. It was like...in that place, I could see everything about life more clearly. Everything about us, and the world, and the way it’s--it’s tied so loosely. I could see that we were in a--what did you call it--a thin place. Like we were close to other things. And I saw you...differently.”

“What do you mean, differently?” Kenzie brought her head up to look at him, her chin still resting on his chest. A firefly drifted past his russety curls, glowing faintly, then fading out.

“I mean--I saw what you really are.”

Kenzie smirked at him, despite the nervousness she felt fluttering in the center of her body.

“What am I? The Creature from the Black Lagoon?”

He grinned at her, twisting a lock of her hair around his hand, his gold bracelet glinting for a moment. You haven’t been wearing a watch lately, Kenzie thought. It’s like time doesn’t really matter anymore when we’re together, isn’t it, baby. It’s like that.

“Kenzie.” His expression softened; Kenzie could barely stand the emotion inside his gaze now. The blue center of a soft, drifting star. How I love your eyes, Duncan.

“Kenzie,” he said again. “You’re…”

She heard the thought before he spoke it. An angel. “An angel.”

“Baby, you always say that. You always call me that.”

“Kenz, no--I don’t mean like that. I mean you’re--I saw you. The real you. The you you were before this life, before this world, or...something. It was that place. Inside it, I could see things that are usually hidden. And I feel like you did too. Did you? Did you see anything? Anything...differently? Did you see me differently?”

Kenzie’s breath caught in her chest; her eyes drifted away from him, overwhelmed, into the stars, overwhelmed again inside them; she sighed, the breath trembling through her.

“I--I think--”

Fuck. I think I did. I think it was like a flash of lightning in a dark sky--there for a moment, then gone, but the outline of it still burned into my retinas. Like the dreams, I remember the outline, but not the details. I don’t know if it’s possible to remember the details. I think it might be too much to really see. Too great.

“I think so,” she whispered. “But I can’t describe--I can’t find the words...I remember the flowers around your head turned to gold. A gold so soft and beautiful it was like they were still alive--golden flowers, baby. And in my mind I thought...some kind of name. Like those names you called me. Sword of the Evening Star. That’s what it was. That was what I called you, in my mind. Like someone had whispered it into my ear. Sword of the Evening Star. How lovely is that.”

“I called you Angel of the Hidden Sphere,” Duncan’s hands soothed along her arm, down the crook of her waist. “And I don’t know what that means--I don’t know what the Hidden Sphere is--but Kenzie--listen to me. You were something else once. Something more than human. I guess I don’t know what else to call it. Mackenzie. You were an angel.”

Kenzie felt tears gathering along the edges of her eyes.

“An angel? Baby, what are you saying? I don’t…”

His lips drifted down against her forehead. His scent enveloped her; the soothing blue aura that always surrounded him was trenchant, completely whole, utterly certain.

“I know it’s unbelievable,” he was whispering against her, his voice steady, unshaking. “But just think about all the unbelievable things that have happened to us lately. We both made fire just by thinking about it. I moved across the entire house in the blink of an eye. You’ve been moving things across the room just by looking at them. You can heal people’s hearts just by touching them, just by willing it. I knew where you were last night because I felt you. When I realized Annette isn’t my real mother, you felt my sadness over miles, baby. All of that should be impossible in the world we used to know. But now that we’re together, there are extraordinary things in this world--real things, Kenz--that exist despite all doubt, and we’re starting to see them. And that’s what I saw. I saw that you were--that you are, that you always will be--a divine being.”

Oh, goddess. Oh, Duncan.

Kenzie felt the tears begin to course down her cheeks, dampening Duncan’s shirt--soaking into him. She began to sob quietly against him; I don’t understand--but I do. What you’re saying, oh, Duncan--I feel that it’s true. I can’t believe it, I can’t comprehend it, but I know it’s true. I don’t know what it means, I don’t know what the past was, or what the future is--but I know you’re right  I know I was what you say. I know she’s inside me, still hidden, still waiting. Little parts of her peek out sometimes, when someone needs help, when I feel a love so deep for you it wants to tear me apart. But the wholeness of her is beyond this world.  

“Oh, baby, oh, Dunny, oh my god, oh--” Kenzie found that she couldn’t stop now; her sobs rose, crashed against him, tears drifting in a steady stream against him now, soaking him. She brought her hand against her eyes, could feel her mouth crumpled into an involuntary frown, her heart overwhelmed with an immensity of knowledge that threatened to rip her in two. Duncan turned into her, his arms tightly around her, cradling her face inside his grasp, his cheek in her hair, his mouth speaking soothing sounds to her ear.

“Shhhh, baby, shhhh, angel, my angel, shhhhh, everything’s okay, everything’s fine, I’m here, I love you, shhhhhh...”

Kenzie could hear the slow, steady march of his heartbeat--could feel the tiny rhythmic burst of it against her cheek pressed to his body. Even inside this, even knowing this, trembling in its greatness, unable to comprehend my own Fate, I know the part of it that belongs with you. I know that, absolutely. At least that I know completely. Help me, baby. Help me bear it. Help me feel it and not be overcome by it.

“Exalted. Beloved of heaven. My Kenzie. I beheld your greatness. I am moved by it, body and soul.”

His words shivered against her with the softness of tiny wings. He was lifting her face up to him, his mouth the dearest, most passionate adoration. Kenzie could feel the stars above them now; feel their endless, wheeling weight, the massive geometry of their dance, feel the measurement and ponderousness of time for a long, infinite moment, extended through the divinity of his lips. No matter what eons pass, he thought, I will love you. For all time. I always have. In every place. In every time. In every moment. And forever.

Kenzie cried against him for a long time; the stars wheeled, glittering beyond all secret knowledge, and Duncan held her, his arms trembling with emotion, and after awhile, she felt his tears in her hair, and she felt soothed by them. As you are moved by me, I am moved by you, my love. As I am exalted, I’ve exalted you. Body and soul.

--------

Kenzie sat at a long table in a white room.

Zadie. It’s Zadie. Zadie was wearing a long black cardigan and a white blouse, holding a white rose. She was speaking, glancing at Kenzie from where she stood on the other side of the table; Kenzie could sense there were other women on either side of where she sat in the center, could sense their warm, curious energy in soft colors. Zadie was speaking, but Kenzie couldn’t hear her at first--she strained to hear, tried to still her mind away from whatever was blocking her hearing, tried to quiet herself. The sound slowly bled into her mind as though from a far distance--

“Nothing is immutable when the will of a strong woman is applied. Now, show me how strong you are.”

Zadie looked up at her expectantly; and at the other girls. Kenzie looked down--in her hand was a white rose almost identical to the one Zadie was holding. Kenzie knew, immediately; we’re supposed to change the color of the rose. It’s some kind of test--it’s like we’re in a class.

And Kenzie knew immediately, too, that she could do it. Like pouring wine into water, watching the color change. I can pour myself into the rose, and change it, utterly.

Kenzie felt herself breathe out, soothingly, felt the gold of her drift into the rose; slowly it altered, like the tide falling out onto the stretch of the shore. Blue, and her mind flared with the depth of her affection as she watched it change to a rich cobalt, like a lapis stone. Blue, the color of Duncan’s eyes, the color of his soul. Blue, in honor of the one I love most. Kenzie watched the rose deepen, felt the smile on her cheeks--then she watched, as if removed from herself, as the rose’s petals, now deeply, radiantly blue, drifted down from the stem, falling to the table’s surface. She thought of Duncan; like wings inside me, my deepest joy, the flowering center of my being, his hands so beautiful and graceful and delicate on my body, his devotion so pure, so entire. Roses in the bathtub, a diamond moon at my throat, our gold bracelets, tethered to our skin, the aching sound of his voice in the darkness, the beautiful edges of his jaw, his throat, his lips. The way he holds me, the passion of his touch. The blue is for him; as I am his.

