#and those fumes will kill them without a shadow of a doubt

[fruitless-vain]

Moving a chair to clean the floors and scratching the deepest damn gouge in to the floor about two feet long was the exact aggravated motivation I needed to start demoing the kitchen

Got the cabinet doors removed + disposed of and some of the baseboards pulled. Jacks bringing home some boxes so we can pack up the soon-to-be coffee nook items and start breaking open that wall.

[astaroth1357]

MC's Family Finds Out that They're Actually Dating a Demon the Hard Way

Demon boys more or less going demon on the MC's family. Bound to happen really. This one ain’t so cuddly guys. Special thanks to @anonimo324 for the inspiration for this one. Literally never would have occurred to me if they hadn't have said something and I love the excuse to revisit this idea. 😄 

Check out the Masterlist for more!

IMPORTANT: Continuation to "Demon Brothers Meeting the MC's Family" The general setup to this post is in that one.

Lucifer

You know what they say about things that seem too good to be true, right?

Oh, their MC's new boyfriend was smooth, put together, intelligent…

And prideful. So very prideful.

It radiated off of him like no tomorrow, there was just a subtle but constant air of superiority to everything the man did or said. Some may find it attractive but others? It can drive other people right up the wall.

And that's exactly what it did to some members of the MC's family. Even if he seemed educated and well-spoken what made him think he was so special? What made him think he was just so much better than the rest of the world??

They couldn't have known just how angry he'd get when they confronted him about it.

They couldn't have known that they weren’t questioning an arrogant man, but a prideful demon who'd take offense at the mere thought of being anywhere near their level.

It was only when he stood towering before them, demonic wings and horns in full view, did they learn the folly of their actions.

In their hospital beds, bones broken and bodies bruised, they'd rant and rave to anyone who'd listen "He's a demon! A demon! My child/sibling/etc. is dating a demon!!"

The MC disappeared with Lucifer that night, however. Their family writes them off as either dead or kidnapped for torture purposes.

In truth, they returned to the Devildom and Lucifer will never hear the end of how he lost control and attempted to skewer the MC's family members. Surely such a mighty demon should have better control than that... 🙄😑

Mammon

His dumbass let it slip a couple months in, but not without good reason for once.

He had actually been doing pretty well with their family. Sure he wasn't perfect,  but he made it clear enough he was looking out for MC and honestly the rest of them as well.

It was small things. Checking up on them sometimes. Making sure the little ones, if any, were safe. Not stealing anything that isn't nailed down (though that's something the MC notices more than their family of course).

It takes a lot. A lot. A LOT to make Mammon break out his demon form. He's better at keeping it in than Lucifer. But showing him something that’s threatening MC is actually a pretty quick why to do it.

The family was out together on a shopping trip, a giddy Mammon included because he knew that meant he could beg ask the MC to buy him stuff.

They really should have checked before they started strolling down the damn crosswalk, but they didn't, and an impatient taxi went hurtling towards them.

Before they could even open their eyes Mammon was already lecturing them about their stupidity, holding them on the other side of the street. Shirtless because his demon form was out and the dumbass forgot to hide it again. Even though they were in public.

He was quick to change back once he noticed, but the damage was done. You can say their family was a little surprised that he straight up grew wings and horns. Only one of them fainted anyway.

To avoid causing further panic, Mammon just legs it away with MC still in his arms, shouting back an quick expletive laced "apology" over his shoulder.

MC smooths things over with their family later by phone. No one can quite wrap their head around the fact that Mammon is a demon, despite what they had seen, but it helps that he did seem to want to protect them.

The MC is not allowed to come home if they want to bring their demon boyfriend too, but their family isn't as worried about them as they could be. Mammon's looking out for them after all.

Leviathan 

Okay. They always knew the boy was a little weird but hot damn did that opinion suddenly go from 0 to 60 real quick.

Levi was distant and off-putting at first but in time it became pretty clear that he was just pretty awkward. He wasn't the best with people, but he seemed harmless enough.

It was the MC's idea to bring him along on a family weekend trip to the beach. They honestly couldn't understand why at first. He never seemed to like being with them...

It DID start to click for them a little more when they saw the guy in the water though. They can say it's probably the first time they'd ever seen him so comfortable in his own skin. He even started smiling!

Things were actually going smoothly for them all for once… until other people started taking notice of MC in their swimsuit and one bold gentleman decided to make a cheeky comment on it.

Now, Levi had always stuck close to MC when he was around them. He was practically a second shadow. But it seemed like the second he took notice of those glances he got extra clingy and after that comment.. he started to have a meltdown.

The once bold gentleman was kindly picked up by the neck and hurdled into the ocean like a Frisbee. It would have been hilarious if it weren't so horrifying.

It was about the time that the lad grew a snake tail that the MC's family peaced out off the beach, screaming in terror. MC and Levi left too, mostly because Levi was hellbent on dragging them back to the Devildom in a jealous rage. Obviously THIS is the kind of shit that happens when he leaves his room!

No plans are ever made to go visit again, which he's very happy about. He hated being out in "the real world" anyway.

Satan

Nice as he could be, that temper was bound to catch up to him eventually…

There would be small incidents. A kid cuts him off on the sidewalk and he'd get a little loud and snippy about it. A dog won't stop barking at him and he'd just glare and send it away with a terrified whimper. These things were… worrisome. But not all that demonic.

Then other red flags started showing up. A person on the street would be rude to him and he'd look honestly ready to kill. It'd take MC physically holding him back to keep him in place. Their family was worried about them… Had they'd fallen victim to a possible abuser...?

MC had never listened to what their family had to say, always claiming that they were perfectly safe with their boyfriend. That he had to listen to what they said. But no one really bought that…

Well if there is one way to piss Satan off (and there are many) probably the fastest and most lethal is to doubt his intelligence. Especially if you're only one of those everyday, average humans...

That poor employee at the bookstore had no idea what kind of mistake they made when he told Satan he wasn't looking for Camus but Kafka then refused to double check. Satan doesn't make mistakes about his authors. Ever.

What was originally just supposed to be a relaxing afternoon with the family turned into a night in the station as everyone was questioned about the employee whose head got flattened against the store counter-top. The police weren't entirely convinced a demon did it, but they would look for a blonde.

Said demon had chucked MC over his shoulder and took off before the police arrived to investigate, which as far as they're concerned also kind of amounts to kidnapping.

Satan's now a fugitive in the MC's hometown and on the FBI's Most Wanted List so safe to say that they won't really be visiting anymore.

Asmodeus 

Not as surprised as you might think. There were some signs…

Asmo had a bewitching quality to him that went well into the unnatural. He could soothe and win over right about any person or animal to an… uncomfortable degree.

He also kept bringing up and babbling about nonsense products all the time. He always seemed to have the perfect hair treatment or know the best drinks but no one else had ever heard of any of it. What the heck even is Demonus…?

But the real kicker was, well, just how lustful he was. There were horn dogs and then there was this guy. It felt like he could flirt with a potted plant sometimes.

Though he was nice, no one in their house thought Asmo was faithful to MC. And even if he were, his blatant willingness to tease right about anyone he came across was showing them disrespect. 

Unfortunately, they had made the poor decision to confront him about it and claim that he didn't actually "love" MC….

There are few things more brutal and less forgiving than an enraged Asmo. Here he was with these humans, people he had been nothing but nice to, and they were doubting his love for MC?? What gave them the right!?

He had his demon form out and his whip already raised to teach these slanderers a lesson! Even if he had grown to like some of them, his anger took over his reason and he had to vent his displeasure NOW.

The MC stepped in before he could crack the whip and made him stop. Their family was terrified but he charmed them into calming down while he and MC talked things out.

They (by which I mean mostly a fuming Asmo) decided that since their family couldn't understand their love for each other, they didn't deserve to see it.

They leave the house calmly and don't come back. MC still sometimes calls their family, but they refuse to leave the Devildom or their beautiful fallen angel, no matter how much their family pleads for them to come home.

Beelzebub 

On the one hand, absolutely no one wants to believe it… But it also does make a lot of things make more sense in hindsight.

Like, he was built like a linebacker so it was sort of understandable just how many calories his body seemed to need but there was a limit.

He. Just. Kept. Eating. Never-endingly hungry. Always poking through the kitchen or ordering a mountain of pizzas. More impressively, he never made any leftovers… Ever.

He was such a sweetheart though… They tried to turn a blind eye for a while. Make excuses and rationalize the impossible… but it couldn't last.

It was only supposed to be one nice dinner out. MC had gone over the rules with him ten times before going, "This is a human restaurant and I'm paying, so you HAVE to stop at thirds. Okay? Okay??"

He tried. But the food was sooo good, he just couldn’t stop! And, like clockwork, here comes the manager to cut him off and there goes an angry Beel. Full demon form, tossing tables and wrecking chairs to everyone's absolute horror.

MC had to use the pact to stop him. They could only leave their family with a quick goodbye before they had to book it from the cops on Beel's back as he flew away.

To say there was a mini-meltdown among the members left behind would be an understatement. What the HELL just happened to the sweet young man they had come to know???

The damages were paid for by Lucifer a "mysterious donor" and everything was explained to their family by MC over video call from the Devildom with a very guilty and apologetic Beel in attendance.

When it was clear that the MC wasn't going to leave him or literal Hell despite their protests, they either had to accept it or never hear from them again. Members made their choices, but it's pretty hard to stay mad at someone they've grown to like so much...

He's no longer allowed to go visit them in the human world (which is probably for the best) but shows up on MC's video calls regularly. They still kind of think of him as family even if he could eat them all. He's just such a nice lad, you know?

Belphegor

…. You know, there was always something kind of off about that kid.

It was always hard to place what made Belphie so… different. It could have been the way he never seemed to take any of them seriously or the kind of amazing lack of energy he brought to things.

It also could have been the fact he kept making comments about being a demon, going to "hell," knowing Satan personally, etc. but always played them off as jokes.

Honestly when it finally came out that yes, he was actually a demon, it was almost a relief because it made waaaay more sense than not.

Still fucking terrifying, though.

One of their family members had made the mistake of waking him up from a nap when he and MC were there for a visit

Now. It's not easy to wake Belphie even on a good day but an airhorn to the face is probably not the way to go about it.

When he sent said family member soaring out the window, one-handed, with his horns and tail on full display and a familiar look of murder in his eyes, MC knew the charade was pretty much up...

True to his word, Belphie doesn't let some humans keep MC away from him. He scooped them up and hopped out the broken window before they could really even protest or explain anything.

Which, I mean, how does one even go about smoothing over the fact your demon boyfriend just yeeted one of your family members out of the house?

Their family is kind of able to put two and two together themselves regardless. Which is good because neither Belphie or MC are probably coming back any time soon. If ever. Hope they enjoy postcards...

[youbloodymadgenius]

Nothing Left (Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my entry to @geekandbooknerd 2k Writing Challenge. Congratulations again, Hayley, you deserve each and every one of us 🌻

The gif is a dead giveaway: this piece is an angsty one 😬 Sorry about that but I feel like I can’t write fluff all the time 😉

Prompt in bold

Thanks to @zuxiezendler for beta reading this for me (hope you don't mind Hayley, but since it was for your challenge... 😉)

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: Leaving Ivar is not an easy task.

Warnings: angst; Ivar's temper; physical assault (no harm done, though); Freydis is beautiful; no happy ending (you've been warned).

Words: 2089

Crutch – right foot – left foot – crutch – right foot – left foot

You can hear him coming. Of course, you can.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He's not yet in your shared bedroom and he's already shouting. Instead of turning around, you grab the little carved wooden wolf he gifted you many years ago and put it in your pouch.

As he stabs the wooden floor with his crutch, you can physically feel his anger. "You thought you could sneak out? Uh?" You know his jaw is clenched, and he's probably shaking with rage.

"This is what you intended to do, admit it!"

You just scoff. No, you didn't intend to sneak out, not in your wildest dreams. Not with White Hair's men everywhere, night and day.

A thump – his fist hitting the table, you'd say – and then a roar.

"ANSWER YOUR KING!!!!!"

Glancing over your shoulder, you give him a tired, defeated smile. You don't want to fight. You never wanted to. "What does it look like to you, Ivar? Do you really think I'm trying to sneak out? Of course, I'm not."

"Rumors are false, that's what you're saying?" He snorts and, taking two more steps into the room, he joins you. "What's that, then?" He gestures angrily toward a wooden trunk, filled to the brim with your belongings, mostly dresses and a few jewels.

"I'm leaving, if that's what rumors say, Ivar, I'm just not sneaking out." You speak softly while closing the trunk.

A wide-eyed look on his face, he can't hide his surprise at your easy admission but he quickly pulls himself together, straightening up and towering over you.

"You can't. I forbid you." Giving you an intimidating look, he grits his teeth.

You barely shake your head. There's so much sadness in your heart. "Of course, I can. I'm not asking for permission, you know? I'm leaving, whether you like it or not."

That's when he explodes, his bottom lip quivering. "I SAID, I FORBID YOU! FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, YOU WILL DO AS YOU'RE TOLD, Y/N! I. AM. YOUR. KING!"

His scream is so loud that you can't help but take a step back. But you don't lower your gaze. You won't. You can't. So, keeping your chin up, you inhale slowly. "And I'm still a free woman, Ivar. I'm leaving today."

You know the man you once loved is not going to make that so easy for you. So, you're not surprised when he grabs your wrist so firmly you can't shake him off. Tossing his crutch on the floor, he places his now free hand on your shoulder. Looking at him, you can tell you've rarely seen him this angry. Never releasing the pressure on your wrist, he throws you against the nearest wall so hard that the back of your skull makes a resounding "clunk".

He leans in close to you, his breath stinking faintly of honeyed mead, and presses the weight of his body against you. "You're not leaving, Y/N." He then moves his hand from your shoulder to your throat and the air is immediately stolen from you as you stare into his now darkened eyes. With your right hand still pinned to the wall, you only have your left to defend yourself. You're slapping him, clawing at him, but you may as well be tickling him with a feather – your scratches and punches have no effect on him whatsoever.

"I could kill you, Y/N. Maybe I should." The threat is clear, obvious, but Ivar loosens his grip just enough for you to breathe. He won't harm you. Not yet anyway.

Clearing your throat, you don't look away. "Maybe you should. It wouldn't be the worst thing for me, you know? One way or another, I wouldn't be here anymore."

Your words sting, you can see it on his face as he steps away, wobbling and dumbstruck.

Slowly leaning forward, you grab his discarded crutch before giving it back to him. "Here." You mutter before taking a seat on the bed. Ivar follows suit, flopping down next to you.

Blinking several times, Ivar is obviously trying to come to terms with what you just said. "So, you'd rather be dead than here? With me?" His voice is shaking and he fidgets with his fingers on his lap.

"Ivar, there's nothing left here for me… Nothing… We just don't understand each other anymore, you know that. I don't understand you anymore, Ivar. Since Wessex, you've changed so much…"

You've tried. You've tried very hard. But this man, this king, is no longer the man you fell in love with.

"It's about Sigurd, isn't it?" Ivar asks sadly, but you immediately shake your head.

"No Ivar, you know it's not. I told you, even though I wish you hadn't killed him, I understand why you did it. And I know you didn't want to."

"It's about my legs, then." His face suddenly hardens but you know him, he always hides his pain behind anger. "I knew it. I knew this day would come. You're tired of the cripple, admit it."

Without thinking, you grab his hand, entwining his fingers with yours. As much as you resent him for what he has become, you can't let him run himself down like this. " It has nothing to do with your legs. Your legs have never bothered me, and they never will. You're stronger than all other men, not in spite of your legs, but because of them. Actually, you're the strongest man I know, and I've always felt proud to walk beside you, or to be your woman. I forbid you to doubt it."

"Why, then?" Ivar is so soft now, seems to be so… broken, you have to remind yourself why you're leaving. You have to remind yourself of the horror.

Closing your eyes, you conjure up frightful images behind your eyelids.

"You killed Margrethe, Ivar. You didn't have to do that."

He tenses beside you, releasing his hand from your grip. "She was talking rubbish all the time, she was spreading rumors about me, you know that!!"

"She was insane, Ivar! She was no danger, neither to you nor to anyone. And as for the rumors, I'm loud enough for people to know that you can pleasure a woman. She was harmless, and you killed her, and that, Ivar, I can't understand. And then, you did worse. You killed Thora." You can't help but wince, the stench of burning flesh still so vivid in your mind, you'd swear it's real.

Fuming, Ivar points an accusing finger at you. "She defaced my image. She was plotting behind my back. She was conspiring, criticizing me. She saw me as a tyrant while I was just trying to rule well. She was a FUCKING DANGER!"

Startled by his shout, you stand up hastily. "You burned her alive, Ivar!! You burned her entire family. Asbjorn, her brother, had not yet seen his tenth spring. And you killed him!" You know he can see the disgust on your face, and the truth is, you don't care. He deserves your disgust. He deserves your contempt. He deserves you falling out of love with him. "Thora was your brother's lover and she was my friend and you burned her alive!!! How could you?" Your hands tangled in your hair, you shake your head, still barely able to process the horror of what he did.