Kenzie continued to watch the rose petals; as she did, she felt her mind reach out for them again, as if removed from her own demand, trapped inward, looking outward at another self. The petals began to alter, to change into something else--soon, each one was a cobalt-colored butterfly, their tiny minds melding against hers; each one was a part of her, she could feel it, each one was an aspect of her own soul. And each one is a devotion to him, she knew. Each one is a part of my love for him.

She felt herself drift a hand down, then dip it upwards, her fingers curling softly--the butterflies floated towards the ceiling, their wings drifting in graceful ease. She sent them to where she knew Zadie was standing; with mild surprise she noticed Candice now stood beside the tall girl, wearing a high-collared floral dress, her expression astonished at Kenzie--astonished at what she had done to the rose. The butterflies drifted above Candice’s head; Kenzie pushed the gold in her down, and the butterflies broke apart, becoming petals once more that fell around Candice and Zadie. Candice held out a hand, her face still marked with wonder; one of the petals floated down into her palm, and as Kenzie watched, it turned white again, the blue disappearing entirely.

And then she was drifting back up--up, up, towards a different, darker light, as through a pool of water lit by light, back into the night, back into the field of stars…

Kenzie opened her eyes. They saw nothing at first; only deep darkness, only void. Then, they began to adjust--she could feel the softness of the moonlight, once again peeked from behind a scant slip of cloud, and knew the warmth and weight under her cheek was Duncan’s body, knew the slow, steady drift of his breath meant he was asleep--as she had been a moment ago.

I was dreaming.

Kenzie looked up, moving only her eyes, keeping her head steady against him; through the corners of her vision she could see the universe still spread out above them, sense that they were still in the depth of the night, dawn far off. It was wonderfully warm against him under the quilt; the night was balmy and mild, the wind having drifted off, leaving the air very still. Kenzie could hear peepers calling off in the surrounding trees; she strained for a moment and heard an owl, the pattering of some creature in the undergrowth.

Blue butterflies, she thought. Blue roses for Duncan. How lovely. And Zadie and Candice were there. That was such a beautiful dream. I almost wish it had been longer.

She fought to come out of the dream; noted with vague surprise that they’d fallen asleep out here in the sweetness of the field, under these miraculous stars. I think I could sleep anywhere as long as you’re with me, she thought, and sat up, turning her head to gaze at Duncan in his sleep. Strands of his russet-colored hair drifted against his forehead, and his face was turned down to where the crown of her head had been a moment before, his hand near where her cheek had rested. He looks like an angel, she thought, vaguely; and then the dawning realization swooped back down on her, the memory of his words before, the ones that had made her cry so hard, the ones that had eventually pushed her (and him too) into such sudden, complete slumber.

That I’m divine, she thought. I’m an angel. Or, I was. Or, I will be. That’s not clear. None of this is. I just know he’s right. If so much hadn’t happened already--if so much magick wasn’t drifting around us--I’d think I’d gone insane. But I can’t deny it. I know he’s right, just as I know the sun will rise in a few hours, covering this field in golden dew. Just as I know he loves me so much he would die for me if he had to; die a thousand times, ten thousand times. As I know these things, I also know the truth of what he said; the certainty. I was something like that. It’s the reason I can heal his heart when he’s sad--send gold into him and soothe him. That was something I could do long ago, can do now again because our souls are close once more, and they remember each other, even if we didn’t at first.

That’s all I know. But I can feel that this is just a tip of it. Just the first part of knowing. Be patient, Kenzie Lou. All things come in time. All you can do now is wait. And she knew it was true.

Kenzie slowly slid her fingers down onto Duncan’s serene, stubbled cheek; she hovered just over his mouth now, and whispered softly.

“Dunny, baby, wake up…”

Duncan stirred, his head cocking up, to the side--he made a tiny, sweet sound, like a sigh, and then his eyes (white-blue sapphires) opened to her; she saw the immediate recognition in them, the confusion there washed away almost instantly, the calmness in him to behold her.

“Kenzie, I was making snow,” he murmured, his hands drifting up to grasp her at her hips, and she smiled at him, puzzled.

“Making snow, huh?”

“Mhmm.” He pulled her down to him, back into the warm cocoon of his arms; Kenzie’s cheek pressed into the soft skin that peeked from his collar and she let herself be drawn into the comfort of his embrace again. “I was in front of a fire, facing four men at a table. Anchaly was there, and so was Ben Wilder,” and Duncan laughed a little, his voice still tinged with sleep. “That’s dream logic I guess. I didn’t recognize the other two men...one had glasses, one had a short beard, dark eyes. I’ve never seen them before.”

“And you were making snow in front of a fire?”

“Yeah. The man with the dark eyes said change the weather inside this room, and turn the water into snow. So I did. I stood in front of the fire and lifted my hands into the air--I told the air to change. And it did. It started to snow. I was so happy--it was so lovely, Kenz. They laughed and said beautiful, beautiful--and then I heard your voice. I heard you calling to me, and I woke up.”

“I had a dream too,” she whispered against him, and Duncan’s arms drifted down the smoothness of the little dress she wore. She felt her skin prickle and hum under his fingers; remembered the graceful movements of her own hands, lifting the butterflies she’d made from rose petals into the air. “Zadie and Candice were in my dream, that’s so funny that you had people you recognize in yours too--and it’s odd--I was sitting with these other girls, and Zadie wanted us to change these roses we were holding. Change their color, I mean. And I did, I changed mine from white to blue; blue because it reminded me of you.”

She felt Duncan’s hands drifting down further still. Suddenly she felt hot, flushed--his fingers pressed under the hem of the dress, against the bottom dip of her ass, sore from his attentions earlier. She wondered what the bruises there were like now. His face was turning to her as she spoke, his eyes focusing in hers--she could see that strangely white, ethereal glow again, as though the moon were trapped inside the depth of blue. The white is the hidden aspect of you, she thought, like the moon turning behind a shadow. It’s the magic inside of you.

“Reminded you of me, huh?” His lips hovered over hers, his hands pressing up further against her ass, making her arch at the sensitivity there, and higher, along the fragile lift of her hip bone.

“Uh huh,” she whispered. “And then I turned them into butterflies. Isn’t that lovely? I thought about your love--how much you love me. And I made the petals into butterflies.”

“That’s beautiful, baby. That’s such a lovely dream. Can I kiss you, Princess?” She turned her jaw up, teasingly, away from his mouth--his lips dipped to hover in the space below her ear, not quite touching down, waiting for her reply. She leaned up into him, letting her breasts press up into his collarbones, eliciting a low moan from him; “...please, Princess Kenzie.” The night air was drifting against them again, the wind having stirred once more. His hair fell onto his forehead--his eyes burned for her, for me alone, she knew.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

He fell against her; his mouth was a supple devotion, salty-sweet and wet for her, wet with need. The depth of his desire was immediate, intense; his hands came to the slender straps at her shoulders, forcing them down with demanding strength as his tongue slipped between the smoothness of her teeth, coiling around hers, lifting back with anticipation, driving forward into her once again. Kenzie let out a low moan--she couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stave off the golden spiral that was stirring in her belly, licking in tendrils to her sore, hot sex. He was pushing the fabric of the dress away, pushing the cups of the bikini top down--Duncan slid down from her mouth and his burning, full lips closed over her nipple, hard and straining in the meandering air. Duncan sucked, flicking his tongue out to coil around her, so hot and wet Kenzie jerked up into him, crying out, then she heard her want falling out of her, like an obscene, Bacchanalian song.