"And what was I supposed to do, huh?" Ivar seems unshaken, and it strengthens your resolve. He doesn't know between good and evil, not anymore. You want to reply that he could have exiled her, or had her thrown in jail, but to what end? What's done is done, and your former lover is a monster now.

"It doesn't matter, Ivar… What matters is that you're like a stranger. I don't know who you are anymore. Since this girl, you've changed." You shrug, blinking back tears.

Ivar rolls his eyes. "So that's what it was all about? I can't believe you're jealous, Y/N. This girl… It's just a... thrall"

Oh gods! There's none so deaf as those that will not hear, right?

"I'm not jealous, Ivar. She was naked on your lap, but I'm not jealous. Or maybe I was, but it doesn't matter anymore. And I don't give a damn about what or who she is. But she was whispering nonsense in your ear, and since then you've changed. I don't recognize you anymore. You're no longer the man I loved, Ivar..." Your words are genuine, your heart full of sorrow.

Still sitting on the bed, Ivar tilts his head. "You... You can't leave me, Y/N. What... What will I do without you?" His quivering voice sends shivers down your spine. But you won't change your mind. This man in front of you, unsure and insecure, is nothing but a ghost of who he once was. The boy you loved is gone. Dead. Killed by his inner demons.

Swallowing, Ivar slowly stands up, and frowns when you step back. "Y/N," he speaks again, reaching out but to no avail as you stubbornly put your hands on your back, "you're the person I don't need to explain myself to – not when it matters. You see everything I am and you don't run away from it. I... I can't do without you."

Your eyes filling with tears, you shake your head. "I can't be this person anymore, Ivar. I've tried, but I can't. I don't know you at all anymore. You've become the monster that people thought you were. You're paranoid, and narcissistic, and self-centered. You're cruel, and mean, and fearsome. I won't lie, sometimes I still see a shadow of the man – the boy – you used to be. But most of the time, what I see in your eyes is something scary and unfamiliar. I have said it before and I will say it again. I don't recognize you anymore, Ivar. I don't know who you are. You've done terrible things, which I cannot and will not forget and forgive. That's why I'm leaving." Pointing to the trunk, you bite the inside of cheek until it bleeds. "I'll send someone to get it later."

Heading out, you don't wait for his answer. There's nothing he can say that is going to change your mind.

Yet, you stop in your tracks when he calls your name, "Y/N!" his voice sounding like a wounded animal. Slowly turning around, you can see a single tear running down his face. "Please..." He begs and it kills you, because Ivar the Boneless doesn’t beg; never begs. For a fleeting moment, your resolve falters. Maybe you can still save your love. Maybe you can bring back the man he was. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe...

And then, a shadow slips between the heavy doors of the great hall and you recognize the thrall. She's undoubtedly beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. Flawless.

Without even according you a glance, she walks with a confident stride and as soon as Ivar sees her, you can tell you cease to exist for him. Enthralled, he watches her every step, a sparkle dancing in his eyes.

Tears flow on your cheeks, but it doesn't matter. You were right.

This is the end.

It's like torture but you can't bring yourself to walk away. So, you watch. You see Ivar closing the gap between them, inviting her to sit down, pouring mead into a cup and handing it to her. "How are you? I've been thinking about you." You feel like you're going to throw up as you see the smile on his lips; as you realize how easily he forgot about you.

His next question nearly kills you. "Are you married?"

You can't believe your ears. You can't stay here anymore. You can't breathe.

You don't want to hear her answer. You know what she will say. And at this moment, deep down inside, you know he will marry her. Of course, he will. He will marry her because she will always be willing to whisper in his ear what he wants to hear.

A blond woman, attractive and seemingly submissive – you know better, but Ivar doesn't –swaying her hips... That's all it takes for Ivar to forget you.

You. Can't. Breathe.

You won't die here from a shattered heart, though. Your pride won't allow it. So, stumbling, your head spinning, you walk away, your fist in your mouth to keep you from screaming.

You were right. There's nothing left.

Nothing.

🛡⚔️🛡

@geekandbooknerd @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @a-mess-of-fandoms @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @ivarthebloodyking @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace

[bimswritings]

Armorer x (Blacksmith) Reader 1/2

Warnings:Canon Typical violence

A/n: I had so much fun writing this! If anyone has fic recs for her send them my way! The next part of the Savage series and a new chapter of Our Way will come out next week!

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The Armorer had experienced more in her lifetime than anyone else would care to. She had watched the rise and fall of small rebellions, crushed under the foot of the Empire. Seen her people hunted and killed until their numbers weren’t even fractions of what the great tribe of warriors once was. Chaos and bloodshed, hiding and waiting, had become as normal as breathing to her. That’s not to say she missed the many good things that happened. 

The sounds of foundlings and young ones as they ran through the halls of the covert, not yet burdened by the responsibilities of adulthood, acted as a reminder that her people were still alive. And there was no greater sense of peace to be had then when they would all meet in the karyai and dine together like the family they were. 

Well, except for her forge. 

Her forge was a sacred place. Not only for her but for the others as well. It was here that the most important and private of discussions were held. Talks about individuals as well as the coven as a whole. Who would go out and hunt, what responsibilities would be given to who, and where they would go for their next supply run to get food and medicine. It was important that they never went to the same place too many times, least someone followed them back, and the amount always had to be different as to not let in on their numbers.

All these choices, all this planning, was run through her. Their Armorer. Their Alor. They trusted her with their lives, leaning on her as an elder would a walking stick. Despite the immense pressure put on her, she never let it show. Never asked for anything in return. Seeing her people happy was enough to keep her strong, and looking towards the future instead of the horrors of the past.

Besides, when she watched the bigger picture, it left the others able to focus on the smaller things. Namely the continuation of their tribe, which they were doing an outstanding job on if her current project was anything to go by.

The three pieces she was working on would fit together perfectly. Though each their own unique piece, they were all made from one base ore.

The mother would come to possess the intricate dagger currently sitting off to the side, being highly skilled in close quarter combat it would serve her well. The handle of the blade would slide smoothly in the bottom of her eagle-eyed riduur’s blaster, and make it even more dangerous than before. The weapon would have no weaknesses, each piece supporting the other, and be usable in any scenario. Of course they would still need a way to be locked in place. Something that would make the connection between the two weapons stronger. The insignia would be worn by the child until they died, and then given to their closest of kin, be it friend, lover, or child. It was of the mother’s clan, which they would all take the name of, and the metal ranicor already shone with a radiant pride as she pulled it from the blue flames, quenching it the basin of oil beside her.

It would fit at the juncture, locking the weapons in place with an unbreakable bond. 

The two adults would present each other with the weapons, a symbol of their promise to protect one another both in and out of battles. Then, together, they would tie the insignia to the child with a leather thread. The only addition would be a Mythosaur skull, which they would receive should they take up the creed of the Mandalorian. If not, they would still bear the mark of their clan and wear it with pride.

It was hard work, but the Armorer would do it all over again in a heartbeat. After all, the exchanging of vows between two Mandalorians was enough cause for a celebration, but for the same couple to have a claiming ceremony of a foundling at the same time? It had sent the enter tribe into a nest of bustling activity in preparation. The elders were particularly excited, constantly coming in to inform her of any updates or changes. 

It was one of them that she had expected when she heard footsteps enter her forge, not the young warrior she was faced with when she turned around.

“What can I help you with, child?” For a young Mandalorian such as himself to enter without invitation or a offering to the tribe, it must be of grave importance.

He remained kneeling as he spoke, head bowed in respect to his Alor.

“Alor, I have heard troubling news during my patrol. A matter I fear has to deal with the pride of the Mandalorian name.”

Underneath the helmet, her brows furrowed though he could not see it. From his tone, he seemed almost hesitant to deliver the news, and she waited silently for him to continue.

“There...there’s been word that another possess the armor of a Mandolrian a few parsecs over on the moon of Quilon.” He swallowed thickly, audible even through the modulator, before continuing. 

“Someone not of any tribe or clan, nor a foundling or anyone who claims our identity.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and the Armorer couldn’t blame the heat rising within her on the fire she had been previously toiling over for so many hours without issue. Though she concealed it well, any who knew her, who could tell by the way her helmet tilted up or how her shoulders squared slightly, knew that she was absolutely furious.

“Then we must retrieve it immediately.” 

“Of course, Alor. Which of the warriors would you like me to retrieve so they may be briefed.”

“None.” She replied, hooking her tools into her belt, moving to grab her cloak from it’s hook, where it had been previously gathering dust.

“Alor?” He questioned. She had told him that they would retrieve it, but if she wanted none of the warriors then how would they?

“It is time that people are reminded of who we were. Who we are. Though we remain hidden in our covert, we are not weak. We bide our time until we once again rise.”

She tucked an extra blaster into her belt, though she knew the weapon would come second to her hammer. If it turned into an altercation of shots rather than strength, she would be prepared.

“I will retrieve it myself, and make an example of those that thought they could tarnish our name.”

With that she was gone, stalking down the maze of corridors on a warpath. Everyone who saw her coming was quick to jump out of the way. If there was one thing more dangerous than an angry Mandalorian, it was an enraged Armorer.

__________________________________

Landing the ship just outside the town, the Armorer followed the coordinates given to her before leaving. 

Just like every other planet in their system, Quilon was nothing special. Another small rock in space abandoned by the Empire and left to be overrun by bandits. Though their presence here was even more prevalent than on Nevarro. 

She paid no mind to the eyes that followed her from the shadows, hidden under masks and hats and behind drinks as she made a direct line to the center bar.

The man behind the counter was an aged Weequay, his already wrinkled skin dull but still showing the strength that lay in the muscle underneath. Though old, he was clearly someone who could still hold his own against any patron who had too many glasses of brandy.

He had no hesitance in walking up to her, despite clearly knowing who she was a part of.

“What can I do for you?”

She placed a stack of credits on the counter, gently sliding the pile over to him.

“I’ve heard that someone here has the armor of a Mandalorian. I wish to know where to find them so that we may...talk.”

The Weequay picked up the pile,clinking the metal as he tested the weight before looking back towards the Armorer.

“A matter of great importance for you, I’m sure. However, the person you seek is also of great importance.”

Silently, she reached into her pouch and retrieved a few more credits, the clinking sound they made as they were deposited with the others into his waiting hand causing a smile to stretch his face, revealing a number of missing teeth.

“You’ll find your person on the far west side of town. The shop will be located just a bit out. Had to relocate it with all the noise bothering the townsfolk.” He laughed, turning back to his other patrons as he deposited the money. “Just follow the cursing.”

Twenty minutes and another exchange of information later, the Armorer found herself in front of a shop reading ‘Galactic Metalworks’.

If she had been angry before, she was positively fuming now. For someone who was supposed to have an understanding and appreciation for all things forged, the fact that they would have Mandalorian beskar, undoubtedly knowing its importance and what is signified, was the ultimate insult.

She could only hope that they would have enough sense not to have tempered with the armor, else she would have to hold herself back from killing them too quickly.

She walked through the door, pulling the fabric flap aside as she stepped inside. Instantly she was greeted with the sight of a surprisingly organized space, with weapons of all kinds lining the walls and a case displaying more decorative items sitting just behind what she assumed was the front counter.

There was no one in sight, prompting her to move further into the shop. As she passed, she couldn’t help but admire the works as she went. Though more elegant than what she would have done with some, there was no doubt about the quality of each item. Every blade, trigger, and handle was carefully shaped and sharpened, each having a softness that one would not expect of such weapons. It seemed to be the artist's signature stamp, present in everything she saw.

He attention was drawn away from the shining metals as a loud, and rather brash, string of curses flowed from the back of the shop. Once again reminded of her reason for coming here. The Armorer walked past the counter and its items, following the sounds of metal being hammered around the corner to reveal an open aired forge. 

There you stood, in all your soot stained and sweaty glory, cursing like a Trandoshian pirate as you inspected the item before you. A crude imitation of a helmet, she realized, though the eyes were horrendously off center and uneven, and being far too long for any but a Kaminoan to wear without hitting their shoulders. 

Were you really the same person who had made all the items out front?

No. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. She was here for business.

The intention was for her to take you by the element of surprise, leaving no room for a fight with the point of her hammer pressed into the vulnerable skin above your carotid. That was thrown out the window before she could even reach for the weapon as you quickly turned around, eyes locking onto her and going wide before frantically backpedaling. 

As luck would have it, the hammer you had been previously using was knocked from its stand and clattered to the floor, being stepped on and causing you to tumble.

Narrowly missing falling into the forge itself, your head still cracked painfully against its stand and your vision went black. By the time it cleared enough for you to stop seeing stars and your brain to process what had just happened, you found the very person who had startled you into such a state standing above you, feet on either side of your hips as a hammer was pointed dangerously at your face.

“H-hey!” You managed to stutter out, still dizzy and most likely concussed. “No need for that!”

Holding your hands up in an act of surrender and defense, should they still decide to attack, you balanced your weight onto your elbows despite the way it sent your head spinning.

They said nothing, only staring down through their owl-shaped visor as the golden shine of the helmet cast rays of brilliant light around the forge. Despite the situation, you could help but admire the stunning craftsmanship of the piece with envy. Each spike, every curve, was so beautifully done.

“I know you’re here for the armor, and I can get it for you! It’s right here!”

The Mandalorian remained still for a moment, contemplating, before moving back enough to let you get up, exchanging their hammer for a blaster, keeping it trained on your figure as you slowly rose and moved to the far wall.

Producing a key from beneath your apron, you moved one of the many boxes and unlocked a hatch hidden beneath. From there, you produced a chest that had yet another lock on it, setting it on your workbench and placing the key beside it. Backing away with your hands held up one again, the Mandalorian moved closer to the chest.

Hidden under the helmet, you couldn't see the way her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, laced with a hint of curiosity. You had gone through quite the effort of hiding it. Without your guide she might not have found the hatch, which had blended so well into the floor that when you had first moved the box she hadn’t seen it even with the filters of her visor. Why give it up so easily when you could have easily denied even having it in the first place, and no evidence to say otherwise?

Unlocking the box, she was even more surprised by what she found inside. While keeping a watch on where your figure had backed into the corner, she began shuffling through each item, peeling back layer after layer of fabric until she had constructed a full suit of beskar.  Not only was it stored with such care, the metal skillfully wrapped to prevent one item from damaging another if jostled around, but it appeared to have been freshly cleaned by a polish well known and used almost exclusively by smiths. It was meant to bring out the best shine and remove any scuff to increase the appeal and chances of someone buying the item.

“Where did you get this.” She put the items back in their case, closing it before turning back to where you were, blaster now lowered to her hip but ready to raise and fire in an instant.

“Bought it from some pirates who stopped by here to refuel.” You squeaked out. Despite knowing that all Mandalorians were warriors, you were still surprised to hear a woman's voice come from the helmet. The way she carried herself with such confidence and strength, you could only imagine the prestige and skill she had to back it up.

“I would have returned it sooner, but you guys are kind of hard to find.” You attempted to joke, letting out a nervous laugh as you shakily smiled. “I tried to keep it on the down low as much as I could to keep others from trying to come and take it. Paid a kid to let it slip when he saw one of you at a cantina you’re known to frequent.” 

The Armorer tilted her head slightly, still not believing you completely.

“Why not sell it, or melt it down for your own use?” She gestured to the space around you, at all the projects currently displayed or were waiting to be finished.

Your own brows knitted in confusion, as if you couldn’t believe why she was asking you that, and in reality you couldn’t.

“Well, I respect you too much.” Your shoulders shrugged lightly. “Growing up, my father told me all the stories of your culture, your people and what the armor meant to you. How it was more than just a piece of equipment, that it was like an extension of your own body and identity. Rather poetically, he would always put it.”

A small laugh made its way past your lips, taking the Armorer by surprise.

“If he could have met one of you and studied the armor he would have died of happiness. Probably would have even sworn an oath and donned the armor himself if he had the chance, no hesitation.”

Any thoughts of ill intention from before were reduced to nothing in the Armorer’s mind. The way you had spoken so fondly when describing your admiration for her culture, the same way you had when speaking of your father, was so gentle and sincere. Even if you had a helmet like hers she would have been able to tell just by your voice.

“You have my thanks for keeping it in such good condition until we were able to collect it. I know my people would share my sentiment if they were here.” She dipped her head in thanks, missing the blush that spread across your face at the action.

“It was no trouble at all, really! I hope you don’t mind but I did study it before hiding it away.” You nodded to the crude helmet she had found you swearing at when she had first entered. “As you can see, my attempts were less than successful. It’s like my father always said; If I could make armor the way I could make everything else, I would be far too dangerous.”

The Armorer silently agreed. If the display in the front of the shop was anything to go by, if you were able to make armor then you could potentially even give her a run for her credits.

“You are quite skilled in your craft. It would be a sight to see how you would interpret your own armor.”

“Rather poorly.” You laughed once again, and the Armorer found herself straining to hear its cheerful air, much to her own embarrassment.