“I wanna suck on you,” she whispered, loving the exigent heat of him on her breast, lost in it, opening her eyes to the stars, their glory urging her on inside her want. “I want you to fuck my mouth, baby. Please. I’m hungry for you.”

“Fuck, Kenzie, baby--”

“I mean it. Come here so I can get you hard for me. Do as I say.”

“Kenzie, angel, fuck, you know I’m already hard for you--”

“Then I’m gonna make you harder. Fuck my mouth.”

He was shivering now, shaken by her demanding tone, she knew; hopelessly aroused with it, straining to resist. She reached up, gripping his jaw, pulling him down to her, roughly devouring his mouth for an aching, unbearable moment, letting the wetness of the saliva gathering on her tongue graze into him, my mouth is wet for you, baby, wet for your needy cock, and then she pushed him up, away from her lips, staring into his eyes, tightening her fingers, a choke of supplication escaping his throat.

“Who do you belong to, baby?” she whispered.

“Ung, Kenzie, you, angel baby, divine angel, you, you know I do--”

“Fuck. My. Mouth.”

She let go of him at that, propping herself up on her elbows now, facing him, expectant. Duncan nodded, his eyes drifting closed in an overwhelmed stupor, the sleep having vanished from his face; he leaned up, the quilt falling away from him, his eyes fixated on the bareness of her breasts where he’d pushed the dress and her bikini down around her waist as he pushed the soft waistband of his shorts down, his thick, hardening cock falling free. Kenzie nodded, grinning at him.

“That’s it, baby. Come here.” She glanced down at her little breasts, suggestively, batting her eyelashes at him; put your cock between my breasts, baby, hold them together, fuck me there, wet me with your tongue--and she saw his eyes flash, long white-silver inside the brilliant blue, and he was leaning down to her, pressing his mouth with unbearably intense sweetness to her heart, laving his tongue out, slickly wet and hot, leaving streaks of moisture in the incline of her chest, glistening in the starlight, the hazy moonlight. Then he was leaning back, bucking his hips up toward her, pressing his cock to the wetness he’d left on her, and Kenzie dipped her head to him with hasty need, sucking his length into her lips, making him gasp--she slid down so he fell further into her throat, then lifted away, and Duncan was leaning his hips between her breasts, his achingly lovely fingers coming under, into their whiteness, covered in goosebumps at his touch. His cock slid down between them and he pushed both of her breasts against his length--Kenzie lowered her lips to the head of his cock again, smiling against it for a moment, then taking it into her mouth, gathering more wetness from the back of her throat; then Duncan was jerking his hips up into her, his mouth falling open in a beautiful abandon that made her feel faint.

I love your big fucking hands, baby, she thought, letting her eyes flutter closed, knowing he was watching her. I love your big fucking beautiful hands on me, spanking me, choking me, gripping me so tightly, leaving the bruises of your affections on me, fuck, I love it so, I love you, there’s nothing like the heat, the sweetness of your hands on me, leave bruises on my breasts, leave the marks of your fingertips on my soft skin--she let herself gag a little on his length, let her eyes roll back, knowing it would drive him to the edge, and felt a satisfied thrill as he groaned, loudly, into the night air, his hips shuddering against her nipples.

“Unnh, baby, Kenzie--” and she dipped lower, taking more of him, insistent, feeling the tips of his fingers digging into the supple, round softness of her. That’s it, baby. You belong to me, your body, your soul. If you know of my divinity--if I must accept it too, if I must find a way to live inside this knowledge while also being human, know that you belong to me--know that as you’re mine, entirely, supplicant to me, I am also yours entirely--and together we are infinitely lovely, intensely divine, my divinity made greater by you--as I give myself to you, give yourself to me: as only you can.

She pulled up from him, her tongue lingering on his smooth head, flicking into the hole there, and another long, pained groan leaked out from his lips.

“Can I please fuck you, Princess?” he moaned, and she giggled against him; oh I fucking love that too, Dunny, baby. I love it when you beg me, my lofty Prince of Shadows. My fair Hades on his high throne, begging me. Bowing to me.

“Only if you call me those beautiful names again,” she whispered, fluttering her eyelashes to him again, lifting her gaze up, staring into him, her tongue flicking out against him again. “Those beautiful divine names.”

“Goddess of the Golden Bower,” he breathed, and pulled away from her mouth; Kenzie let out a little whimper of longing. Come back to me.

“Princess Kenzie, please, let me fuck you now.” I long for the sweetness of our bodies together that way. I long for it always, but under this moon and these stars, I’m aching for you. If your blue butterflies are for me, the snow I made, shrouded in golden firelight, was all for you. “High Princess of the Garden of All Delights. Fuck, baby, I wonder what that place is. The Garden of All Delights. Doesn’t that sound beautiful? And you’re the High Princess of it. That’s only right--” and he was dipping his mouth down against hers again, his hands clutching her up into him, pressing under her shoulder blades, against the soft skin under her arms. “--you are the High Princess, aren’t you? The Princess of all Angels, I’m sure of it, I’m sure you are--”

“Ugh-hh, fu-uck, Duncan, baby--” Kenzie’s cheeks felt unbearably sensitive and soft where he kissed them, the memory of her sobbing tears still fresh there (tears of disbelief--I still can’t believe any of this, it still has to be a dream, how can I be divine, how can that be, blue flowers, blooming in your eyes, beloved, you must be the one who’s divine), but Duncan continued to press into her with insistence, his mouth a devout rose bud blooming onto her, her breath catching sharply inside his concentrations. She reached for his shirt, unbuttoning it (the second time today, baby, the third time in the throes of your need, and fuck, I don’t care, I want you again, I always do) as he worked her dress and the bikini further down, slipping his fingers into the waistband of the bottom at her hips--she slid out under his hands, amazed by the strength in them as she ever was, and his fingers were easily pushing her clothes away, which stood no chance against his urgency.

Now they were both naked (wonderfully, blessedly naked, naked but for my diamond moon and our ever-present golden tethers, the sweetness of this balmy night on our skin, and I’m stunned by your touch over and over, my wild wine god)--Duncan’s head dipped down, his curls trailing along the shivering mound of Kenzie’s stomach as his mouth kissed, adamant, at her abdomen--then pressed, immediate, tasting, at her clit, his tongue flat on her, drifting back and forth--then Duncan arched up and pushed her legs apart as far as he could, with a harsh movement that made her breath catch, suddenly frozen, in her throat; that’s it, fucking fuck me and she was murmuring as his mouth fell on hers again, his knees between her legs now.

“Yes, baby, yes, uhhh, Duncan, yes--” and Kenzie wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder as he pushed into her, as far as he could, his hardness making her gasp again, gasp with immediate tears, and goddess, this beautiful night feels so fucking good, like it’s kissing every inch of me--helping you kiss me because your mouth can’t be everywhere at once, though I wish it could, I wish, baby, I wish--and Kenzie felt as though they were some wild god and goddess in some wild, mounted, hidden place, where only gods could reach, only divinity could escape to; you and me, my exalted love, and she felt his bluish affections inside her, felt his agreement, his approval of her imaginings--yes, Kenzie, only me and you, only us in a secret bower, the Garden of All Delights where only we can go, this place is our own garden right now, our own hidden Eden--

“God, baby, fucking you like this, under the stars--” he was whispering into her ear, his panting breath making her feel terribly close to the edge, weak with the threat of her orgasm, dizzy with the wave of his desire for her, “the most beautiful night, and no one here but us, and those beautiful dreams, and you, the most beautiful of all, my Kenzie--” and she was arching up against him, trying to hold back, but Duncan pressed his mouth to her neck and bit down into it, harshly, insistent to leave a mark--I know you want to, I feel it, Dunny, you want to leave a mark, more marks on my soft skin because I’m yours--and his fingers were dipping into the tininess of the space between their quivering stomachs as he pressed his thick, burning cock up into her, sending her senses reeling into dark, verdant shadows, rubbing at the sodden space between her legs, insistently coaxing her towards what she wanted so much but was desperate to prolong for just a little longer--she could feel him, the cool swirl of his emotion, already sad for the inevitable moment their bodies would part again, and Kenzie clutched at his cheeks, her thumb dipping to his mouth, lost in the beauty of his expression, the heavy half-lidded ecstasy of his eyes, the way his mouth hung open to her, his breath coming against her in lovely labors, each one a prayer to her.

She could feel the sweat that had begun to tether her hair to the back of her neck, against her temples and the dip of her jaw--could see the moisture glinting in the darkness on his forehead, in the dip of his clavicle, along his wide shoulders. “That’s it, baby,” he moaned into her, his eyes incandescently sincere, so lovely in this shade she wanted to laugh or scream or cry against him, “I’ll work you out again and again, Princess, I always will, I can’t stand to be away from you, not ever--there’s nothing that feels as perfect as this to me, nothing as perfect as your sweet little body against mine, fu-fuck, I never want it to end, you and me under these fuu-cking stars, divine Kenzie, under this moon, in this heat--I love you, fucking marry me, will you please marry me, Mackenzie, goddess, sweetest of all beings, I love you--will you marry me?”

She was laughing immediately--the moon had fallen outside of its wisping clouds again, and it seemed to be kissing them. Blessing us, she thought. The moon is giving us its blessing. Your timing is perfect, my sweet love. And I will. I fucking will.

“Fuck, yes, fu-uu-ck, goddess, yes, I fucking will, Duncan, yes,” she gasped into him, and now they were both laughing, the gold in her clashing into his sweet, starry blue, her mouth kissing down onto his face, kissing his eyelids, eternal protectors of his impossibly blue eyes, and the bridge of his beautiful straight nose, his trembling lips, his damp cheeks, damp with his sweat and tears--we can just die now, she thought, die in each other’s arms and then this moment will extend into eternity, and it’s enough, it’s more than enough, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, to be seen by you so utterly, to feel the safety of my heart enshrined in you, you, you, my beautiful Prince, my evening star, you picked the perfect moment--truly, the most perfect moment--and as they came together, lips hopelessly entwined, smiling through tears of holy, astonished bliss, she thought, eyes to heaven, stars, sing, fucking sing for us--if I’m an angel, I have my wings again, made of a thousand blue butterflies.  They’re you. You’re my wings, Duncan Shepherd. 

------

The moon was dipping lower southwest by the time they gathered the blanket and quilt up, dressed between ardent, sleepy kisses, piled the remnants of their dinner on the tray, and made their way back up the sloping hill towards the house. The sky had clouded over more than before; it was clear for us, just for that amount of time, our stargazing, our enchanted sleep, our desperate passion, and the perfect moment--so wonderfully, desperately perfect--for him to ask me to belong to him as I knew he wanted to, for him to ask to belong to me, Kenzie thought, drifting against him with tired steps, her head brushing into his arm, his face leaning down to rest against the top of her head as their fingers tangled together, golden bracelets touching; she could feel his own tiredness, feel his longing to hold her entwined in his arms and sleep with her, long, lost, and gone from the world in the golden-soft bed.

As they came over the crest of the hill to the line of trees, Kenzie could see the fire pit still burning; the hickory logs were half gone now, the fire bluish-gold and black-tangerine. “You made a good fire, baby,” she whispered to him, staring up at his shoulder; Duncan smiled at her, sleepy, sincere, lovely beyond all words she could imagine inside this moment.

“I’m so happy, Kenzie,” he replied, his voice sweetly low--Kenzie longed for the moment they would collapse into the bed soon as she heard it, her mind already fixated on their sleep, the quiet halo of his arms and the scent of him in the dark bedroom. “That’s why the fire came out of me so bright--my body is full of it. The fire you’ve built inside me. Mackenzie Shepherd.”

Kenzie grinned at that, stepping ahead of him onto the deck, setting the tray down. “That’s gonna take some getting used to,” she replied. “It still sounds like Annette to me.”

“Well, Momby said herself, it’s not the name--it’s what you do with it.”

“Dunny,” Kenzie’s breath caught and she paused, turning to him. He was still holding the blankets in his arms, standing at the bottom of the steps, and his hair was tossed by their passions, by sweat and sleep. He’s so beautiful inside this moment; his goodness is shining out of him, glowing. I can see your halo now too, my sweet Hades--the one you kept hidden for so long. “You called her Momby. Oh. I love that so much. She’ll cry. She loves you so much, Duncan. Momby loves you so much. She’s going to fucking scream when we tell her.”

“And I love her. I figured--since she’ll really be my mother-in-law now--that she’ll give me her blessing to use her real name.”

“She definitely will. You don’t need to ask. Just wait till you see her face when she hears you call her Momby. Oh, baby--”

She stepped to him, desperate to feel him--clutched his face, the prickle at his jaw.

“I love you, Duncan Malcolm Shepherd.”

“As I love you, Mackenzie Louise Shepherd.”

I dunno, she thought, as Duncan’s lips lifted up to hers, where she hovered above him on the steps, on his kiss the sweet scent of woodsmoke, salt, and jasmine. I think I like it. I really do. Mackenzie Shepherd.

“Let’s try it together this time, baby.” Kenzie pulled one of the quilts from his arms, tucking it between her elbows against her stomach, and grasped his hands. “Let’s move to the bedroom right now. I wanna see if we can do it while we’re touching. Like this.”

A gleeful curiosity came into Duncan’s eyes, and he nodded. “Ready?”

“Ready for anything, baby.”

Kenzie closed her eyes; she focused on the comforting, constant pressure of Duncan’s large hands holding hers, the ever-gentle reassurance of his body close by. Let’s go to bed, she thought, and she felt his mind meld against hers--the thread of him, tied around her. Yes, sweet Kenzie. To bed.

The air shifted--the sweet smell of the hickory wood, the lifting night, the sweet grass dissipated--and then there was only the sound of the wind drifting, slight, against the gauzy curtains, and spring peepers out on the lake, very far off. Kenzie opened her eyes. Duncan was smiling at her; the smile of an angel. Where is your crown of flowers, my sweet Prince of Heaven, she thought. Here you are, unshrouded, radiant.

“We did it,” he whispered. He dropped the blanket from under his arm to a heap on the floor--gathered her up against him, pulling the quilt away from her--and carried her to the bed, his arms lifting her as though she were made of the soft blankets herself, easily, so sweetly, with a tenderness that brought a drifting, tingling contentment along her entire body, from the tip of her head to the bottom of her toes; hold me, beloved, forevermore. Duncan buried his face against her, and she knew they wouldn’t need to speak any more words out loud tonight. We did it--you and me. We moved through space and time. Together. Because it’s this love that brought all this magic into our lives. Everything else flows out from this love.

A little while later, their faces was washed, their teeth brushed, and they were naked, wiped clean of sweat and the residue of their come with damp cloths. Her back was pressed against his warm, bare torso in the golden-soft bed, his hand clasped in hers between her breasts, and Kenzie lay listening to the soft sound of Duncan’s measured, dreaming breath, feeling the tickle of it on her neck, and the gentle pulse of his heartbeat between her shoulders. She could sense that sunrise was not far off as she drifted away to sleep, inside the haven of his arms. Something’s coming tomorrow, she knew. But she wasn’t afraid; she welcomed it. Come destiny. Come. We’re ready.