It was time she left. She had gotten what she had come for, so there was no reason for her to stick around any longer. The more time she was away from the covert the more worried she became, mentally berating herself for being so ill-tempered and short sighted to have stormed here right away without thinking much of how the others would fare without her presence. Paz should keep a good handle on things, but it was still best not to be gone much longer.

Before she could excuse herself though, you had dropped the helmet you had previously been sourly glaring at and focused back on her, excitement evident as a bright gleam shone in your eyes. 

“You must have come quite a way to get here! Please, allow me to compensate you for having to come out to such a place.”

The Armorer tried to argue, to explain that it hadn't been a problem and that the beskar being back where it belonged was enough, but you wouldn’t listen, pushing her to the front of the store and practically demanding that she choose at least one of the items to take with her.

“They are all so well crafted. I could not even begin to know where to choose.”

Humming, you closed your eyes in thought before bounding back towards the forge, yelling over your shoulder for her to keep browsing while you went looking for something.

So she did, walking up and down and displays, taking in all the weapons and items as she duly noted that your leather work seemed to be just as good as your smithing if the wrapped handles and weapons holsters were anything to go by. Any choice that she made would make a fine addition to their armory, and Paz would be overjoyed with each item, though she made a mental note not to let him learn of your shop. The last thing she needed was him coming here and spending all the tribe’s money on your works, undoubtedly scarring you with his sheer size and gruffness as well.

It was in the middle of her browsing that a flash of color caught her eye. Many of the metals you worked with were the same shades of grey and black, even the occasional gold. But there, amongst the sea of cold steel in the display case, was the warmth of bronze. She moved closer despite knowing that nothing she would find there would be beneficial for the tribe. It was as if it were a magnet though, pulling her closer by the metal covering nearly every part of her.

The item was less flashy than those surrounding it, simple and to the point, if jewelry could be described that way. The charm was a small rectangle, no longer than an inch and less than a quarter of which thick. In elegant and delicately etched letters was the word ‘loyalty’. Nothing else.

“I never took you for someone to appreciate jewelry.”

She started, helmet looking up to see you coming back from your forge. In your hands was a cloth, wrapped around what could be anything.

“I was admiring the work. The detail is remarkably clean despite its size.”

“It's been here a while. Not many people come here looking for something other than weapons, and those who do usually want something a bit more eye catching. One of my favorite works though.”

Putting the item down, her attention turns to the bundle you’ve placed on the table. Carefully, you unwrap the fabric to reveal the blade underneath. The blade itself is silver, coming to a spearpoint tip without so much as a chip. It’s longer than a normal throwing knife but shorter than one would typically consider a dagger to be. 

“My own take on a vibroblade. Easier to throw but still small enough to be easily concealed.” You hold it out, prompting her to take it.

The handle fit in her palm like a glove, as if it were molded specifically for her. The weight was perfectly balanced, allowing her to switch into a reverse grip and back with ease. At just a glance she could tell that the ridge was perfectly straight, ensuring a smooth flight through the air to its target.

“From my own collection. I figured if a Mandalorian was going to use it, then nothing but my best work would suffice.” You took the blade back, wrapping and binding it before placing it in the chest alongside the armor.

“Your hospitality knows no bounds. I am glad our meeting can end on such terms.” 

Waving your hand, you brush away the compliment despite the burning of your cheeks. Something you blamed on the heat of the forge.

“It was the least I could do. If you’re ever out here again, don’t hesitate to stop by. It can get rather lonely out here.” The forlorn expression you took on despite your ever present smile pulled at something inside the Mandalorian. Something she had not felt in a long time.

“Though don’t expect another free weapon if you do. I have a business to run after all.”

“Of course.” She said, allowing you to lead her to the door, holding the fabric as she passed through.

The whole walk back, her mind was on you. Even after she had boarded her ship and set course for home, arriving much quicker than she expected, she was thinking of you. The fact that there were still those out there that thought of and revered her people as you had, it gave her hope that not all creatures in the universe were against them.

The others were eagerly waiting for her arrival when she returned, following as she made her way back to the forge where she would store the beskar until it was decided what to do with it.

“Did you kill them and take their weapon as well?” Paz questioned when she handed him the blade, immediately pulling it out to admire the item.

She didn’t answer, focused on putting away her haul and moving to clean up her space. Leaving so quickly had resulted in a cluttered mess for her to come back to, and she once again found herself cursing her temper. Traveling far distances was something she didn’t often do, and the experience had left her tired, wanting nothing more than to retreat to her chambers and rest. She had to make sure everything was in order before she did so though.

“What’s this?” 

She turned, facing Paz as he held something in between his large fingers. She walked closer, eyes locking on to the item with laser focus.

Its familiar bronze sheen shone with a new brightness in the dim light, the etched words now hardly visible. She didn’t know when you had snuck it in, nor how you had when she had been right there the entire time.

So, for the first time in years, the Armorer took something for herself.

Plucking the small charm from his hand, she dismissed him, pulling the shutters of her shop down and leaving her mind to wander back to you as she caressed the cool metal, which did nothing to dampen the sparking embers in her kar’ta beskar.

__________________________________________________

In all honesty, you hadn’t been expecting the golden helmed Mandalorian to return to your shop. After nearly a month and a half of seeing not even the faintest glimpse of beskar you had given up hope of ever seeing her again. Sure, you were still hopeful, but when you entered your shop for some late night smithing and found the silent warrior leaning against the outside wall you nearly screamed. If it hadn’t been for the light of the flames reflecting off her helmet you wouldn’t have even realized she was there.

“I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise. I don’t get visitors this late.’’

She tilted her head, gesturing for you to continue her work and decline the offer for a seat. Nothing more was said as you got to work, soon shedding your long sleeves in favor of the cool night air that flowed in from the open wall, exposing your toned arms to the Mandalorian. It was something you had always been proud of, the muscle earned from years of bending and forming metal with precise blows from your hammer.

After a few minutes of watching, the woman began moving about the shop, taking her time to inspect every inch of the workspace. Your previous encounter hadn’t left much time for her to admire it. Even though it was far less sophisticated and more worn than her own, she still felt a sense of familiarity within its heat, finding herself wondering if you would have a familiar feeling in hers. 

The thought was banished almost as quickly as it appeared. After all, an outsider not only entering the covert, but the armory as well? One of the most pivotal places of their people? Preposterous. She didn’t even know why she was here in the first place. One moment she was relaxing in a rare moment of peace she was allowed, and the next she was aboard her ship, coordinates for your shop already typed in.

From the corner of your vision, you watched as she approached your latest project; the same armor you had been working on for weeks. A warmth rose to your cheeks when you saw her inspecting it, picking up the helmet and rotating it between her hands. 

The visor had been fixed a significant amount, she noted, but it was still shaky at best. Both sides were still uneven as they dipped down into a point at the chin, and anyone who wore it would have the top of their heads pinched by the too shallow curve of the top.

“Your work has improved.” She noted, voicing it more to herself than anything.

“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I know it's not very good.”

“Not good no.” She admitted, setting the heavy helmet down and moving closer to where you were and setting every nerve on edge. “But there has been improvement, which shows that you’re learning.’’

Watching as you bent a thin metal pipe into shape, sparks flying everywhere as you didn’t even flinch when they landed on bare skin, then quenching it before moving over to your workbench and beginning to assemble it with an array of other items. She admired the speed and confidence with which you worked. Leaning against the wall, she watched as the weapon began to take shape under your hands.

Hours later, you were finished, a new blaster sitting before you. Just as beautiful and dangerous as the ones out front, with intricate vines crawling up the hilt and along the barrel, soldered on by your skillful hands before her very eyes.

“So, what can I help you with?” Turning towards the Armorer, you were surprised at how close she had gotten since you started, now almost touching and forcing you to crane your neck back to look her in the face.

“As much as I enjoy the company, I doubt you would come here without a reason.”

She remains silent for a moment, simply staring back at your smiling face before reaching around you to pick up the newly constructed blaster. The soft leather of her arm brushed your skin, and your nose picked up the familiar scent of forge iron from her gloves, causing your breath to catch in your throat as she turned the weapon in her hands.

“I have a proposition for you.” Her visor locked onto you, and despite the slight shiver of fear you couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

“You will make weapons for my people and repair any that need it. Should we need it, we will park our ships in your space and you will pick up anything we can not.”

Your brows rose as she rattled off the list. Though you would be glad to do anything involving the warriors, just for the simple fact of being able to see them up and close, you still had to question why she would choose you. There was no reason for them to trust you, even if you had returned the armor.

The Armorer took it a different way, thinking you were expecting a form of payment for your work, which only made sense.

“Of course, your efforts will be compensated. Should you ever need passage or protection, we would be more than willing to offer aid.” She reached into her pocket, retrieving a small device that she held out. Upon taking it, you discovered there were only two buttons on the disk. It might look like random scrap metal to someone else, but your trained mind recognized it as an old communications device. 

“Press the blue when items are done or you request a meeting. The green is for emergencies only. Life or death situations.” You nodded, turning to tuck the device on a higher shelf where it would be within reach but not have the risk of being accidentally pressed, and somewhat hidden should any unwelcome guest find their way back here.

“And,” she hesitated a moment, unsure of her next words. With just one visit, you had managed to lower the carefully raised walls she had constructed, penetrating its defenses in a way not even her own people had. But now, here with you in the peace of the forge, her tongue was loose and brain foggy, as if the heat was melting away every shred of common sense and survival instinct she had carefully honed.

“I will teach you how to make armor. One that will protect you. Under my guide as the Armorer of my tribe it will be nothing less than perfect. Though you must swear to never trade or sell it.”

Your eyes widened a fraction at her words, hardly believing what she had just said. Not only had you just learned a new fact about the stoic woman, that she was a smith just as yourself, but she was offering to teach you how to make some of the best armor in the galaxy. No, the universe.

“It...it would be an honor.” You tilted your head down in respect, only to have her leather clad gloves grab your chin, the worn material forcing your gaze up to meet hers. Though there was no way for you to truly see her eyes, you could almost feel the flames burning within them.

“Ni kar'taylir gar will not disappoint ni, ni goron.” 

__________________________________________________

If you had thought that your father had been harsh when he was first teaching you how to smith, then he had graced you with a mother’s love in comparison to the Armorer, a name she had given you to call her after multiple visits.

“It just feels kind of cold to keep calling you Mandalorian, especially with all the time we spend together.” You had told her when she questioned why you asked. There were other reasons too, namely being that she had her own name for you. Instead of calling you by the name you had given her, she had taken to calling you ‘goron’ or ‘tracinya’, in that unknown language of hers. You could only hope they weren’t insults.

She visited once a month, always arriving just before dusk and leaving at dawn, two to three weapons heavier and the occasional small trinket you had made between meetings. All night you would be bent over your forge under her watchful gaze, correcting your technique and giving the occasional tip when you were struggling more than normal.

At the end of the night you would offer your work to be inspected, glowing at any praise only to deflate with every critique, and she was nothing if not someone who was unafraid to express her opinion.

The entire time you talked with one another. Well, you did most of the talking, but it still felt nice to have someone other than the stray loth cat listen to your ramblings.

Every once in a while she would answer one question or another, though she never divulged too much information on her own tribe, apart from mentioning another Mandalorian in passing or treating you with one of her occasional stories from the covert. You respected her wishes nonetheless, and as much as you wanted to ask her about everything you resigned yourself to the fact that she would only tell you what she wanted you to know. Mandalorians were still very much sought after prizes, and the secrecy would only make sense, as it ensured their survival.

She also never picked up a tool, as much as you wanted to see her work. Her instructions were always verbal, with the occasional instance where she would place her hands over yours, moving them the correct way and never failing to send your cheeks ablaze. Thankfully you could blame the color on the heat of the flames and not your own growing feelings. Those were a different issue entirely.

You don’t know when it started, almost like it had always been there, building until they attacked with a snap. The fact of the matter was that you harbored feelings for the armored woman, and you couldn’t deny them, no matter how much you tried to push them down. Alone for the most part, she was the only person to regularly visit your empty residence. Ever since your father had died and left you the successor of his forge, both the shop itself and the small living quarters behind it had felt empty, haunted by his memories that couldn’t be chased away with any amount of plants you bought or how much time you spent working. 

The first time she had accepted your invitation for a drink after much begging was the first time the space felt complete in ages, though she simply sat on one of the only two chairs in the living room, drink remaining untouched in her hand.

You were content hiding your feelings. As long as it meant that she would come around, you would do anything. Though you feared your meetings may soon come to an end. While you were overjoyed with the progress you had made over the months, constructing enough armor for a single arm and leg, as well as a chest plate. Not much longer and you would have your armor complete, and her reason for coming around would be gone. No longer would she need to teach you, and there was no reason she couldn’t send someone else from the covert to collect weapons and drop off items for repair once a month. You remember her mentioning how their top heavy infantry warrior had asked to meet you, and as interested as you were in meeting other Mandalorians you didn’t want it to be at the expense of seeing her.

“What’s got you so distracted tonight, tracinya’ika?” she asked after you dropped your current project, a shoulder pauldron, for the third time that night.

“Nothing!” You managed to squeak out, only to feel her familiar presence behind you, growing closer until you felt her brush against your back, making you spin around only to be pinned against your forge. The heat burned your back, hardly noticed by your brain as you processed how close she was standing now, arms on either side of your body and helmet tilted to look you in the eye. 

“Tell me.” Her voice crooned, smooth even through the modulators and nearly causing your knees to give out.

Swallowing thickly, you struggled to get the words out.

“When...when you're done teaching me, will I ever see you again?” It sounded stupid to say it out loud. Needy, like a child wanting their mother. It made you feel foolish, believing she surely thought you weak and helpless now.

You were prepared for her to laugh or scoff, to chastise you for how foolish you were being about such emotional connections. 

She did none of those.

“Ni tracinya, as long as you still desire my presence, I will come. Until you give the word, and even after, our destiny will be intertwined.”

You didn’t, couldn’t, say anything after that. It was as if she had stolen every thought from your head, every word from your mouth, leaving you nothing but a gaping fool, staring at the powerful warrior before you as the sound of the spotted owls filtered in through the open wall from the cool night air beyond.

It was the Armorer who finally broke the trance, stepping back and pausing for a moment before collecting the prepackaged weapons from the table. She said nothing as she left, heading back hours before the sun had even begun to rise and leaving you with nothing to do but stare after her, wondering what you had done wrong.

Unbeknownst to you, the cause of the Armorers swift exit had not been your fault, but her own. The entire way back to the covert she berated herself for how foolishly she had acted, allowing her body to move before her mind yet again, putting you in a compromising position. Even while berating herself, the memory of being so close to you stuck in her mind. The way your hair stuck to your damp skin, practically glowing in the light of the flames as you stared up with large, innocent eyes.

She had wanted to take you into her arms then and there. Her kind hearted little smith. So gentle and warm despite the rough profession and living conditions in which you found yourself in. It made her feel all the more guilty about having allowed herself to grow so attached to you, bringing along all the dangers that came with being associated with a Mandalorian as well as the knowledge she provided.

With each visit the feeling only grew, and by this point her draw to protect you as she would one of her tribe was just as strong. You were a weakness. A chink in her armor that she would allow none to exploit. 

Unfortunately, she was just one Mandalorian, and there was a limit to her strength, as she would soon find out.

_______________________________

It had been a week since your last meeting with the Armorer. The way she had practically sprinted out played on repeat in your head, reviewing every second leading up until then in search of what you could have possibly done. Yet no matter what angle you looked at it from, you always drew a blank.

Well, what else were you expecting from a Mandalorian. As skilled as they were apt to run off without an explanation. On to whatever adventure was next. You could only hope that she would have some explanation the next time.

‘Or at least the decency to apologize for being rude.’ you huffed, slamming the door to the cupboard after retrieving a cup. You settled down with a mug of warm bantha milk and honey, still fuming. Hopeful a bit of reading would calm your nerves for now, ignited every time you thought back on the encounter. Hopefully you would be calm enough not to give her an earful when you saw her.

The fire crackled in the hearth, the only source of sound as you skimmed through the pages of the novel you had picked up. A cheesy romance that you wouldn’t be caught dead reading in public, highlighting a lowly dancer attracting the attention of a bounty hunter who bought them for their own operations, only for the two to inevitably fall in love.

The rough and brash nature of the bounty hunter in the story reminded you of your own Armored crush, and you found yourself daydreaming more than reading as you finished off your drink. 

If only real life could be like that. You were all too aware of how unlikely it was though. Such a warrior could never have feelings for a simple smith like yourself, no matter how much she admired your works. 

Still, there was no harm in dreaming, right?

That’s exactly what you allowed yourself to do, curled up on the seat with the book drooping just as low as your eyes. The warmth of the fire and a stomach full of warm bantha milk only helped the progression of sleep along, lulling you into a sense of security as the light humming outside grew.

That’s how the first shock wave found you, knocking you from content to the floor as it rattled the entire shop.

You scrambled to your knees, dazed and confused, unable to make sense of what had just happened before the next hit. This was much closer, rattling the windows and knocking items from the walls. Even from here you could hear the sound of metal clanging as weapons and trinkets were thrown from their shelves.