[wincestismyguiltypleasure]

wincest 5&22 i wanna see your beautiful way of thinking

Before I get started I would just like to take a minute to say, let me love you, you stunning creature! You are the one with the beautiful way of thinking. I am living for your tags, my darling.

5. Who says ‘I love you’ first?

Sam. 100%. He’s just a little kid with a colossal ache in his heart. His love for Dean growing over the years like a magnificent crescendo. 

It was soft at first, just sweet whispers in his ear. 

‘I’ve got you, Sammy’. 

That maddening desire gradually building until all he can think about is Dean, Dean, Dean. His brother’s name like the thunderous sound of a heavenly choir ringing out in his mind. Beautiful and uplifting. Saving him from even the deadliest of sins. It’s you and me against the world, little brother.’

Sam felt those words in the very depth of his soul. Pounding little thirteen year old heart so fragile underneath their weight. 

“I love you, Dean.” Sam whispered the words so softly he wasn’t even sure that his big brother had registered them. 

He could hear the deafening thud of his heart hammering against his rib case, rain falling down steadily on the roof of their fleabag motel, but nothing from his brother.

“Did you hear me?” Sam dares to reach out a shaky hand, placing it gently over Dean’s heart.

Sam always found himself crawling into Dean’s bed when it was storming. The chaos outside melting away in the comfort of his big brother’s strong arms. 

“Yeah.” A weary sigh. “Yeah, Sam. I heard you.” 

“…Okay…”

Sam curls his fingers around the worn material of Dean’s shirt. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to hold onto harder, his brother or the hope that he’s not alone in this. That this isn’t just all in his head. 

“Hey,” Dean looks down, green eyes pleading for Sam to understand. There’s a long, complicated story behind that desperate stare. Sam doesn’t falter though. He wants to read every word. He wants to analyze, to learn. To know every intricate detail of the complex novel that is Dean Winchester. “I hear you, Sammy.” 

Sam knows exactly what that means. It means I love you too…but I can’t. I can’t let myself believe that this is forever when I feel that fire in your heart. It burns for me, yes. But it also burns to be free. You were born to run, Sammy and I can’t tell you how much I love you back knowing the way this end. 

“My feelings for you are never going to change, Dean.” A salty tear rolls down Sam’s cheek. 

It’s hideous, this love Sam feels for his big brother. A raw oozing wound ripped clean across his heart. 

Little did he know that Dean had one too. Split open wide and bleeding just for Sam. 

22. Where does their first kiss happen?

In a vast field, sea of brilliant stars hanging above them bright as the fireworks they’re lighting off. Warm glow of their sparks dancing around them as they hold each other close. 

“Thanks Dean. This is great.” Sam rocks up on his tiptoes, pressing a chased kiss to his brother’s lips that are turned up in a sweet smile. 

“Sammy.” 

“Please Dean, kiss me. Just this once.” 

[ask-mystical-bangtan]

God of Love

Incubi were strange creatures, built only to feed off others, use them and then drop them. They were meant to simply take and take. Love was a rare occurrence, not normal in the eyes of any Incubus.

However, Jin was never normal.

It had been years too late that he’d finally grasped his powers, he’d been shunned by others of his species. He’d been forgotten, left behind.

Yet when everyone had been so cold to him, there was one being that had shown kindness. He’d been barely older than thirteen when he’d left his clans grounds and wandered into the forest. Barely older than thirteen when he’d experienced kindness for the first time in a long time. Kindness in the form of a simple phrase, spoken softly next to him.

“Oh my… You’re so far away from your land, Incubus. What has brought you here, looking so sad?”

Thinking back on it, Jin knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

If anyone could make an Incubus fall in love, it would be Him.

The God of Love.

Yet from this love spawned the raw hatred toward himself.

He felt broken, like a failure to his species.

It took over a year for him to finally come to terms with his feelings toward the God and he planned on confessing, hoping that the God would accept his feelings.

He’d climbed the steps to the temple, just like he had many times before.

“Stop me if you don’t wish for this…” Jin heard the familiar voice from inside the temple and he stopped, peeking into the temple to see who Jimin spoke to.

“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

The second he saw the God’s lips connect with those of his Champion, Jin backed up, a sharp gasp leaving his lips as he turned and ran from the temple.

The Champion.

He’d forgotten about the fucking Naiad.

How Jimin had always looked at him like he held the world in his hands, how the Champion always seemed to interrupt when Jin had a moment alone with the God.

But who wouldn’t fall for the God of Love.

And just like that, a burning hatred for the Naga formed, but it didn’t seem to get rid of the love that he also harbored. The two emotions contrasted each other, yet they seemed to form something of their own.

He wanted to see Jimin suffer for hurting him. He wanted to hurt Jimin, but wanted to do it in a way he wouldn’t know, so he could still win his heart.

He needed to get rid of the only things standing in his way.

The Champion.

But as time passed, Jin wasn’t exactly sure how he would do it. He started to think he should give it up, but then when he’d met Taehyung, he knew that he couldn’t. That this was only the beginning and he needed to finish what he’d started.

He needed to make Jimin suffer.

They’d planned and planned. They’d taken their time putting it all together, covering every single detail.

And they finally had it, a way to get rid of the Naiad, and get the ring from him.

He’d filled in Namjoon, knowing he’d need the Gargoyle’s strength to execute his plan. They’d tested a lot to see what would be the best way to take out the Naiad. Something that would not harm Namjoon.

That’s how they ended up standing on the edge of the river, waiting. The sun was high, just past noon. Normally around this time was when Jimin would rest and Daehyun would normally come back to the river.

It was incredibly warm and Jin was growing impatient as he waited.

And soon enough, he saw the familiar figure coming into sigh. Both Daehyun and Jin just as thrilled as the other to see each other.

“Seokjin. What can I help you with?” Daehyun asked cooly, an eyebrow raised. Jin hummed, glancing at Namjoon next to him.

“Is it a crime for me to want to enjoy the river?” Jin crossed his arms over his chest, his lip curling back in a snarl when Daehyun snorted.

“Right, sure. Like you would come anywhere near my territory to enjoy the river,” Daehyun muttered, moving to sit on the riverbank, his feet dipping into the water. Now that Daehyun had his eyes turned away, Namjoon’s eyes flashed and Jin nodded to him.

In an instant, Namjoon’s wings spread out and he lunged forward, his cold, stone arms wrapping around Daehyun, a shocked shout leaving the Naiad’s lips as he tried to reach for his sword. His voice was cut off as he was slammed into the water by the Gargoyle, the stone being’s arm not letting go as he dove into the water.

Jin knew he didn’t have long before Namjoon would lose his hold on the Naiad, especially underwater. Daehyun had the upper hand in his own territory.

Jin dropped to his knees and slipped his clawed hands into the water, ignoring how cold it was against his leathery skin. He closed his eyes and tried to summon as much of his power as he could. The sky above them darkened slightly as clouds moved in front of the sun.

His body felt like it was humming as he gathered all his strength, his arms shaking at the force. His hands sparked under the water before there was a deafening crash, blue lightening flashed in the river and water exploded around them, soaking the riverside and the trees on the edge of the forest. Jin’s eyes shot open, the pink iris’ glowing as he slowly stood up, water dripping from his hair.

His body felt drained as his heart was pounding against his chest. He’d never used that much power all at once, but he’d expected this. He knew this was going to be difficult.