Above the ringing, just barely, you processed the sound of fighters as they blazed overhead.

The Empire, you realized with a chill. You had heard rumors of them doing this, decimating entire towns and villages in the dead of night while everyone slept. That was only for those who were suspected of housing rebels or acting as supply lines though! The most you ever got out here was the occasional ship stopping to refuel or gather supplies, which was done so quickly and infrequently you wouldn’t even know they had been here.

Now wasn’t the time to question why you had been targeted. Now was the time to act.

Stumbling to your feet, you ran to the only option of help you had. The shock wave of each sending another small tremor through the ground and causing you to stumble as dust rained down from the ceiling. Dimly, you could hear the shouts of the village as those still alive realized what was happening.

The transmission disk sat in the same place it always was, thankfully not knocked to the floor and hidden in one of the many small crevices of your now disastrous shop. Tools and metals of all types lay scattered about, creating a minefield across the floor for you to navigate and attempt to not trip.

She was the only one that could help you. There were no friends, no family. No one who visited outside of her. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting her to do. Take you to another planet that the Empire hadn’t marked for destruction? But what would you do once you got there. Your skills were that of a blacksmith. Even if she helped you to escape for now and come back, who would be left for you to sell to? As much as the thought of abandoning the forge you had grown up in hurt, there would be no profit in staying. If there was any place to stay at that is.

Still, you ripped the item from its shelf, frantically pressing the ill-fated green button and watching as a loading signal popped up. It jumped in small increments at an agonizingly slow pace, leaving you to watch helplessly as the distress signal transmitted.

Amidst the chaos and adrenaline, a flash caught your eye.

The armor you had been working on for the past few months sat openly displayed on the worktable, left over from when you had been tinkering with it earlier. It wasn’t yet finished, but there was no time better than now to test it out. They might have tie fighters in the sky, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any troops on the ground to ensure there were no survivors, and there was no way in hell you were going out without a fight.

So, while the message continued loading, you stumbled over and yanked on the equipment, cursing each time your hands fumbled with a strap or you dropped a piece. By the time you managed to get all of what you had finished on, as well as the half-worked pauldron and grabbing the closest weapon, the bar had only reached seventy two percent.

You watched with bated breath as it continued to climb, praying to the maker for it to finish already. You didn’t know how far away the Armorer was, but hopefully she would get here in time. To give your body a proper burial and out of the reach of scavengers if nothing else.

You never got to see it finish.

The agonizingly loud and now familiar scream of fighters your only warning before they unload their ammunition onto your home. It fell apart like paper, no match against the green energy beams as they took out whole sections of the ceiling and walls.

A flash of light, stars from the night sky now peering down from the open ceiling, before you were buried under the rubble. It pressed down with seemingly the weight of a moon, forcing every ounce of air from your lungs and preventing nearly any oxygen from entering as you desperately tried to pull in more air, only to choke on the thick dust that permeated and covered everything. Every movement brought a fresh wave of agony tearing through your body, and you could taste iron in the back of your throat. A sign of internal bleeding, if the stabbing pain in your side wasn’t enough. Your unarmored arm also hung limp and uselessly. Broken.

The chunk of rock that currently pinned and left you defenseless  was far too heavy to move with both arms, let alone one, leaving you scrambling nowhere to get out. The very building that had protected and provided you shelter, a place to work and thrive, had turned into your own personal death trap.

It was getting harder and harder to breath. Your movements became slower and weaker with every move until, finally, they slowed to a stop, left weakly grasping at the rubble around you. Everything had now gone silent. Not even the sound of fighter jets could be heard.

You were completely, utterly, alone. That’s how you were going to die.

Alone.

No tears escaped as you set your jaw, accepting your grim fate. You had no regrets in life. None that could be rectified by living any longer anyways. You had created a great deal of beautiful and skillful items. Whoever happened to stumble upon your shop's ruins would surely have themselves a treasure trove. 

The one thing you found yourself wishing was that there would be someone to mourn you when you were gone. To look upon memories and smile with fondness as you had with your own father’s passing.

Alas, it was not meant to be. Your name would fade into nothing, just as insignificant and unknown as a shout into the empty space of the stars above. Stars that you would never be able to see.

It became darker, black spots dancing across the edges of your vision and growing. With one last shuddering breath, your body gave out, succumbing to its injuries as your consciousness faded.

Mere feet away from your impromptu crypt, the cracked yet unbroken transmitter blinked weakly. Two words flash and flicker across its screen. 

‘Message Sent’

___________

Mandoa translations (Roughly. I did my best)

Baskar-armor

goron-blacksmith/metalworker

Ni kar'taylir gar will not disappoint ni, ni goron.- “I know you will not disappoint me, my blacksmith.”

kar’ta beskar.- Iron heart, center of their chest armor

Karyai- gathering place for relaxation/eating, center of the home

Tracinya-flame

Ika-little

[kalee60]

I wish you would write a fic where stucky are mad at each other for some reason but get forced into the same tiny escape pod and spend a very interesting hour pressed so tight together on their way back to the surface...

Not going to lie Bec - when I first saw this prompt, my mind immediately went one way, and one way only - and I'm pretty sure you just played me like a fiddle with this idea of yours and knew exactly what I'd write.

So please take this humble offering, you are literally my greatest support and I would not be here without you gorgeous ❤️ my adoration for you is endless for our unique and special bond x

The fic is just over 4k and also on ao3 here (with all tags necessary) if you prefer to read there instead, it'll be part of my stucky bingo fills - Truth or Dare and rated M for mild sexual content 😉

If you'd like a fic - here's the post - I wish you'd write a fic... (It might take me a little bit to write - but I will get there!)

"Are you freaking kidding me right now Rogers?" Bucky shouted as he tried to wrest control of the tiny submarine, or whatever the fucking contraption Stark had purpose built for underwater expeditions, from his meathead best friend who never had a plan. "What the hell was that?"

Steve glared over at Bucky, who scowled back. "I had it under control."

"Under control, my ass. You ran us into a goddamn rock, a rock so sharp we now have a leak - and guess what? We just happen to be about three miles under the sea!"

"I - " Steve started to say then stopped abruptly to slam at the controls before him in the dim lighting, trying to unwedge the small vessel off the rock.

"Don't! Fuck Steve, leave it, don't get us off the rock - we'll tear apart if you do." The sharp edge of panic amidst his anger was clear.

"I know what I'm doing, Buck." Steve ground out.

The panic immediately disappeared leaving only ire behind, "I highly doubt that by looking at the trouble you got us into. I thought partnering up with Sam was a pain in the ass for those few months, but I'd somehow forgotten what you were like."

Bucky heard Steve grinding his teeth, and satisfaction filled him that Steve was at least angry at their hopeless situation, one he was solely to blame for.

They’d been tasked to go to the Raft - one of the inmates had managed to escape - Namor, and although Bucky thought it was way out of their scope of skills to be chasing a literal being that came from the ocean, who had super strength and a huge advantage by, well, being able to breathe underwater, the Avengers assembled and it was left to Cap, no, Nomad and Bucky to sort it out.

At first, the mission was fine and on track, they were given the craft from Stark, Steve assuring both Bucky and the cocky self-appointed head Avenger, that he'd used it many times over on missions, and away they went. Bucky had realised after an hour at sea as they dove deeper and deeper, Bucky wide-eyed at all the sealife and fish that swam into the lights from the craft, that Steve looked a little peaky, a little sweaty. Apparently, after some hard prodding, Steve admitted he'd only taken it out for a few runs in the East River and had never been in the ocean with it.

Bucky was fuming.

He became even angrier when they found Namor, and Steve without any hesitation hit a button that harpooned a weapon from the undercarriage, missing the man completely and hitching it on a nearby rock, careening them towards it. Bucky was certain he saw a smirk and a laugh from their quarry as he swam off - uncaptured. Free.

It was, in fact - quite humiliating for two usually competent supersoldiers.

So now they were fixed tightly onto a jutting rock bed, water leaking slowly into the vessel and Steve was acting like a massive stubborn child about their situation. Especially when they realised they couldn’t call for assistance - they were too deep for a signal.

As a starfish floated by and suckered itself to the window, making a home there, Bucky was starting to wonder if they'd get out of the situation in one piece. They may have the serum running through their veins, but he was certain drowning was still on the scope of things that could kill them. He glanced at Steve who was still pressing buttons - that and along with an irate best friend who had a penchant for knives.

The urge to strangle Steve and his handsomely stubborn face rose with each and every breath, and he couldn't fathom why he was in love with such an imbecile. Bucky, glad that Steve wasn’t aware of where his feelings lay, not wanting to openly tell such an idiot he loved him; though Bucky hadn’t really had an opportunity to approach Steve about it, unsure if he ever would find the courage to bring it up.

Plus right then... right in that moment as they floated and bobbed in the undercurrent while beady eyed fish approached them curiously, Bucky was livid and was certain that even if Steve turned to him to profess his undying love - Bucky would punch him in the face.

“What do you propose we do then smarty pants?”

Bucky’s mouth formed a tight line at the old taunt.

“I suggest we get into the escape pod and head for the surface.”

“What? And give up?”

“Give up Steve? Of course we give up. What the fuck do you think we can do?” Bucky exclaimed, as Steve grumbled into the small space. “For a brilliant strategist you sure are an absolute ninny sometimes.”

“A ninny?” Steve burst out in horrified disbelief.

Bucky felt his lip twitch and almost laughed at Steve’s expression and the absurdity of their situation that by calling Steve a ninny, is what pissed him off the most.

“The only way we can do anything of any use now, is if Namor comes back and surrenders. And I don’t think he’s about to do that, considering he sped off laughing when you marooned us on this damn rock. One I might add that has more strength and the ability to stay calm and think more rationally than you.”

“Are you seriously comparing me to a rock?”

“If the Cap fits.”

“Really?” Steve deadpanned at Bucky’s admittedly terrible attempt at humour.

And before Bucky could say anything further, potentially offer a simple truce, a large shadow loomed above them and Bucky was instantly caught in the beauty and grace of the huge marine animal swimming overhead, close enough Bucky could reach out and touch if there wasn’t glass between them. It looked to be a shark of some type and Bucky was captivated by the smooth skin, the sheer mass and the tail that flicked; until that same large tail hit the vessel on one of it’s sweeps, dislodging it from the rock.

With a triumphant yell, Steve pushed on the accelerator as Bucky yelled at him to stop, and suddenly the whole craft shook and groaned, creaking as the very structure started to unhinge.

“Jesus fuck, Steve. Get in the escape pod now!”

Steve for the first time since they entered the vessel listened to Bucky, and they both jumped up and scrambled for the pods that were situated behind their seats, opening the escape hatches - only to find one empty, and the other thankfully still in place.

“Shit, Tony.” Bucky swore. “Don’t you know about the Titanic? Always have enough damn life rafts. Fuck.”

“We can fit.” Steve said matter of fact and opened the hatch door, just as the thick glass from the front of the craft splintered, water spurting through and a loud cracking filled the space. Bucky’s heart thumped hard and fast at the danger they were in, his Soldier training all but useless in the face of this new terror.

Bucky pushed Steve, who yelped at being manhandled into the small space, and Bucky jumped right in, landing on top of Steve, their faces only inches apart - and that face did not look happy.

They had just enough room for Steve to hit the big red button that closed the pod, and an automated voice immediately filled the area.

“Releasing in three, two - one.” 

The voice went silent as the capsule whooshed out of the craft, and Bucky was on the correct side to see through the glass over Steve’s shoulder, the lights of the vessel flickering as it tore apart from the pressure of the water. Bucky let out a shaky breath that they’d escaped in time.

“Calculating your trajectory and location,” the voice began, then went silent for a few seconds, “you will breach the surface in just under two hours.”

“Two hours.” Bucky griped and wiggled, Steve hissing for him to ‘quit it’. The voice continued on in its modulated voice.

“Due to your depth, the emergency pod has been slowed to ensure you rise at the correct rate so you do not suffer any complications.”

“Complications,” Bucky said under his breath, knowing with the serum it was unlikely they’d get sick. “I’ve got a big bearded one right in front of me. I think that’s complicated enough - just get us to the surface quickly.”

The voice droned on about protocols and safety features for a few minutes and mentioned when it came into range it would send a distress call to FRIDAY for assistance. Finally some good news, because all Bucky could think about was the fact the enormous shark was not in sight. He hoped it was long gone.

“Can you move your damn leg?" Steve hissed, shaking Bucky from his contemplation of why he insisted on watching Jaws a few weeks earlier.

But it was the tone Steve used that irked Bucky further, and ever helpful, he moved his leg back and forth like a petulant kid. “That enough movement for you?”

“Buck, your damn knife is digging into my thigh. Actually why in the hell are you wearing it on an underwater mission in the first place?”

“Why did you bring your shield?” Bucky countered, not wanting to tell Steve about the other seven knives in his pants.

“That’s not really comparable.”

“It is.” Bucky replied sullenly, knowing it wasn’t at all. 

Steve sighed heavily, and they spent a good fifteen minutes without conversing, not even daring to look at the other in the soft green-tinged light from the control panel where Bucky could read their glacially paced progress as they headed for the surface. They were still so far down.

“Truth or dare? Steve suddenly asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“Are you for real? Now?” Bucky asked incredulously. “Look, I know that game worked when we were kids - but read the damn room, well, pod.”

Steve didn’t respond as the charged air between them rose in silent intensity.

“Truth.” Bucky finally bit out after a long minute.

“Why did you bring knives on an underwater mission?”

“Jesus Christ, you don’t let up, do you? Why am I even surprised, it’s Steven Grant Rogers asking. Because Steve, I take them everywhere. You know this. I might have had to stab some seaweed for being rude to your delicate sensibilities or something. And don't you dare try and say they haven’t gotten us out of tough spots before.”

Steve harrumphed, “I’m hardly delicate.”

“Sure thing.”

They fell silent again, until Bucky gave in and sighed heavily. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why did you lie and say you knew how to drive the boat?”

“Bucky, you don’t drive a boat.”

“Yeah, well you proved that without a doubt.”

Steve tensed up, Bucky experiencing Steve’s muscles bunching together against his body from being so close, he swallowed heavily. 

“I thought I had it handled. How difficult could it be?”

“Steve…” Bucky started, stopped then sighed, “Steve, you need to actually be truthful with me, to the Avengers, especially if you need help. You don’t have to prove that you have it together all the time, every time. That’s what I’m for.”

“So you’re saying you could have piloted the boat?”

“Is piloted correct? But in answer - no, I couldn’t have. So we would have found a better way.” 

“Buck, he’s an underwater being, what else were we going to do but try and follow him down here?”

Bucky remained quiet thinking over the options. When the call went out, only Steve and he were available for the mission, so in a way Steve was correct, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

Steve moved suddenly in an unintentional grind, and a spark flew down Bucky’s spine, shit, they were close, really close, and through his initial fear and anger, Bucky hadn’t really thought about the situation he’d inadvertently put himself in. Pressed up against Steve’s body in a way he’d never been before.

Oh shit…

“Truth or dare,” Steve asked, breaking Bucky’s thoughts on the bulge he could feel just slightly higher than his own.

“Truth,” Bucky gritted out, looking over Steve’s shoulder at the murky water surrounding them. “It’s not like we can do any dares down here.”

Steve paused for a moment, looking directly at Bucky, and Bucky finally gave in and glanced his way, holding Steve’s gaze, and knew immediately that he shouldn't have. Steve’s eyes had taken on a greenish-blue tinge, making them pop and they softened at the edges once Bucky was in their snare. Bucky let out a long exhale. He hated when they fought - but he was still annoyed that Steve hadn't listened or been truthful.

“Are you dating anyone?”

Bucky jerked in surprise, wincing straight away, as rubbing up against Steve wasn’t going to help him remain impassive. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one I would have thought,” Steve replied curtly, and Bucky saw the slight tick in Steve’s cheek, and he caught his breath. For some reason Steve was invested in his answer, but why? Could it mean..?

“We live together Steve. You know I’m not.”

“Not even Darcy,” Steve countered.

Unable to stop it from bubbling up, Bucky started to laugh loud and heartily before realising that the motion was doing nothing to stop the friction between them, and Bucky started to worry that the knives on his person weren't the only hard thing Steve could feel pressed up against him.

When he’d composed himself, he saw that Steve had tilted his chin up proudly, and Bucky knew he’d hurt his feelings.

“Uh, that’s a negative. Darcy and I are not dating, she’s like Becca. You know - a little sister, an annoying one too, and yeah I love her, but not in the way you think. To be honest I’d like to date…”

Bucky trailed off, realising he was about to give too much away.

“You’d like to date?” Steve coaxed, eyes riveted on Bucky as he looked slightly down at him, and Bucky wasn't sure he'd ever really get used to the change in Steve's physique. Having to look up to his once small friend, shoulders wide enough he was a literal tank.

“Tall, blonde people,” he admitted, face immediately heating; not meaning to let that particular parcel of words out.

“Oh.” Steve replied, face slack and wondering as he stared at him, the gravity in his eyes not letting Bucky look elsewhere. So Bucky shut his eyes to escape, berating himself for being an obvious fool.

“Dare,” Steve husked.

Bucky snapped his eyes open to find Steve unblinking, attention directly on him, and there was something lurking behind his gaze, something dark and delicious, Bucky uncertain if what he saw was real or not. So he thought about his response carefully before answering.

“Okay, Stevie,” and Steve inhaled sharply through his nose at the nickname, Bucky pleased at the response. “I bet you can’t get your hands to the control panel to turn on the exterior floodlight so we can see the fishes.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You want to see the fishes?”

Bucky nodded slowly, having a gut feel Steve already saw through his game, considering where Steve’s hands were positioned in the first place. Between their bodies.

Steve wriggled his fingers, and a live wire burned through the very structure of Bucky’s cells, remaking them into something different, something primal as Steve continued to move and pushed his hand between them towards the panel, inadvertently pressing hard up against the front of Bucky’s pants, right over his dick in the process. A dick that was suddenly much more interested in their predicament. 

Bucky might have made an error in judgement as he slipped out a strangled gasp.

Steve’s face lit up in a grin at Bucky’s unintentional response, deliberately mimicking the same movement again.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut, enjoying the touch through his tac pants, wishing for no obstructions between them, and before he could lose himself completely in the sensations, Steve's hand pulled free to touch the control panel, light suddenly flooding outwards. Tufts of seaweed and darting fish fled past the glass as they continued to slowly climb for the surface. 

And before he knew what he was saying, Bucky was pressing his hips the scant inch forward into Steve's body and whispered, "I dare you to do that again."

The ragged and shaky exhale from Steve was gratifying in its sheer emotion, and the 'Buck' that tore from his throat made Bucky look up. The moment his eyes met Steve's he was gone.

"Can I?" Steve asked, and Bucky could do no more than nod as Steve's lips came crashing down on his.

It was the kiss Bucky had been waiting a lifetime for, and he couldn't believe as Steve's tongue slipped in between his lips, a low deep growl erupting unbidden in his throat, that the catalyst was a failed mission where they were stuck together angry in a cylindrical tube in the middle of the ocean.

Steve's hand forced itself back between their bodies, and Bucky moaned as Steve made the best of the small space, rubbing over and over until Bucky grew thick and hard in his pants, all while Steve kissed the very breath from his body. Bucky was stunned that Steve was an exceptional kisser, partly impressed and partly jealous at the realisation that he'd had experience, more than Bucky first thought.

"Jesus Buck, you taste so good."

"Yeah?" Bucky husked back, leaning up as far as he was able, capturing Steve's lips again. What started as chaste, soon became hungry and insistent and Bucky tried to move his hands, but there was no room for two sets between them, Steve’s all that could fit; so Bucky let Steve take control, do what he wanted. And somehow, without even speaking about it, Steve gave Bucky exactly what he needed, what he craved. And if Steve wanted, Bucky would spend his lifetime taking care of Steve in return.

"Your fucking knife," Steve husked into his cheek as he pulled away, lips wet and thoroughly kissed. It was a spaced out look Bucky wanted to see more often.

"That's not a knife," Bucky sassed back.

"Well unless you're extraordinary and have two dicks, then yes, I think the one pressing just above my knee is a knife."

Bucky tried to adjust his stance to lessen the pressure from the weapon, and at Steve's wince, he knew he'd not managed to do it.

"Well to be fair, I wasn't expecting to end up in this predicament."

"Predicament?" Steve asked as his fingers pressed against Bucky's groin again, pushing and sliding to create extra friction.

"Oh shit," Bucky breathed, hating and loving the knowing smirk on Steve's face. "Maybe I've been wanting this for over a hundred years and you know, since nothing has ever happened before, how was I to know that being trapped in an escape pod, while seething in anger would do it for you?"

Steve looked blankly at Bucky, mouth open, shock clearly written over his face. "Over a hundred years?"

Bucky realised he had no filter when Steve had a hand on his dick, and flushed at the long kept secret, now a confession, but kept going, confirming it. He was all in by that stage.

"Give or take a year."

"Buck, why the hell didn't you say anything? I've been waiting since…"

Steve trailed off and Bucky couldn't help it.

"Since..?"

"I was sixteen."

"Fuck," Bucky surged forward, kissing the breath from Steve, and Steve's hand movements became more insistant. Suddenly Bucky felt the zip of his pants loosen and he couldn’t stop the wanton moan from escaping and he wriggled his hips in anticipation. Between one breath and the next Steve had somehow, miraculously snaked his hand into Bucky's pants, and now, now, there was only a layer of thin underwear between them.

Why the hell hadn't he gone commando?

"God, Buck, you feel amazing - knew you would.” Steve said as he looked into Bucky’s eyes while stroking him, and the sheer power behind his gaze pushed all of Bucky’s buttons. “Want to get my mouth on you."

Bucky gasped, vibrating at the imagery and Steve chuckled, nipping at Bucky's lips, kissing him again and again and it hit Bucky that Steve was able to feel every single quiver and sharp intake of breath he made. He was no longer able to hide his reactions, even if his face gave nothing away - Steve was so close that all of Bucky's tells were like a neon sign emblazoned above his head. Steve had him at his mercy.

And Bucky loved it.

"I want that," Bucky whispered back, "want your mouth everywhere. Want my mouth all over you too pal, I can't wait to get you naked."

"You're too much," Steve ground out and suddenly Bucky was being kissed deeply, thoroughly and he lost all concept of time and space. Steve's fingers gripped his dick, squeezing and making short jerky motions, it wasn't the greatest angle, and Steve didn't have full motion - but it was perfect. Bucky was so turned on, his dick weeping into his underwear, and he knew that if Steve kept going, kept kissing him, touching him, he was going to come in his pants like he'd done too many times when they’d slept next to each other before the war.

"Oh fuck Steve, keep doing that."

"You like that?" Steve husked, complying when Bucky nodded his head limply, rubbing in tight circles, fingers tangling in Bucky's underwear as he tried his best to get Bucky off. And Bucky, well he wasn't easy, it usually took him a while to get in the right headspace to feel comfortable enough to let go, to let himself be free in the moment, but with Steve he knew he could be. He trusted Steve, wanted him by his side always, and he knew he'd catch Bucky, protect him as he fell. Steve would never let go again.

"Gonna make you come on my dick," Steve rasped into Bucky's mouth, making Bucky forget everything sweet and hopeful in their future to concentrate on how filthy Steve’s lust driven words were, "going to fill you up, and I'm never letting you out of my bed again Buck. You're mine - you hear that?"

"I… yes… yours," Bucky said as his knees buckled, and Steve had him, gripped him tight, pinching his dick in a way that made Bucky white out and he came apart. Bucky spurted into his pants, underwear soaking up his release and he jerked and whimpered as Steve held him through it, mouth hovering over his, whispering words of want and desire. 

"You're gorgeous Buck, the prettiest fella I ever saw."

"Jesus Steve," Bucky breathed as he came down from his orgasm, legs still twitching. "You're going all Brooklyn and sappy on me."

Steve kissed the corner of Bucky's mouth delicately, as if he hadn't just got him off in the tightests of spots, and removed his hand from Bucky's pants. "Always felt sappy with you Punk."

Bucky grinned back, sated, happy and languid - until he felt it.

"Have you got a fucking bludgeon in your pocket?" he exclaimed when Steve shifted, and awed, Bucky realised exactly what Steve was packing in his plain navy shorts that were often tangled with his black briefs in the dryer at home. Steve's cheeks tinged pink and Bucky was gone, so gone on this man who was sweet and commanding all at once.

"Oh shit Steve, am I going to have fun with you."

"Yeah?" Steve grinned back, suddenly a little shy, a little hopeful and Bucky smiled.

"For the rest of our lives if you want."

Steve sucked in a breath, "I'd like that."

"The surface is less than twenty metres away, a rescue shuttle has been dispatched and will meet you on the surface."

The automated voice fell away, and Bucky and Steve looked over each other's shoulders at the lightened water, having completely ignored the sea of fish and marine animals around them. It was stunning, there was so much life just under the surface.

And before he knew it, they were blinded by sunlight as the pod popped up on the surface, Bucky finding Steve on top of him, all of his weight pressing him down as the cylinder floated in the ocean on its side. The sheer bulk of Steve was phenomenal, a portent of things to come.

"Far out, you're heavy." Bucky commented with a grin.

"Sorry, the serum… well you know."

"No, I like it." He said as Steve kissed him again, leaning down to take Bucky's mouth under his in a passionate but short taste. "But you're still an ass for getting us into that position in the first place."

"How did you know I didn't plan it this way?"

Bucky laughed just as the lid opened and he squinted into the bright light, the quinjet hovering over them, finding himself staring directly up into Clint's grinning face.

"Looking cozy there boys, need a hand?"

"I think we have that handled," Steve replied with a smirk, staring at Bucky, and Bucky could only gaze up into the brightest blue he'd ever seen, the eyes of his best friend, his soon to be lover and hopefully so much more.

It took some maneuvering to get Steve off him without toppling them into the ocean, but soon they were inside waiting as Bruce and Clint secured the pod to take back to Tony's lab.

Bucky made his way to the front of the jet as Steve called in their failure to Fury, and greeted Natasha who was in the pilots seat, stretching his arms up and over his head, popping his muscles from having been cramped up too long. 

She looked him dead in the eye in the unnerving way only Nat could, and remarked, "your fly's undone."

Red faced, Bucky looked over at Steve who'd heard Nat and was silently laughing, telling Fury that 'no, he didn't think losing Namor was amusing', before hanging up and motioning Bucky over.

"You really are a jerk." Bucky hissed as he pulled up his fly, finally realising how wet and uncomfortable he was. He needed a shower. Preferably with company.

"But I'm your jerk though."

"Gee, aren’t I the luckiest guy in Brooklyn," Bucky snarked back at Steve's playful wink, and for the entire trip home, neither of them could keep the grins off their faces.

A day later - Natasha brought Namor in.

[noire-pandora]

“Midnight Rendezvous” (and “Take my hand”) for @14daysdalovers. Also on A03

Words: 3162

Pairing: Solavellan

Warnings: it gets a tiny bit steamy towards the end. Nothing too intense but just to be sure. (still not confident enough to write smut. One day!)

Before joining the Inquisition, midnight rarely found Solas wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his room, thoughts racing through his mind and refusing to bend down to his will. In his long life, he succeeded in becoming the master of his thoughts and feelings, able to switch and navigate through them as effortlessly as a seamstress spun her threads. He walked through life, taking pride in his concentration techniques, his indomitable focus not once defeated. Until he met the Inquisitor.

Her mind numbing smirk and cheerful laughter silently found their way into his mind, nestling there and slowly eroding through the barriers set to keep any distraction at bay. Her curiosity and kind nature planted the seed of acceptance in his heart, acceptance that maybe, maybe this Tranquil like world wasn't a world out of his nightmares. 

Slowly, she pushed him to become curious about her life, her thoughts and her mind. There, he found a feeling he had never hoped of meeting again since Mythal's death: love. A gentle, patient love. One that accepted him as he was, without questioning and without prodding his mind to reach his deepest secrets.

And now, midnight found him contemplating those facts, turning and tossing in his humble bed, the sheets wrapping around his ankles. He could not comprehend why she willingly offered her heart to him. Her behaviour forced him to lay awake at night, rummaging on his thoughts, every calming technique he knew unable to stop his mind from thinking about her. For the first time in hundreds of years, someone succeeded in distracting him from walking the ever-changing paths of the Fade. 

He turned on his side to stare at the door, punching his pillow to fluff it, as if that was the reason for his wandering mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose, in an attempt to focus. Instantly the memory of their last heated kiss came to his mind, and he groaned as heat travelled down towards his pelvis. He didn't deserve her, he didn't deserve her love or her acceptance. He should turned his back on her, but the thought of losing her, the idea of another one tasting her lips and curling their fingers into her fire like locks brought a heaviness in his stomach.

A faint knock on the door brought him back to the present, and he opened his eyes, unsure if he indeed heard it. He waited for a voice to follow it and call for him, but no sounds reached his ears after almost a minute. He closed his eyes again, ready to accept the Fade's embrace, when another knock, followed by the sound of shuffling feet interrupted him again. 

This time, confident he heard someone knocking at his door, he rose from the bed, grabbing the robe resting on the back of the chair, to cover his bare torso, wrapping the sash around his abdomen. 

When he opened the door, no one stood in front of it, but he spotted a petite silhouette turning around the corner. He followed it, his footsteps quiet. Soon, the red locks bouncing on the woman's shoulders gave away the silhouette's identity.

"Vhenan?"

"Solas!" she gasped, spinning on her heels to face him. "You're up!"

He hurried his pace to erase the distance between them, the smile on his face creating little wrinkles around his eyes and grooves in his cheeks. "Yes, I am. But why are you awake at this hour? Nightmares?" he slipped a hand around her waist to pull her close and kissed her head. Heat radiated through his chest as she softly giggled at his touch. 

"No, couldn't sleep, so I decided to walk around for a while." 

He hummed, cocking an eyebrow at her. He knew his love roamed the halls of the castle at night, but something in her cheeky smile made him suspicious of that answer "Is that so? And where are you heading?"

"Well," she started, placing one hand on his chest, raising her chin to look at his face. "Do you know Josephine will meet with a few Orlesian nobles in the morning? The type of people who keep their noses crinkled like they smell shit everywhere?"

"Yes," he patiently answered, tilting his head to the side. He took a step back, his hands living her body.

"And she asked Marin to bake sweets for them. But, the last time he did that, the Orlesians refused to eat it."

"Oh, is that so?"

She nodded. "Yeah, he told me the next day, when I went to grab some food from the kitchen. He ranted about how the Orlesians can't appreciate the skills of a Ferelden baker. After that, he mopped around for days, doubting his skills." 

"Too bad. His sweets are delicious." 

"Exactly. And I'm sure tomorrow they will refuse to eat Marin's sweets again, and he'll end up upset for another week. I have a plan to stop that." 

"A plan?" he repeated, leaning forward to examine her face. She had excellent plans at day, but at night, her ideas transformed into various shenanigans, like stealing food from the kitchen and having a late dinner in the courtyard, under the ancient oak tree. The cooks of Skyhold learned how to hide the food they cooked for the next day before the Inquisitor's nose caught a whiff of it and devoured it at night.  

"Yes. I'm going to eat everything he baked for them."

Solas caught a glimpse of pride shining in her eyes as she announced her plan. He bit down on his lip to contain a laugh. "What? Why? How would that help the poor man?"

"When he finds out that the Inquisitor snuck out at night to eat his sweets, he will be annoyed but also happy because the word will spread. And everyone will know how I, the most important person in this hold, ate his food like a glutton," a knowing grin grew on her face, a grin that was too infectious to fight.

In moments like this, when she uttered her plans with unshakable confidence, her shoulders back and chin raised high, he realised why every single soul in the Inquisition followed her without doubting her. Right now, if she decreed she planned to move the mountains, he would believe her instantly. But the idea of making a man feel better by devouring his food brought a smile on his face and reminded him how strange she could sometimes be.

"Oh, the brave Inquisitor, always sacrificing herself for the wellbeing of her subjects." he jested, offering her a bemused smile.

"But of course! C'mon, let's go, we still have a few hours until the cook's apprentice will wake up to heat the ovens."

She walked away from him a few meters, but she stopped as Solas didn't follow her. 

"Are you coming?" she asked, holding out her hand for him to take it.

"Is that the reason why you knocked at my door?" 

"Yes, I want to share them with you. I like to eat, but I doubt I'll be able to eat the sweets made for four people." 

"Vhenan, you know I prefer not to eat at night."

She huffed, rolling her eyes at him. "A late dinner won't kill you," she muttered, shaking her head. "Oh, c'mon Solas, it's going to be fun. Take my hand and join me in this quest of keeping sadness away from my dear subjects!" 

With her hand outstretched for him to grab it, and a serious frown knitting her eyebrows, Solas couldn't say no to her. He took her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers to walk by her side on their way to the kitchen. 

The hallways were empty, their soft steps resounding in the silence. The majority of the people inhabiting Skyhold slept soundly, a few snores and grumbles reaching Solas' ears. From time to time, he could hear giggles coming from some rooms, and he hurried his step, eager to respect the privacy of those behind the doors.

The wall sconces held large touches to illuminate their way, and, in combination with their Elvhen sight, they could clearly see the path ahead of them. The flames cast long shadows on the floors, and sometimes, their light touched Elluin's face, colouring her pale, freckled kissed skin a soft orange. He found himself staring at her as they walked, his mouth drying and his throat growing thick. An impervious need to touch her, to push her against the wall and kiss her until she moaned with pleasure took over him, clouding his mind. He took a deep breath to steady himself, annoyed she broke his indomitable focus without actually doing anything. He fixed his gaze on the floor, counting backwards from one hundred to calm himself, refusing to take another look at her. 