Slowly, his eyes lost their glow and the clouds drifted out of the suns path, letting the rays hit the soaked riverbank. Jin looked around him and watched as Namjoon burst from the water, his hand wrapped around the Naiad’s ankle. His stone wings carried him through the air and as he got closer, he swung his arm, easily tossing Daehyun onto the ground by Jin’s feet before he landed behind the Incubus. Jin stared down at the body, growling when he saw the slight rise and fall of the Naiad’s chest.

“You’re a resilient son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Jin muttered as he knelt down, checking the sword sheath strapped to Daehyun’s back, smirking when he saw the sword still safely tucked inside. He pulled the sword from the sheath and adjusted his grip before he pressed his to Daehyun’s throat, head tipping to the side. He watched the Naiad slowly open his eyes, his breathing shaky.

“I’m glad it turned out like this. It would have been a shame to miss seeing your face,” Jin smiled down at the Champion, his eyes cold and swung the sword down, feeling it cut through Daehyun’s skin with ease.

Stabbing the sword into the ground, Jin stared down at the mess of blood that was slowly pooling from the Naiad’s throat, soaking into the grass around him. Reaching down, Jin hooked his finger into the chain of Daehyun’s necklace, tearing it from his neck. He stared at the ring in his palm for a moment before he turned to look at Namjoon, satisfaction in his eyes as he wrapped his fingers around the ring.

“Toss his body into the river. I’ll be taking this to the temple,” he hummed as he held up the chain holding the ring. “Then I’ll meet you back at the castle.”

Namjoon nodded and watched Jin’s wings spread out, flapping a few times before he lifted himself into the air. The temple wasn’t too far from where they were and Jin was landing on the steps not too long after. He set the ring down on the steps before he knocked on the heavy temple doors before he retreated to hide in the forest. He knew if he handed the ring to Jimin directly, he would be too obvious. He wanted to act like it was just by chance that he came.

When the doors opened, Jin ducked into the shadows, staring at the Naga slowly slithering out of the temple. He looked around for a moment before his eyes lowered to where the ring was resting on the steps of the temple.

Jin watched as the Naga’s eyes widened and he reached down to take to ring in his hand, staring at it. Jin had been ready for tears, screaming, crying.

What he had not expected was for the Naga to go back into the temple silently. The door slammed shut behind him and Jin vaguely heard the sound of the bar falling into place behind the door, blocking off entry into the temple. It was very rare that Jimin would ever use it.

Stepping out from his cover, Jin ran up the steps of the temple, his fist pounding against the marble doors, yet there was no answer, not even a sound from inside.

Only silence followed.

Jin reasoned that perhaps he would have to give it a bit of time, that maybe he couldn’t swoop in immediately after.

He returned day after day, knocked on the door, called for the God of Love and no answer came.

The door remained locked and Jin didn’t see Jimin for days.

And slowly, days turned to weeks, weeks to months and months to years.

And slowly, the love that Jin had felt for the God of Love faded.

[johnny-and-dora]

every storm that comes, also comes to an end

"Where can a guy get a fifty piece orchestra when he needs one?"

or, spring hill medical clinic, coral palms, florida. september 2016, 4:05am. peralta, j, admitted at 10:28pm for gunshot wound to the left leg.

(or, the one where jake and amy finally, finally, get a real moment alone) (post 4x03) read on ao3

---

Jake, inevitably, dreams of her.

It’s familiar now, achingly so. He dreams, often exclusively, of Amy Santiago, as he has nearly every night since this hellish swampy nightmare started – the way her shiny ponytail swings as she flicks through a case file, the way her pantsuits always remain pristine even when they tend to end up spending most of the night crumpled on his bedroom floor, the way she uses him as her own personal space heater, curled up against his body like a physical part of him he didn’t even know he was missing – and now he misses it more than ever.

It’s fragments, mostly, that cloud his subconscious - the little things that he’s made himself sick replaying over and over again in a desperate attempt to make sure he doesn’t forget even the tiniest detail.

He thinks he might miss the way she laughs, smiles, glares, looks at him more than he’s ever missed anything before.

And yeah, okay, he often dreams of them, too. Even more often in daylight hours when the blistering sunshine and the flip flops and the feeling of having your heart ripped out of your chest all gets a little hard to handle. He dreams of their perfect Hollywood reunion more than he’d ever casually admit - gleefully running at full speed towards each other, in the precinct or at the airport or in slow motion through an extremely romantic sunlit field of luscious golden wheat all while a fifty piece orchestra’s symphony swells to an undeniably epic climax in the background.

(Being Larry, also somewhat inevitably, comes with having a lot of time on your hands. After a few months, and a lot of daytime straight to TV movies, it just seemed like the precinct wasn’t going to be enough.)

He’s come to expect the equally as familiar heavy drop in his chest when he wakes – they don’t tell you this in your first WITSEC briefing, but Jake is lucky enough to have some exclusive insider information; standard witness protection procedure seems to be waking up every morning feeling ever-so slightly like there’s a black hole where your heart should be. So that’s great. Really, five-star. He can’t wait to leave a glowing review of his relocation programme when he finally gets out of here.

If he ever gets out of here.

Not that Jake remembers much of what they told him in his first briefing – he was too preoccupied with the ringing in his ears and the overwhelming feeling of the entire world ending. Now waking up with an almost unbearable weight in his limbs is normality, as is crying in the hot tub and eating in the hot tub and dreaming of his heroic, hella romantic emotional reunions with his girlfriend in the hot tub.

Except - this time when he wakes, the weight doesn’t drop. In fact, there’s very little weight in his body at all - it’s all seemingly replaced by a dull, painful throbbing in his leg and the feeling like he was recently punched in the throat.  He frowns, confused, trying to piece together any recollection of the previous day he can summon with little luck.

He cautiously opens his eyes, blinking in the unfamiliar darkness  - and he can just about make out the outline of a hospital room, twinge of panic in his chest, surge of fear, ice in his veins. That is, until he sees her, and it’s almost like the world stops spinning.

Amy Santiago, real and tangible and an actual, physical, corporeal, human being. Amy Santiago, in the flesh, out cold, curled up in an uncomfortable looking hospital chair about a foot away from him using his favourite hoodie as a makeshift blanket.

About fifty different fireworks in his brain explode at once.

He blinks once, then twice, then squeezes his eyes shut for as long as he can bare before seeing if she’s still there – and the way she softly snores, head tilted slightly back, mouth slightly open, might be his favourite sound in the entire world as he slowly opens his eyes again with a quiet ecstasy at the sight of her still very much occupying a physical form.

Amy.

“Amy?” It comes out all dry, gravelly and raw, barely audible – but her eyes immediately snap open anyway, glinting with a hundred different emotions at once as she practically jumps upright. He instantly feels himself relax, dedicating even fibre of his currently barely conscious state to falling in love with her all over again - the dark purple bags under her worried eyes, her usually impossibly neat ponytail now loose, dishevelled wiry strands of dark raven hair, still shining, framing her weary face.

She’s never looked more beautiful.

“You’re here.” He manages to croak out, woozy and lightheaded as the lack of sleep and the morphine and the pain meds finally really hits him, dizzily grinning from the effect of being within arms reach of Amy Santiago again. She practically beams at him, an ethereal softness glowing from her entire body that that one shitty, grainy photo he’s had to go off for the past six months couldn’t even begin to capture.

“I’m here.” She says gently, getting up from the chair she’s been crumpled into for...however long they’ve been here. Wherever they actually are. Jake’s detective skillz (with a z, also inevitably) are understandably a little rusty - the morphine induced haze he’s in at the moment which makes the corners of his vision a little fuzzy isn’t exactly helping him deduce anything of note, except that she’s here and that seems to be the only thing in the universe that matters.