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, they reached the kitchen, one of the three kitchens in Skyhold. The smell of cinnamon and yeast tickled his nose as Elluin slowly opened the door, carefully not to announce their presence. He followed her, closing the door behind him with a low thud. 

Inside, the three, tall working tables stood spotless, with no trace of flour or dough to stain their surface. The measuring cups were lined up on the tabletop, small soldiers waiting for orders. He could see the pans, plates and brushes through the cupboards display, their doors locked. He frowned, staring at the small locks, wondering why the baker decided to lock his tools so diligently. 

A  clay oven with a thick iron door, large enough for a person to climb inside, stood in a corner along the wall. A long flue reached outside through the wall, specially built by the baker to avoid any fumes escaping in the room. Solas admired the man's ingenuity and his ability to keep everyone safe without the usage of magic. He spent a few fascinating hours speaking with him, learning more about the art of creating functionally clay ovens. 

"Well, this is weird," Elluin commented, scratching her cheek. "I can't see any tray with sweets." 

He snorted. "I believe the Master Baker hid his creations from you. The man learned his lesson." 

She rolled up her sleeves, revealing her toned arms. "Like that's going to stop me."

She approached one of the locked cabinets and grabbed a lockpick from her pocket, jamming it into the lock, twisting it a few times. "Let's see if Varric's lock-picking lessons will help me."

As Elluin struggled with the lock, he studied the room, one finger gently tapping his lips, his eyes analysing the potential hiding spots. He realised a man as bright as Marin would know better than to hide his food in locked cupboards. No, that was a trick, an ingenious method to keep the intruder busy until one of the kitchen workers heard the noise and came to stop them. It had to be somewhere in plain sight, a location no one would think about.

"The oven," he muttered, snapping his fingers. "Elluin," he spoke out, a faint trace of excitement in his voice. "The oven, he hid them in the oven. That door is closed to hide the tray from our view." 

"The oven?" she made her way towards the oven, narrowing her eyes. "Why would he hide it there? There's ash everywhere!" 

"Good question. Let us see."

The iron door made no sound as he pulled it opened, a testament of the cook's care. A faint magical barrier buzzed around the brass tray inside it, protecting the brownies from any ash or unburned charcoal. 

"Magic!" she laughed, slapping the back of her thigh. " I can't believe this. He asked a mage to cast a barrier on his brownies." 

"Indeed." He gave her a satisfied smile and crossed his arms, content he uncovered the cook's plans. 

Elluin licked her lips as she waved her hands to cancel the spell. She reached for the tray and gulped down with gluttony, her mouth watering at the chocolate covering the brownies. She grabbed one, the tray dangerously balanced in her left hand, and bit it. A moan escaped her lips as the chocolate poured from inside it. Solas eyed her, the sound leaving her mouth causing his fingers to twitch as if pushing him to touch her. 

"Vhenan," he intervened, taking the tray from her and setting it on the table. "How do you plan to eat twelve pieces of chocolate filled cake without getting sick?"

"That's why I asked you to come here with me, I need your help." she gulped down the food, hitting her chest with her fist as it refused to go down. "Those bastards don't deserve all this chocolate. It's been years since I tasted it, not gonna let it go to waste," she bit down on another, humming with pleasure and licking her fingers. "Take one, you're going to love it." 

He gingerly took a piece from the trail, admiring the perfectly spread layer of chocolate, the soft texture reminding him of satin. He smelled it, the hint of vanilla tempting him to take a bite. The chocolate melted in his mouth, wrapping his tongue in a thick layer of pure pleasure. He closed his eyes, and a sigh of satisfaction escaped his throat. 

"Delicious, isn't it?" Elluin remarked, smirking at him. "I knew you'd love it." 

He opened his eyes and offered her a small smile. "You were right."

She winked at him and grabbed another piece, shoving half of it in her mouth. He laughed and shook his head at her, worried for the integrity of her jaw. He watched as she devoured three more brownies, baffled by her ability to swallow the food barely chewed. 

A feeling of weightlessness cloaked his soul as she beamed with happiness, her cheeks rosy with delight. Her joy was contagious, and he smiled at her, grateful she chose to spend this moment with him. She picked him over the hundreds of people around her, over the men and women who craved for her love. She offered her heart and joy to him, a man who hid the truth, a man who had no right to receive this pure, untainted happiness. His shoulders dropped, and he averted his eyes from her smile. 

She came closer to him, her fingers reaching for his chin, gently encouraging him to face her again. "You're doing that again," she whispered, her breath tickling his skin. "Getting lost inside your head. Don't. Stay here with me." 

His gaze still avoided her face. "I apologise. My thoughts distracted me from the present."

"Is that so?" she murmured." I know the perfect way to keep you here."

Before he had a chance to ask more about it, Elluin grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him down towards her to meet her chocolate cover lips. His lips instantly parted, as her tongue darted out to lick them, eager to explore his mouth. His muscles relaxed, hands resting lazily on her butt. She was right, he thought as his fingers curled into her hair, gently tugging it. When she kissed him, nothing mattered anymore, just the taste of her lips and the faint scent of lily of the valley coming from her hair. 

Her hand moved to the nape of his neck, slipping under his robe. The touch of her skin against his sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine, and he moaned, raw and insatiable lust replacing any thought.  He pushed her against the table, and her knees gave out, her butt hitting the tabletop. She wrapped her legs and hands around him, as if afraid he will pull away. 

He wanted her. Right here and right now. He wanted to taste her skin, to follow the path of her freckles with his lips, from the top of her forehead to her toes. To make her sing as his tongue played with her folds, to finally taste her. He wished for nothing more than his nighttime fantasies to transform into reality. And right now, he couldn't care less they were in a kitchen, where anyone could find them. 

A low growl left his throat as a part of his mind screamed at him, yelled at him to stop this foolishness, to remember his real purpose, his identity. He had no right to taste her body when he gave her only half-truths. He was wrong to take her fully when he hid parts of him. She deserved more than this, more than a man who was too afraid to speak the truth. 

With a draining effort, he broke the kiss, gently pushing her away from him. She whimpered as his body left hers and she opened her eyes, arousal and confusion blending in her gaze. 

He shook her head when her hands reached for him again. "No. This is not right." 

Before Elluin could answer, the door opened with a loud bang, and a woman entered the room, waving a cooking paddle and shouting at them. "How many times do I have to kick you out, you thieves, this isn't the place for…." she stopped in her tracks, eyes widening with shock as she noticed the two of them.

"Your Grace! And you!" she frowned at Solas, confused by his presence. He could see it on her face how the pieces clicked together in her mind, her eyebrows shooting up. "I'm sorry Herald, I had no idea you two--," she stammered, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "I have to warm  the oven, but I'll come later," she left in a hurry, barely giving them another glance. 

Solas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, his hopes for keeping the matters of their relationship private, shattered. 

"Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later," Elluin nonchalantly explained, getting off from the table and reaching for another brownie. "Until morning, every single person in Skyhold will think the Inquisitor had sex with the weird elf in the kitchen."

"Venan, I," he started, but she interrupted him with a wave of his hand. 

"Don't apologise. You told me months ago you aren't ready and now you weren't ready yet. I get it," she shrugged, shoving the cake in her mouth, slowly chewing it. 

Solas stared at his toes, cursing his mind for not stopping him faster. 

"But I did enjoy our intense make-out session," she giggled and winked at him as he raised his head to look at her. 

"C'mon, we still have a few of those. Let's be fast before that lady comes back and finds us here again. "

He watched her, eyes widen, once again awestruck by her kindness. Why? Why did she accept his explanations so easily? He had no idea, but he knew one thing: this fantastic, mysterious, infuriating woman would be his undoing. And he gladly accepted it because her love tasted like chocolate and brownies. 

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

Could you do a fic where Jude gets amnesia and Cardan has to take care of her? (In elfhame and none of the people known what sickness she has lol). Please make it angsty and fluffy at the same time sjsjjsjs. Thank you so much if you do this! 💗

Ofc, love! I wrote this like, five times and just before I reached the end, I'd delete it so I'm quite proud for finishing at all.

Full Masterlist

cry me a river . . .

I wake up in an unfamiliar room, far too extravagant for my taste.

I grunt, momentarily blinded by the light seeping inside the chamber from the window before someone pulls it closed. The tall, lean figure comes over to sit at my bedside, touching the back of his hand on my forehead as if he is checking for fever. His hand feels warm against my skin and I almost whine when his touch disappears. Black dots swim across my vision and I have to blink a few times before I recognise the person sitting beside me.

Cardan Greenbriar.

If he has ever looked worse before, I cannot remember it.

Tear streaks run down his painted cheeks, glitter smeared all over. His coal black eyes, swollen and red, are fixed on me. I have the strangest feeling that I have seen this sight before, even though I have no recollection of seeing him so vulnerable. It is not something so small that I'd forget.

Did he find out I killed Valerian? That would explain the tears.

Perhaps he wants to finish what his friend started. It seems unlikely that he'd know but I can't think of another reason Cardan would abduct me and risk Madoc's wrath. It has to be the reason—

"Jude? How do you feel?" he asks.

He looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in his world. It scares me more than his hatred ever could.

"Stop," I choke out, stomach sinking more in fear with each passing second. "Tell me what—how am I here? If Madoc finds out you've been hiding me here, the consequences won't be pretty." I don't have to worry about him lying, because no lie can escape his tongue. I know faeries don't need the ability of lying to deceive someone.

Cardan frowns at me. "Liliver found you wounded across the clearing. You went to run an errand, got hurt and collapsed near the palace." I know what the words mean individually, but put together in one sentence, they don't make sense to me, which puts me further out of ease.

"Liliver?" The name tugs at my memory but I can't remember it.

He looks wildly concerned now. "The Bomb, Jude. She found you," he tells me before someone knocks on the door.

The Bomb.

Liliver is probably her true name; or part of it, at least. I wonder how Cardan knows it. I remember her as a part of Dain's court of shadows. The tiny, delicate girl slips inside the room when neither of them answer. Liliver holds a steaming bowl of soup in her hand, which elicits a series of rumbles from my empty stomach. I try to remember when I last ate and the moments from the previous night come crashing down on me: the horrible coronation, Locke's behaviour, her dance with Cardan and their peculiar conversation, then finally the butchering of almost all of the Greenbriar family.

I remembered running away with Cardan, hiding him in the court of shadows and the kiss we'd shared, my blade pressed against his throat. The implication that he liked me and he hated it. Surely, my present condition couldn't have something to do with it?

No, it couldn't have.

"How are you out of the office?" I turn to Liliver, who raises an eyebrow at me. "Who let him out? He is my prisoner, and you shouldn't have decided when he leaves." They exchange confused glances with each other.

Cardan furrows his eyebrows. "Leave? Jude, love, is this some kind of test?"

Balekin and Madoc planned against Dain and he is dead and the protection he'd given me could be over now. Cardan could glamour me into believing anything he wanted to. For all I know, he already has. I shove the panic down, resolved to find out more. If he had glamoured me, I'd be doing whatever he asked with blind devotion.

I ask the first of my questions. "Does Madoc know that I'm here?"

Both of them exchange worried looks. Liliver places a hand on my shoulder and says softly, "Jude, Madoc is in exile in the mortal world. He knows you're in the palace, of course, and we informed Vivienne you hurt yourself on a mission—she's probably on her way—so he also knows you're hurt, I think." My head swims. I can't wrap my head around all the information.

I blurt out the thing that shocks me most. "Madoc was exiled?!" Maybe everyone found out about his plot against the crown—

The doors to the bedroom are thrown open and there's commotion outside. I hear a voice I recognise well and Vivienne enters the bedroom, fuming and covered in sweat. She is panting, out of breath as she comes over to my side, discreetly pushing Cardan back. I am grateful for the familiarity but I cannot help but wonder if this is some elaborate game Cardan is playing, if it's really my elder sister or a product of faerie magic.

Vivi sits by my side, looking offended. "Do you have to face up all the dangers in the world alone, Jude?" Liliver observes me with a curious look. However, it is not her gaze that unnerves me but his. It sends shivers down my spine and I pretend I do not notice it. Vivienne is still talking to me, "honestly, would it kill you to share some load with your husband, Jude?"

I blink. "My husband? What—"

"Jude," The Bomb interrupts, "what is the last thing you remember?"

I am confused and scared and unsure if I should tell her. But she is from the court of shadows and I trust Vivienne. Cardan's presence is unsettling but there is no hint of cruelty and neither of them seem disturbed by his presence. So I tell them. "It was the coronation, Balekin—he killed Eldred and Dain is dead and Cardan and I escaped together and I took him prisoner." A blush rises to my cheeks when I realise what happened next, despite all my hatred for the youngest faerie prince—no, not the youngest. I recall my conversation with Oriana, Taryn's betrayal, Locke's lies and Madoc's plan. "Oak is the next in line for the throne, he's—Dain's child." No one looks surprised at the news, not even Vivi.

Cardan says with deliberate slowness, "Jude, you mean you don't remember anything after the day? Do you remember the arrangement we made?"

"What arrangement?" I don't know what he's talking about. It puts me at a disadvantage against him.

Cardan brings his hand close to me, as if he expects me to shatter. I do not shatter but I do flinch away from his touch. He looks like he wishes I'd struck him instead, blinking rapidly. For a moment, I swear those are tears in his eyes before they disappear.

"Jude," Vivienne says, breaking the silence, "I think there's something you should know."

⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷

I listen in horror and fascination and barely supressed surprise as Vivienne narrates the tale to me. Cardan sits beside her, pitching in with details she doesn't know whenever the situation demands it. I grow more and more certain that this is something strange I have dreamed up with every word my sister utters.

It makes the perfect sense—my plan against Balekin and Cardan's role in it.

I remember thinking along those lines when I went to sleep that night, the only question being how I could secure Oak's throne. To be his seneschal but have the High King of Elfhame under my command—the thought alone is enough to make me heady with power but it grows worse as Vivienne reaches the part where Cardan asks me to marry him. I can tell they both tiptoed around what happened in the Undersea, Vivienne because she does not know what happened in there but the uncertainty in Cardan's eyes leaves me with no doubt that he knows what happened there. Perhaps I told him.

It is surprising that I am able to read him so easily, and the ease with which he talks to me implies he is comfortable around me. I keep looking for some hint of cruelty and rage and anger but he is all love and adoration and concern.

Vivienne reaches the part where Cardan turns into a serpent and I'm convinced this is some prank of theirs. Even in faerie, that sounds ridiculous.

But they can't lie, so when my apparent husband says, "It was hell, Jude. I didn't talk about it but it haunted my dreams. You told me it haunted yours too."

"I did?" It doesn't sound like me. "What—how did you come back?"

He looks at me, and his eyes shine with love and sincerity. "You brought me back. Madoc offered you a golden bridle to control the serpent but you chose to end it's life, even though keeping it as your slave would have made you an unchallenged queen of faerie."

Why? The words don't leave my mouth but sensing the question, Liliver answers. "Because you loved him, Jude, you chose to free him. You chose his peace above power, not knowing if he'd come back—"

"—but then he did," I finish for her. "I slayed the serpent and he came back?"

They all nod. I am surprised to hear the details, that the Undersea came to our aid. But it was out of love for Cardan that Nicasia allied with us. They recollect the aftermath to me, Madoc's exile and some of the events after.

Vivienne leaves to fetch me some water and mortal soup for quick healing. Liliver excuses herself soon after. When I look at him, there are tears in Cardan's eyes again, flooding down his cheeks. He makes no effort to hide them now.

"Why are you crying?" I ask, my voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

He shakes his head at me. "You forgot all the good parts, Jude. Without the good parts, I'm just a monster who gave you every reason to hate me."

"I don't hate you." The truth behind those words surprises me.

Even after all I've been told, the fact that I fell in love with Cardan Greenbriar is the one that makes the most and the least sense both at once.

"I—I need to be alone." Cardan's face morphs into one of hurt, and I feel the need to soothe it: "It's just—I need time to wrap my head around this."

He nods, "Take all the time you need."

Then he lifts an unsure hand, reluctant, and wipes a tear away from my face. I hadn't realised I was crying until now. He turns to walk away, his tail curled around his calf.

I say, "I'm sorry I lost all our memories."

"It's okay. We'll make new ones," he promises in a firm tone. And for a brief moment, I see what he talked about.

I see myself in love with him, so in love that I was prepared to sacrifice ambition for a small chance to have him back. I see us living together, teasing and taunting and completely in love with each other, ruling Elfhame side by side. I feel his phantom touch on my body from the night I danced with him at the coronation ball, before everything started—before our story began.

And even when the moment passes, I realise I can love him still, all over again.

⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷ ⊶ ⊷

I know I say it after every fic but this one was hard so even if it's bad, I'm proud of it. I tried writing from the first person pov, so what do you guys prefer? This or the usual third person limited?

tags:

@courtofjurdan // @thesirenwashere // @nightbringer // @queenofgreenbriar // @jurdanhell // @sweetlyvillainous // @clockworkgraystairs // @blog-lady-vi // @the-dark-swan //@storiesandschemes // @fangirltrash74 // @augustintodarkness // @jurdan7 //@queen-of-glass // @aesthetics-11 // @mijaldraws // @hades-flame // @sensitivehighlord // @annejulianneh111 // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @doingmyrainbow // @curlyredqueen06 // @chaotic-fae-queen // @thewickedkings // @thesurielships //@df3ndyr // @clouds-and-peonies // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @thefolkofthefic // @st00pid231 // @iminsanenotobsessed

[iloveitwhen]

Detective/Rival au

Ok so this is based off of this post by @mysnis but like, detectives. Also robin and ladybug are their codenames. Daminette.

first fic hope the few people who read this enjoy(:

“Al Ghul!”

The police officers and detectives in the breakroom all turned to see Detective Dupain-Cheng in her iconic deep red biker jacket storm in with a file clutched in her hand.

Although she was relatively new she quickly proved herself and was an exceptional detective and surprisingly very kind. The only one that didn’t get along with her was, well, the one that got along with no one, save Jon, the beat cop. Detective Damian al Ghul was definitely not well liked, it was no secret he was easily the best but his title was being threatened by none other than Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the current furious french woman glaring at the man sitting at the table. She had gained the respect of the whole precinct and everyone was well aware of the chaos her anger could bring, so the only logical thing everyone could do was take a step back and clear a path to the one she was staring daggers at.

The room had gone silent upon her arrival and everyone stared between al Ghul and Dupain-Cheng.

“Yes?” he replied from the table, not bothering to look up from his book.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He merely hummed as if considering a business proposal which only furthered her anger.

“So. What’d you do this time?” Rosa, this isn’t a brooklyn 99 au i just need her in here cause i love her back off the only one other than Damian not afraid of the sunshine-turned-hellspawn, asked. She reveled in the chaos those two brought.

Damian stood up and placed his book down, only for the purpose to look down at Marinette he refused to be looked down on. With a malicious glint in his eye and a smirk he said, “I didn’t do anything-”

“Yeah right, you, di-argghh-”

The man scoffs. “Still won’t curse? Pity.”

“Shut up!” she snapped back. “I wouldn’t have the need to if you MINDED YOUR OWN BUSINESS!”

This had Jon raise an eyebrow, he did not take angering sweet Marinette lightly, it was dangerous business to do so.

“Damian,” he began at the man who still wouldn’t tear his eyes away from the woman in front of him, “what did you do?”

“He invaded my stakeout, got what he came for then left so I had to deal with the FBI and post operations. If you had the decency of a normal human being then you could have at LEAST helped me! But no! You got in my way then left it a bigger mess than when you came! And made me deal with the aftermath! And guess what Birdbrain? Now I have another month at least to tie up the loose ends because of your interference!” al Ghul didn’t step down, instead his smirk grew wider.

“Well if I hadn’t you would’ve missed your opportunity, they were about to initiate their plan and that would have been an even bigger headache for both of us. So,” he crossed his arms, “you're welcome.”

The only one to not take a step back from the red clad woman’s anger after that was Damian, which in hindsight was very foolish as he was the only one in danger. Her hand twitch, eager to wring his neck.

“Detective Dupain-Cheng,” the captain warned after stepping into the breakroom from all the commotion, “stand down.” She growled in response and stormed off while Damian’s smirk only grew.

Rosa only rolled her eyes and muttered, “wow, not even a single punch. Losers.”

---

Marinette sat at her desk with several people gathered around, laughing at something on her screen when Damian stormed into the precinct. No one took notice of him until he barked out a “HEY!” and everyone's laughter died out. Everyone’s smiles left their faces at the sight of Detective al Ghul, well, everyone except for Marinette who ignored him and started typing something else up on the computer. The group of eyes flickered between the two as Damian’s clear target was Marinette and he was practically burning holes in her head.

She merely glanced at him and said, “hey Damian,” as if nothing was wrong. The only tell giving her away was the devilish smirk growing on her face.

He stomped over to her and spun the chair to face him, placing his hands on the armrests and leaning inches away from her face, but she didn’t budge.

“Don’t "hey Damian" me,” he seethed.

“Ok, bye Damian.”

A deep growl escaped him. “Stay out of my way, Bug. You might get squashed.” With that he stood up, looked down at her with a snarl, and left, leaving his threat hanging in the air.

As he left Marinette caught everyone’s attention again with a “hey look what I made everyone,” and clicked on something she had pulled up during the man’s entrance. The group once again howled in laughter at the compilation video labeled: “Our “Greatest�� Detective Being a Brat for 5 Minutes”

---

Marinette and Damian were currently sparring in the underground workout room, it was mostly empty except for Detective Diaz who liked to follow them around and add to their chaos or just watch for her amusement and the thorn in her side, Jon Kent, the beat cop.

“Damn,” Jon commented, munching on popcorn he brought from the breakroom. They had been going for ten minutes trading hits and kicks without a breather.

“Yeah. They’re crazy.” Rosa cackled, throwing popcorn in her mouth.

Marinette’s eyes shone with determination as well as Damian’s, both refusing to back down and admit defeat but they were also running out of stamina. They had taken their work clothes off and wore simple shorts and tank tops, running shorts for Marinette and basketball shorts for Damian. They had fought each other so much that they knew each other too well, each unable to surprise the other.

“When do you think they’ll just go for it and have like, a really aggressive make-out sesh?” Jon asked, glancing at the woman beside him before turning his eyes back on the fight. Rosa grinned maliciously, eyes sparkling at the thought of the chaos that could bring.

“Two weeks. Tops.”

“Nah, no more than five days.”

The captain appeared next to Jon who flinched and flung the half the bowl of popcorn on himself and Diaz. “I think within the month but after two weeks, they have no idea what they’re feeling.”

Jon and Rosa looked at each other, then at their captain with growing grins.

“Deal.”

---

Marinette was fuming in her anger.

How? How did this happen? She asked herself, screaming in her mind since she wasn’t in her bed and couldn’t do it into her pillow. She unintentionally let out a growl and felt Damian al Ghul’s chuckle through his chest.

They had been compromised, Ladybug’s informant had been bugged, pun not intended and they weren’t aware until their informant arrived at the pickup and was immediately taken hostage, they were forced to hide in the rafters and there were more thugs than expected as they had come prepared for the two detectives.

Which led to Robin covering her under his stupid long cape in the rafters of the warehouse and waiting for her to come up with a plan as they hid in the shadows.

“See, this is why I bring this ‘dumb black cape’ with me.” Robin whispered in her ear to which she growled again in response. She hated when he was right about anything, especially about something so dumb. And it definitely wasn’t helping that she could his breath on her neck or his arm wrapped around her waist. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t think of a plan to escape.

She internally cursed herself for letting her thoughts carry away and focused solely on her breathing for a few moments then to the commotion below them.

---

“I am never working with him again.” Marinette complained to the captain, both her and Detective al Ghul had been brought into the Captain’s office to discuss their distracting relationship.

“Why not? You two are better together, your strengths weigh out the other’s weaknesses.”

“He’s a brat!”

Damian scoffed, “At least I’m not naive, you imbecile.”

“Detectives!” the Captain dragged his hand across his face in despair. “You two will get over your differences, one way or another, and do it quickly if you want to work another case.”

“WHAT?” they both shouted in unison.

“You will not work another case until you figure out how to be civil with each other.”

Immediately they both started yelling over each other at their captain, protesting the terrible idea and gesturing to each other as proof of the terrible idea.

“Enough!” He shouted over them and just as quickly as they started, they stopped and glared. “I know you two love your jobs and are unhealthy in your obsession with them so I can and will hold this over your head until you get over your differences. No cases. You are dismissed.”

The two detectives glared at their captain, no doubt thinking of petty ways to get back at him for doing this to them and they stormed out.

---

One week later, Jon lost the bet Detectives al Ghul and Dupain-Cheng were sitting in the captain's office again.

“How was your time off?”

“Fun.”

“Lier.”

“Shut up, Robin.”

The captain sighed. “So I see that you two are not civil.”

“What? No we are, right Damian?”

“... yes me and miss Dupain-Cheng get along rather well. We had a discussion earlier this week and have agreed to be civil with one another.”

“It’s just banter.” Marinette chuckled, waving the notion away.

The captain looked between the two, his two best detectives, one sat in stoic, perfect posture with an unreadable, emotionless face and the other was beaming at him with a blinding smile.

“Ok perfect. Here’s your next case,” he slid a thin file over to them, “I went over it already and you will have to begin with a stake-out to gather more information.” With that Damian’s ever present scowl deepened and Marinette’s smile became strained and her eye twitched.

That’s what they get for lying to me, thought the captain. Hopefully they won’t mess up this investigation.

As they left he heard Damian mutter “way to go imbecile,” to Marinette who growled back a “you started it,” before the door clicked shut behind them.

---

There was a knock on Damian’s door. He sighed in annoyance, he was stuck with Dupain-Cheng so the person on the other side of the door could only be her.

“What do you want?”

“I’m bored Damian, let’s spar.”

“No, go away.”

“Please?”

Ugh, stupid cute voi- what? No. No no no. Stupid annoying voice. “We sparred yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.”

“Well you won’t do anything else with me.” her muffled voice complained. It was true, he didn’t want to be in her presence because for some reason he enjoyed it because she was a nuisance.

“Fine!” he got off of his uncomfortable mat and swung the door open to find a hopeful expression on Marinette’s face and twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes. “What is it you want to do?”

---

This investigation was not fun nor was it enjoyable. They had a measly little refrigerator and constantly ordered take out to not be seen by the goons across the street. Marinette, however, snuck out in broad daylight to go grocery shopping because “it’s more obvious to go at night than during the day, besides, do you really want them to see a pretty girl in the middle of the night and kidnap me?” Damian had to agree with her and let her treat her childish needs while he stayed and kept watch. He was thinking about these things, rereading the same sentence of his book without grasping what it actually said when his partner burst open his door.

“DAMIAN!” Marinette glared at him from his most likely broken door with focused fury.

“What?” he asked without looking up from his book.

“What is wrong with you? I've tried so hard to be civil, to be friends with you, but no! You want to be a brat. You're not better than anyone and you’re a fool to think so!”

“Well too bad I guess.”

“Damian look at me.” he glanced up for a moment then back down to his book which only heightened Marinette’s anger. “How could you eat the ice cream from the bottom up just to trick me into thinking there was more! You piece of sh--monster! You monster! You are coming with me right now. I need to take my anger out on you, I want to punch you in the face so bad right now.”

“No, I'm good.”

Marinette smirked. “So you’d rather admit defeat now? Knowing you can’t beat an angry Marinette?”

“No, I know I can beat you, I don't need to test out my abilities.”

Marinette barked out a laugh. “You’ve never beaten angry Marinette and you know it,” she snapped.

Damian closed his book with a snap and replied “fine” before following her to the mat.

“You’re going down.”

“I beg to differ, Dupain-Cheng.”

They took opposite sides of the mat and took their stances. Circling one another Marinette sized up her  opponent, she knew that he was a little more reckless and aggressive when he was angry and of course she wanted an excuse to pummel him so she needed to rile him up. She took a jab which he easily grabbed her wrist instead of swatting it away and pulled her to him. She ran at him gaining extra momentum and twisting her wrist to grab his, she jumped on top of him and the imbalance toppled them to the floor. With his right wrist trapped in her grip she got one good punch in his face before his left hand pulled her off him. She released his right wrist only to trap it again under her leg as she shot her left hand out and grabbed his other before falling to the mat, quickly maneuvering her legs to pin him. As he tried to wiggle out she tightened her grip till he relaxed and he tapped her cheek with his fingers in defeat. She let him go and they restarted.

Each time only lasting for a few minutes, every time Marinette won Damian’s anger rose and every time Damian won Marinette’s determination grew. Soon both were breathing hard and glaring at each other, circling the mat like two alphas in a battle for dominance.

Damian attacked, throwing a punch which she easily ducked under and tried to counter with an uppercut but he backed away only to attack again just as quickly. She dodged and weaved around his advances barely having time to think until she swatted one punch only to be little too slow to dodge his second punch. Pain struck her cheekbone and he faltered, not expecting to actually land a punch, even if it only skimmed her face. She took his surprise to her advantage and took a step back and kicked into his stomach, sending him to stumble backwards. Before he could recover she gave him a flurry of punches until he threw on of his own, forcing her to step back. As she did he quickly swiped his foot under her, catching one heel, forcing her off balance. Before she could save herself he was on her, pushing her back onto the mat with a heavy thump.

He straddled her with the weight of his body trapping her and his hands clamped around her wrists. She squirmed under his weight but she knew she was stuck so she gave up the struggle.

She glared up at him, both breathing heavily and completely exhausted, not that either would admit it of course.

“Looks like I pinned a bug.” he said to her, smirking, only inches away from her face

Marinette glared at him, pushing the thought out that he was so attractive with that smirk.

She couldn’t help her eyes flicker to his lips, he was so close.

“Fine you win this round, just get off.”

His grin slipped away and licked his lips but didn’t move, only loosening his hold on her, she watched his own eyes flicker to her lips then back again, only to find her eyes on his lips. She didn’t know what she was doing, he was so close. He was slowly moving his head down until she lifted her head off the ground to meet his, finally crashed their lips together.

Marinette slipped her hands out of his grip wrapping her fingers through his hair and around his neck, pulling down. Damian let himself fall on his elbow using his other hand to snake around her waist to pull her up into him. He lifted his leg and slid it between her thighs before doing the same with his other to comfortably press their bodies together.

Damian could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body, he didn’t know how badly he wanted to kiss her, to touch her, until now, and he didn’t want to stop.

Marinette heard a groan escape Damian, or was it her? She didn’t know, he tasted so good....

Damian pulled away, both were breathing heavier than before and they locked eyes.

“Holy shit.” Marinette said, not believing what was happening was real and lifted her head again, capturing Damian's lips, each giving each other softer, more gentle kisses than before.

“You cursed,” he said, pulling back again.

“Yeah well you taste like my fuckin ice-cream.”

---

BONUS:

I’m a Wayne.

*gasp* oh wow.

You knew?

Wow you must really think i’m dumb.

Wha-no i do not!

I found out the second day I was here.

… wow I guess that makes me the dumb one

It’s ok i still love you

You love me?

Shit. Rosa! Save me!

Hell no get away from me, how dare you break my trust like that.

Hope y’all enjoyed, please let me know if i misspelled or have bad grammar or anything like that or if you like it. or not thats fine too. 

Thank you for reading!!!😁

[levis-little-nuggie]

Yay you’re back!! Diavolo/GN reader angst? “The garden looks desolate without its leaves and blooms.”? (And welcome back!!)

My first request after coming back 🥺🥺🥺

Angst and Diavolo?? You got it 💜💜 kekekeke let me open my box of theories

When I read over this request, the words poured out of me and I had no idea where I was going with this. I even stopped about half-way through wondering where I was going and if it made sense. I'm glad I followed through with it and I how it played out.

Please enjoy and thank you again for the request 💜💜💜

Once, the garden thrived. It was properly maintained, fed, and watered. Some might even to go as far as saying the garden was coddled; doted on by an overprotective parent. The Caretaker had carefully plotted the path of the sun as it moves east to west, traveling a wobbled path as the season's changed. They knew exactly where the partial shade plants would receive just that, plotted the full-suns meticulously to maximize their time in the sun, and even designed the greenhouse in a way to keep the full-shades hidden from the sun throughout the years.

The Caretaker had a few guests at first, but as they tended to their plot of land, more came to scope out the potential. The garden didn't just grow, it thrived. Colors and smells abundant, a vast beauty that made most guests cry. Some sang praises, some offered sacrifices, and some even tried to sneak in and steal some of the plants for their own. The thieves and wrongdoers would be caught and killed, offered to the caretaker as sacrifices and their crimes annulled.

The Garden was all that mattered.

But all good things must come to an end.

The Caretaker found themselves unable to keep up with The Garden's high maintenance. They remained stubborn even as their health deteriorated; the caretaker would not accept any help. Those who once admired The Garden's beauty and splendor were now successful in their attempts to steal a bit of the masterpiece for themselves. Praises were mocked, offerings whittled away, and sacrifices were made in the honor of other gardens.

Others tried everything they could, but no one could match the once renowned paragon of The Garden. But this did not matter to the Caretaker, no, and neither did the weeping, dying plants they'd spent so long perfecting.

In fact, The Garden was all a ruse, a diversion from the Caretaker's scheme. The Caretaker had gotten bored. An immortal life gave them enough time to think. To plan. To scheme. Oh it would take several lifetimes to come to fruition, but they had the time. And they were patient. So they sowed the seeds. And watched their plan unfurl like the sea of leaves and petals in The Garden.

The Caretaker watched as their neighbors fought, finding a twisted pleasure in seeing the once pristine and immaculate surrounding societies and hierarchy crumble. This was what they'd waited for. The chaos. All stemming from something they created. They watched as others went to war, slaughtering each other over flowers that shone like precious jewels and smelled of joy, of laughter, and of love.

While The Caretaker reveled in the mayhem, one other sought to take revenge on The Caretaker for the disruption. This mournful soul had realized the effects The Garden had instilled on those around him. The actions of The Caretaker disgusted him, but he could not act alone and he could not be impulsive. Like The Caretaker, he watched and waited.