The room is still dark, only a fracture of harsh clinical light seeping in from the hallway - but if he squints and cranes his neck in a certain way, he can just about make out the first signs of dawn framed by the window, black charcoal sky streaked carelessly with deep blues and purples. She cautiously reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently, bringing him back crashing down to her.

“Where...”

“Still in Florida, babe. We have to head back in the morning else CJ is going to be even more mad at us, but the nurses promised they’d discharge you and Holt as soon as possible so that you can finally come home.” She’s saying a lot of things that he’s too exhausted to even really process, preoccupied with drinking in every last detail of her face - but he hangs on to her last word like a lifeline, eyes shining with hope. He's getting out of here.

“Home. We got Figgis. We’re going home?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods, bright with the warmth he’s been so desperately craving, and they gently share a slightly delirious smile. He tries to shift  himself up in bed so he can see her better but pain flares in his leg and he can’t stop himself from wincing, instantly somehow more pained from the flash of distress on her face.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” She asks, wide-eyed and nervous, and he shakes his head.

“Nope. Just you.”

She flushes pink, just the smallest, tiniest little bit, and her shoulders loosen. He internally high-fives himself over how smooth he is and quickly realises this is the first time they’ve really had the chance to be alone, at least without the risk of Charles somehow finding a way to get involved. Where can a guy get a fifty piece orchestra when he needs one?

He shifts over as to one side of the tiny hospital bed as far as he possibly can, wincing as little as possible, and motions for her to lie down next to him – half-conscious, a half-desperate bid to make up for the seemingly endless nights (he had to stopped counting after sixty, heart sunk dangerously low, that stabbing pain in the heart, that impossible weight in his chest) they’ve been forced to spend apart. She furrows her brow, empathetic but serious, and he sharply realises he’s missed the way she does that, too.

“Jake, I can’t. I’m not even supposed to be here, they only let me stay because Charles wouldn’t stop crying and Rosa threatened them with this knife she somehow has and I had to show them my badge and-“

“Please.” He pleads, voice cracked and heavy with the weight of all the other things he’s not strong or coherent enough to say, and she immediately softens.

He knows she’s always hated how he can do that to her so easily, change her mind, to break the rules, convince her to stay another night, to lie in bed for another five minutes - but tonight he relishes in it. He’s earned this - he needs to hold her – if only as proof that this isn’t all just another dream. He feels stupidly small, stupidly vulnerable, and defenceless – and the weird part is, he doesn’t even want anyone’s sympathy. He just wants her.

“Please, Ames. I just...I need this.”

“Okay.” She relents, far easier than usual, and climbs into the bed next to him, laying her head on his chest – and it’s awkward and cramped and a little uncomfortable, but the smell of her shampoo and the rise and fall of her chest and the buzz he gets at her hum of content is worth it a million times over.

They’re both exhausted, reasonably burnt out from the chaos of the last 24 hours - most of which blurred by so quickly he can barely remember it (though that might just be the lack of sleep and the strength of the pain meds.) Even as one or two things come flooding back, they’re only fragments - the fabric of Gina’s wizard cloak and the cold hard feeling of Figgis’s gun forcefully pressed to his temple and, so ridiculously, obviously, inevitably, Amy.

Amy punching him in the throat and Amy shooting him in the leg and Amy kissing him, finally, kissing him, holding him, telling him that she loves him, not being physically repulsed by his frosted tips like he was so afraid of.  Amy, bright and shiny and new but not really new at all.

God, he’s missed her so much. He already feels lighter and happier than he’s been ever since he arrived in this swampy, unbearably warm hellscape - and it’s all down to her, to the way her dark irises blossom with affectionate exasperation and uninhibited joy as she tilts her head upwards to look at him, to the way she fits so neatly in his arms like they were made to hold her, to the way that he thinks that this is it. This is all he needs, maybe just for now and maybe forever, if he’s brave enough to think about that for too long without the safety of the distance of it being an a completely hypothetical thing that happens years in the future.

(Yeah, okay, maybe he’d lingered at the sight of the tiny sparkling diamond in the front window of the town’s pawn shop for a second too long, but that was just a particular bout of delirious loneliness. Nobody, especially not Amy, god forbid Charles, needs to know that he almost bought it.)

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Her voice, barely a whisper, still rings out loud and clear to his ears, and he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m so much better now.”

And, because she’s here, and she’s real, and he just can’t quite resist-

“Well, as fine as I can be for someone who just got shot.” He shoots her his best dramatic, pointed and accusing look at her, but it quickly dissolves into a grin before he can stop himself, mainly at the way she reacts, definitely half playing off him and half genuinely offended.

“You told me to shoot you! It was literally to save your life, dumb-ass.”

“Mmmph. Still gotta find a way to make it up to me.” He raises suggestive eyebrows and she rolls her eyes and he grins and it feels like home, it feels like coming home, in a way he could never have predicted when they started, light and breezy, and bright and shiny and new (but not really new at all), what seems like another lifetime ago now.

“Jake...” “M’just saying, I’m gonna be cleared f’some pretty epic light non-strenuous sex real soon.”

He expects a dark yet warm glare, or at least another eye roll or slight shake of the head – but she just smiles up at him, eyes wide and teary and so full, so overwhelmingly full, overflowing with love and an intimate slight-insomnia induced tenderness that he’s sure is mirrored in the way he looks at her.

There’s a calm, a quiet lull in their storm - something delicate, fragile in the air, like they’re afraid to hold each other too tightly in case the other one breaks. He'll ignore it for this bright, shining moment that feels like finally being able to breathe again.

(He will break, eventually - later, once she has to leave for New York and he’s all alone again in the hospital room despite knowing it’ll be a matter of hours until he sees her, see them all again. He’ll break once she finally gets to takes him by the hand and lead him into whoever’s apartment they’re calling home now, break that night that he gets to sleep in their own bed for the first time in six months, and he’ll break just a little once she can finally place his badge around his neck again and use it to pull him closer so she can press her lips to his.)

(He’ll break and he’ll break and he’ll break, and fragment and fracture and shatter, and she’ll be there every time to pick up the pieces and put him back together - just as he’ll do for her.)    

“I missed you, so much.” She whispers it so quietly, so infinitely soft that he barely hears it. He melts a little anyway.

“I missed you so much too.” He presses a kiss to the top of her head. One night, soon, he’ll whisper in a low voice cracked and splintered with vulnerability just exactly how much so much is - but he can already see her gently drifting off, eyes closed, breathing heavy, and it’s all he needs to lull him back to a gentle, restful sleep, knowing it’s inevitable that any reunion between them was going to be perfect as long as she was in it, fifty piece orchestra be damned.

For the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t seem to dream.

(The nurse walks in on the two detectives a few hours later, initial shock and growing concern for hospital rules and regulation softened by the way peace, warmth and a weird kind of rightness practically radiates from the slow and synchronised rise and fall of their chests. Whispers among her colleagues of a tall tale of mafia bosses and witness protection and the tragic separation of two young lovers somehow suddenly seem more plausible than before – and she sighs deeply, shaking her head as she quietly closes the door, chiding herself at how easily she gives in to giving them just half an hour longer. )

[cakelanguage]

Merry Christmas @iggys-sous-chef! I’m your secret santa for the 2018 IgNoct Secret Santa :D I hope you enjoy this fluff-filled piece <3 thank you @ignoctsecretsanta for making this event possible ♡

You can also read it on AO3

Ignis woke to the sun shining through the curtains, casting a warm glow against his face. He blinked blurrily as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting. He turned his attention away from focusing on the room around him when he heard a grumble beside him before he felt an arm sling over his side and a sudden heat pressed against his side. Disguising a laugh as a pleased hum, he turned his head just enough to bury a kiss amongst the strands of black hair that tickled at his chin. The grumbling turned to a purr of delight and Ignis couldn’t disguise the noise he made as anything but laughter.

Ignoring the shushing that was being directed at him, he lifted his hand to brush the hair out of Noctis’ face enough to see a hint of the face underneath. “Good morning, Noct,” Ignis said, his voice gravelly from sleep.

Instead of a response he got a whine in return for his pleasantry. Noctis had never been a morning person, and that had remained true to this day. Well, Ignis knew how to respond to this.

Ignis leaned over Noctis, holding enough of his body up as to not squish Noctis but more to act as a comforting weight. Carefully he began trailing kisses along Noctis’ jaw, each one a feather-light brush before he continued his path. He relished in each little happy hum he could draw from his lover and only served to drive him on with his ministrations. He let his lips linger on the small bruise he’d left the night before underneath his ear and grinned when Noctis groaned quietly. “Good morning, Noct.”

“Ignis,” Noctis mumbled, clumsily rolling over onto his side from where he’d been nestled on his stomach. “It’s not even morning yet.”

“The sun begs to differ.”

Noctis shrugged and snuggled back into his side. “The sun’s confused.”

Ignis tipped his head back and let out a laugh. “Is that so?” He didn’t get a response save for feeling Noctis’ head nod against his shoulder. “So it’s not time to get up?”

“Mm-mm.”

“And if I say that it’s time to get up?”

Noctis’ face scrunched up in displeasure. “As your king, I hereby order you to stay here with me for at least three more hours.”

“As your advisor, I recommend that we get up.” Ignis nuzzled his nose against Noctis’. “Wouldn’t you like to eat breakfast?”

Noctis’ brows raised and he slowly opened one eye. “What’s for breakfast?”

Ignis smiled, bringing his hand up to cup Noctis’ face. He lazily rubbed his thumb along the other man’s cheekbone, and savored the feeling of smooth soft skin. “What would you like to eat, Noct?”

Noctis’ lips quirked up into a mischievous smile. “The special cake.”

He snorted. “Cake for breakfast?”

“I’m the king, aren’t I?”

Ignis hummed. “True, but I’ll have to once again advise against it- now don’t pout I’m not finished. Why don’t I make some eggs and some biscuits; we can eat them with the jam I picked up from the market yesterday.” He knew he only needed to add one detail to seal the deal. “It’s ulwaat berry jam.”

Noctis’ eyes opened fully and Ignis could’ve sworn he saw the glimmers of joy in those blue eyes. Slowly, Noctis let go of his hold on him and scooted enough away so that Ignis had plenty of room to get up. “Okay, but only if I can add as much jam as I want,” Noctis said.

“Hmm, we’ll see.”

Ignoring the noise of protest from Noctis, he pulled covers off of him and slowly got up. The floor was cold against his feet and he quickly began searching for the pants he’d abandoned the night before. They couldn’t have gone too far. He saw his lounge pants half hidden behind the chair near the desk. He bent over to snag his pants and received a whistle from his darling partner.

“I love the view,” Noctis teased from the safety of their bed.

He let out a huff and gave Noctis a dry look. “I could say the same if I could see more of you then just your head.”

Noctis stuck his tongue out and finally sat up with a grumble. “There, I’m up.”

He made a noncommittal noise. “In a sense.”

“Iggy, why’re you teasing me so much?”

Ignis smiled and walked back over to the bed and gave Noctis another kiss on the cheek. “It’s because your reactions are adorable, love.” Ignis took in the blush that quickly took over Noctis’ cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Absolutely adorable.”

Noctis drew out his name in a whine and all Ignis could do was laugh and step away from the bed and slip his pants on.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Ignis called over his shoulder before he walked out of their room.

Their little apartment in the heart of the partially rebuilt Insomnia wasn’t lavish but it was excellent especially given the places they had stayed in the last ten years. They were cozily nestled on the top floor of the apartment complex, something Gladio had argued wasn’t particular safe when it came to protecting the king, but Noctis had insisted. And Ignis wasn’t prone to argue about it.

Truth be told, it was decorated very similarly to Noctis’ old apartment when he was a teen, but it had a touch of maturity that the space had lacked before. The large l-couch that Noctis used to own was now a simple couch with a small loveseat. Other things were different but it felt familiar enough to not feel completely foreign, but also had enough of a difference to feel new. It was an odd sort of limbo.

Ignis padded into the kitchen and took the ingredients out that he needed and turned on the oven. It was a simple recipe, one he had made many times before that Noctis had always enjoyed. The eggs a little less so, mostly because he’d always insisted in adding either a at least a garnish of chives or cooking the eggs with spinach so that Noctis would finally eat some vegetables. His love always complained less about veggies when he got to eat them with something he would call “tasty.”

Sprinkling the counter with flour, he transferred the biscuit dough to the floured surface and began kneading it. To this day cooking was a time he could use to think or relax.

He heard the chime of the oven signaling the oven was preheated and began rolling out the kneaded dough. Grabbing a biscuit cutter, he cut out the disks of dough. With all the biscuits cut out and placed on a greased sheet, he placed the pan in the oven to bake. He turned around to clean his work surface only to spot Noctis.

Eating the raw, leftover dough.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum, what in the world are you doing?” Ignis asked.

Noctis gave him a thumbs up. “It tastes good, Iggy.”

“And you couldn’t just wait for them to finish baking?”

“I only ate a small bit of it, don’t worry.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m putting spinach in the eggs.”

Noctis’ jaw dropped. “Oh come on, Specs don’t be like that.” His boyfriend stepped around the counter and into his space. “Please?”

Ignis tried to look anywhere aside from Noctis’ eyes. Meaning he got an eyeful of Noctis in nothing but his shirt from the night before. It swamped Noctis’ body in all the right places, the sleeves falling over his hands; “sweater paws” as Prompto had informed him on one occasion. But his boyfriend was nothing if not persistent. He was able to last a minute before he met those eyes and broke into a smile. “You aren’t supposed to use those powers for evil you know.”

Noctis grinned. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Cheeky.”

“You love it.”

He felt a warmth take over him. Of course he loved Noctis’ cheeky attitude, he loved everything about Noctis. From his messy hair and stunning eyes to the small amount of stubble on his jawline and the faint scars from his use of the Ring of the Lucii. They all made up the perfect man in front of him, faults and all.

“You aren’t wrong about that,” Ignis said quietly, reaching a hand out to grasp Noctis’.

He pulled Noctis closer and moved his free hand to Noctis’ waist. Their bodies were all but melded together as he began to sway. It started off just as that before moving into an actual rhythm and step turning into a slow waltz.

There wasn’t any music, no fancy outfits that usually warranted dances such as this, just the two of them in the kitchen.

Noctis hummed. “I didn’t know we would be dancing,” he teased, “I would have dressed for the occasion.” He tilted his head up just enough that his lips could brush against Ignis’ jaw. “I hope you’ll forgive me, royal advisor.”

Ignis leaned down and nipped playfully at those lips. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only for you.”

“I would hope-”

“And your cooking.”

He snorted. “Even the veggies?”

Noctis shot him a look. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Mum’s the word.”

They didn’t stop dancing until the timer rang to signal that the biscuits were done. They skipped the eggs this morning. And the veggies. Noctis got extra jam on his biscuits.

And Ignis never let go of Noctis’ hand.