Acting in the shadows, he went unnoticed as he gathered pawns and powerful allies. But he was careful. No one knew of his plan. He charmed and dazzled, building a reputation as a joyful friend. And like The Caretaker, he had his own garden as a diversion. The masses doubted his garden's beauty, but it wasn't the flowers that got their attention.

This newcomer invited visitors and guests, encouraged them to take saplings and trimmings. He allowed them take if they wanted, showing them how to care for their new plant. His garden wasn't as marvelous and wondrous as The Garden, but people were still drawn to him.

The Caretaker watched as their loved ones, once loyal and devoted, fell from them like the wilted flower petals in The Garden. And the newcomer was there, collecting each of them, his garden expanding with each addition.

His plan was succeeding. The hard part was over. He'd collected power and friendships through the ruse of his own garden. This was the long game and all his pieces were in place. It was The Caretaker's move now.

"The garden looks desolate without its leaves and blooms." The voice broke him out of his reverie. Lowering his pen, Lord Diavolo smiled widely to greet you.

"Y/N! Yes, it seems Solomon's new potion shows no mercy towards the plant life." His belly laugh reverberated around the room and you grimaced, looking out with sorrow at the wasteland that was the courtyard. Before you could speak, Diavolo placed a hand on your shoulder amd squeezed reassuringly. "It's alright, I allowed him to practice here. Though, Barbatos is fuming. However, he has been talking about rearranging a few plants and now he has the entire courtyard to work with."

The demon in mention appeared, his eyebrow twitching just barely. Barbatos led you and the prince to the table prepared for your afternoon tea. He avoided looking at the courtyard, his face seemingly neutral as always, but your careful eye caught the ghost of a smile on the butler's face and it sent a chill down your spine.

"Say, my Lord, if you don't mind me asking, Barbatos ensured me you were working on documents for RAD. However, I noticed the stationary you were using a few moments ago," a feint blush dusted across Diavolo's face and he averted his gaze to the table in front of where he sat. You let out a short, triumphant hum, "I knew it. Lucifer is going to be maaaddd." You teased him and his blush deepened.

Diavolo let out a sigh, knowing fell well you're too stubborn to drop the subject. The normal cheerful tone in his voice turned genuine, sincere. "I-"

"You were writing letters to your father again, weren't you?" It was a habit the Demon Prince never grew out of. You had caught him several times before but Diavolo always made the papers disappear before you could get close enough to read them.

"I know you've said it's pointless and a waste of time but he's going to wake up, Y/N any day, I can feel it." You looked to him, the gleam of hope in his eyes only intensified your heart breaking and you offered him a small smile.

You both continued your tea, discussing various topics regarding RAD and the progress of your exchange program. The conversation flowing just like always, you were content to not ask again about the letters and Diavolo was more than happy to indulge himself back into this life he'd created for himself.

When The Caretaker makes his move, Lord Diavolo will be ready.

[ask70sunit]

Hello Brigadier, nice 'tache. I was wondering, do you even bother to phone up the undertakers every time a soldier is killed or does a hearse turn up at 5pm every day to collect the corpses?

Brigadier: *Narrows his eyes.* Are you insinuating that I don’t care about my men and what happens to them?

Doctor: *Overhears and rushes over.* They what? *Reads the message and silently fumes for a short moment.* Of all the disrespectful things to say! I will have you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man- “Puts his hand on Alistair’s shoulder.* -isn’t so callous when such misfortune falls on his troops. He cares, whenever one is injured or killed. I will not stand for such slander and-

Brigadier: *Clears his throat.* Uh, yes, thank you, Doctor. I can handle this. *Gives a small appreciative smile at him.*

Doctor: *Reluctantly walks away and mutters.* I cannot believe, of all the things...

Alistair: *Takes a deep breath to compose himself to be professional.* There is a protocol when that happens, which I follow with the utmost care and respect to those who have died under my command. I would also add that death doesn’t happen nearly as often as you seem to think it does.

[kyber-kisses]

I, Alone (Part 5)

Dean Winchester x Reader

wanna start from the beginning? Here is the masterlist!

Warnings: Dean continuing to lose his mind, more angst, spn level gore🤷‍♀️

Summary: as Dean continues to search for the missing piece in his life, the reader hits a snag on a case.

A/n: ahhh I am really loving writing this series! I hope you guys are enjoying it! Anyhow, the spn Taglist is still open and please tell me what you thought!

You missed home. There was no doubt about that.

No matter how fast you ran, no matter how many miles you put between you and the home. . . You missed it. You couldn’t help it.

Tucking your hands into the pockets of your coat, you moved silently down the street, eyes scanning over every inch you could see. Though the cobblestone street was empty, there were still street-lamps shining stubbornly into the night, casting sharp shadows on the opposing brick walls. It was as if they simply loved to share the amber glow. Under their steady watch the cream brickwork brought back a nostalgic feeling you couldn’t quite pinpoint. As you walked you let a hand trace over the bricks, slowly getting lost in thought.

Home. It had been so long. So long. At first being gone felt slightly weird, but now it just felt wrong. You didn’t belong here. You belonged on the other side of the Atlantic, not here on some abandon street in some small town in Spain. This wasn’t home. . . It was the furthest thing from it.

Home was the bunker and it grey walls, and the library with its massive collection of lore books. Home was the abandon back roads of America, the small motels with their flickering neon signs. Home was the backseat of Baby and her worn leather and faint scent of gunpowder, the sounds of Classic rock rolling freely out of the speakers. . . Home was Dean and his terrible jokes and contagious smile. You missed the last one the most, almost to the point where you could feel your heart breaking in your chest all over again and suddenly you had tears in your eyes to go along with it. Maybe it was because you knew he didn’t miss you in return.

No,no- now was not the time.

Quickly shaking your head, you cleared the haze in your mind. You were hunting. Now was not the time to be reminiscing about the past. Up ahead you could see the building you were aiming for, the slowly collapsing farmhouse only a silhouette as it sat at the end of the street, beyond where the lamplight ventured.

One thing you learned very quickly when you set foot in Europe was that the spirits were different. They were older and stronger and so much more restless. The ghost you were currently hunting was something of a poltergeist, and had killed several people in the last two weeks. No-one had survived a night in the abandoned rock built dwelling in living memory either. The locals said to stay away if you knew what was good for you. ( the victims clearly hadn’t listened.)

It was said that in life he was a mild mannered farmer, but around 1820 he watched his entire family get slaughtered before being treated to a particularly brutal death. He was hung by the neck and had his guts cut from him while he was still alive. Now he was restless, unable to rest in peace and full of fury.

Tightening up the straps of your pack, you eased open the lone door in front of you. The hinges creaked harshly making you wince as you stepped through the threshold, the darkness swallowing you for a moment before you adjusted again and turned on the headlamp, your other hand tightly gripping your shotgun. All you had to do was find his bones which were supposedly underneath the floorboards somewhere and burn them, and then you would be on your way and to the next town that needed saving. Easy peasy.

The rotted floorboards moaned with age as you crept through the space, ears and eyes alert to every little movement and sound. An uneasy breeze blew through the slowly falling apart building, bringing the scent of mildew and rot with it, a scent you knew all too well. Every step you took was met by another discordant shriek from the worm rotted floor boards, but you didn’t stop. You had done this so many times that not even the sounds up head of you made you flinch. A fine layer of dust coated the place and as you walked deeper into the belly of the home the floor got dustier, the floor boards got creakier and there was torn paint everywhere you looked. The vintage furniture was broken, chairs without legs and cabinets without doors - like a body with no soul that would never work. 

Then like a switch being flicked, the temperature dropped and your breath came out in wispy little clouds, and within seconds you were on high alert. the beam from your headlamp bouncing across the room as you whirled around.

But unfortunately you weren’t paying enough attention because a cold hand shot out of the dark and wrapped around your ankle, sending you to the rotting floorboards with one sharp pull along with a shout of surprise. Your shotgun slid off into the dark, leaving the light from your headlamp as your only ally. And then the poltergeist was on top of you, hands wrapped firmly around your throat as you desperately clawed at the floor trying to find something to help fight back. The spirit pulled you foreword slightly before slamming your head harshly back to the ground. Your mind quickly went into autopilot, in a last ditch attempt to survive—

And then the world went dark.

*. *. *. *. *. *. *

The bunker was a mess.

That was the only proper way to describe it as Sam stood stoic in the middle of the library. Books had been piling up on the table for the past few days, the shelves slowly becoming more vacant, some even littering the ground along with scribbled notes.

“Dean, what the hell?!”

As if on cue his brother poked his head up from where he was seated on the other side of the table, a mountain of literature dividing the two.

“What?”

“The place is a mess! What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what the hell is happening to me and why I can’t remember things!” The older brother fumed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I just need to find a spell or something to help. Cas was helping me-“ Dean paused, eyebrows drawing together as he looked over his shoulder for the angel. “But he left. Angel business or something.”

Not this again. Sam thought, letting out a sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dean how many times do I have to tell you that you are not missing anything? You’ve been droning on about this for weeks. You need to stop.”

“I’m not stopping, Sam. I’ve lost something important to me and I intend on finding whatever it may be.” Dean flipped the page of the book he was currently buried in, a set look on his face. He wasn’t gonna let this go.

“Alright whatever. Continue on your crazy quest or whatever to find this ‘missing thing’. I’m done trying to stop you.”

“Alright, fine.” Dean muttered, eyes still fixated on the words in front of him as he picked up his book and moved out of the library, no doubt moving to his room instead.

Dean didn’t even have to look up from the massive leather bound book in his hands as he navigated the quiet corridors of their home. It was like shifting into autopilot. He knew this place like the back of his hand. His steps only faltered once when he came to the door from before, the brass numbers staring back at him intimidatingly before the Winchester shook his head and continued on towards his room, nose back in the book.

Nudging the door open with his foot, he flicked on the lights. The hinges of the door slightly squeaking as he closed it behind him fully and moved to take a seat in his desk chair, kicking his feet up on the worn wood of the desk. He was gonna find something soon. He could feel it in his bones.

He had maybe been seated for a mere minute before he paused, looking up from the book with eyebrows tightly drawn together. A sudden wave of curiosity rippled through the hunter as his jade eyes look across the room towards his nightstand, head tilting ever so slightly.

It was as if he was being pulled because he slowly closed his book and moved across the linoleum tiles, searing himself on the bed as he cautiously slid open the top drawer. He had no clue as to why he was doing it but he didn’t stop himself. Shifting through the contents of the drawer he came across an unfamiliar book at the bottom. . . Or was it familiar? Ignoring the rest of the contents he pulled the small book free before closing the drawer with a sharp thud.

The photo album was small. The front and back wrapped in a deep green leather that was soft to the touch, his initials burnt into the lower left corner of it. It was his. . . But he had no memory of ever buying it.

“Well hello there.” Brushing off the thin layer of dust collected on the top, Dean opened to the plastic pages, recognizing the the photographs held within as he flipped through them. They were pictures of him and Sam, Bobby, Cas. Even the one of him with his mother. His most cherished photos were all there, safe and tucked away.

But what got him wasn’t the photographs in front of him. It was the blank spots between them where other photographs clearly used to be. No person in their right mind would leave open spaces between photographs in a photo album. Something was meant to be there. Those spaces weren’t supposed to be empty. . .

Deans eyes stayed glued to the laminated pages, as he let his fingers dance along an empty photo slot. “Someone. . .”

The moment the word left his lips his eyes widened and he sucked in a breath as realization struck him, And then Dean Winchester was shooting off the bed like it had caught fire, throwing the door to his room open and bolting back down the hallway, the photo album clutched tightly in his hands.

“Sam!”

“God, what is it now?”

Deans socked feet slid across the floor as he rounded the corner into the war room, practically vaulting over the steps as he entered the library.

“Found it!”

“Found what?” Sam let out a sigh, before slightly jumping as Dean slammed the open photo album down on the table, a wide smile on his face.

“Look!”

Peering down at the page the younger Winchester shrugged, looking back up to his brother. “What am I looking at exactly?”

“The blank spots, see?!” Dean rapidly tapped on an empty space in the book, wide eyed and out of breathless.

“Yeah, you don’t take a lot of pictures-“

“No! No you don’t get it- it’s a someone.” Dean breathed, both excited and relieved that he was finally getting somewhere. “I’ve lost someone very important to me.”

To Be Continued. . .

SPN Taglist (still open)

@familybusinesswritingbro​@a–1–1–3 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @music-is-all-i-need @agusdoti​ @callmekda​ @jordangdelacruz @orphiceseum​ @andthatsmyworld @marvelfangirllll​ @fandomnerdespressourself​ @gladiosamicitias @castielsangelsx @lxstgxrl-ck @tis-i-the-wayward-idgit @amendoise @phoenixuprisingsstuff @ericalynne007 @kaitlaitlaitl​ @neerness @totallyluciferr​ @supernaturalenchanted​ @dolanfivsosxox​@supernatural-ocs @emptycanvasposts @akshi8278​ @defenderrosetyler​ @heyyy-hey-babyyy @idksupernatural​ @vicmc624 @all-will-be-well-love@busy-bee-angel-misska @starsandmidnightblue​ @lilulo-12fanfiction​ @beanie-beebo​ @xoxoaudreymarie​ @greenarrowhead​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​

[tuiccim]

Santi (Part 8)

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Words: 3103

Warnings: Angst, violence, language

Trigger warning: Violence

Summary: The Caruso Op continues. 

Santi Masterlist

Day 101

Everything was set. Vision was driving you and the cargo in the SUV to the meeting place. You pulled into the warehouse in Brooklyn you had previously scoped out and smoothly exited the car. Vincent was there waiting with his bodyguards and a few other people to take the cargo. 

“Vincent.” You smile. 

“Eve, is this everything?” VIncent asks.

“Your entire list, as promised. Did you doubt me?” You smirk.

“Of course not, darling.” Vincent says smoothly.

You spend the next 20 minutes going over the cargo and discussing future needs and shipments. When Vincent seems satisfied with everything he nods to the others. 

“I have a gift for you in the office here. Will you join me for a drink?”

“A gift?” You say suspiciously. 

“For our reunion.” Vincent smiles devilishly at you. 

You look to Vision who immediately joins you, but Vincent turns back. “Leave the shadow. I’ll leave the guards. Just the two of us.”

You can feel something is off. Everyone is tense, which is normal in a deal, but there’s something different about Vincent and you can’t quite pull the emotion out that is making things feel strange. Knowing you can handle Vincent alone you decide to take the chance and follow him. Vision is obviously unhappy with the decision but he lets you go. You walk into the dim office with an old metal desk and little else in the room. The door closes suddenly behind you and that’s when you feel the needle in your neck. 

You wake up what was only 20-30 minutes later. Your healing ability metabolizing the drug more quickly than average. You are in the backseat of Vincent’s SUV with hands cuffed behind your back. You moan as you are coming to and realize your surroundings. 

“Awake already?” Vincents snarks. 

“The fuck did you do, Vincent?” You try to sound forceful but it comes out slurred. The effects of the drugs still in your system. 

“I have some bad news. I’m afraid your shadow is no more. My guards are dispatching him as we speak. You did say one lover at a time so I felt the need to rid us of him.”

You chuckle, “I doubt your guards can handle, V. He’s more than he seems.”

“5 to 1. I like my odds.” Vincent looks at you. 

“Where are we going and why am I handcuffed?” You say.

“Someplace private. And it’s the first step in breaking you. I’m the one in control.” Vincent says.

“You think.” You know now that Vincents ‘never say never’ comment at the party had been a threat. His obsession had been rekindled and this time he had decided he would have you no matter what.

“I know. You are mine now, Eve. I’ll prove it to you.” He slides a hand to your thigh and rubs. “You’ll see, darling.” 

You jerk your leg away from him and he chuckles. Looking outside you stare at your surroundings and realize you are no longer in Brooklyn. You assumed you were headed to the loft in the meatpacking district when you see the car is going the opposite direction. Away from everything you had shown Vision and Sam. A little panic begins to form as you realize they have no idea where you are being taken. You reach out to feel Vincent’s emotions but the drug in your system is making it difficult. Your head is pounding so you decide to just lay your head against the window and watch. You hoped Vision was okay. The ride lasts nearly another hour before you arrive at a beautiful house with extensive grounds. The car door opens and you feel another sting in your neck. 

This time you wake up with a start. Something is being held under your nose. You shake your head to get away from the acrid smell. 

“That’s it. Wake up, Eve. It’s time to play.” Vincent's voice is delighted. 

You come awake but still feel sluggish. It takes you a second to realize you’re tied to a metal rack. Wrists are tied by your head and ankles tied to the bottom. Thankfully, you’re still fully dressed. The room is windowless and full of different weapons and equipment. This makes you more fully awake. “Enough, Vincent. Unchain me. This is not how it works.”

“So naive. You think all submissives actually start off wanting it?” Vincent says darkly. 

“If you touch me again, you will die today.” You say.

Vincent slaps you across the face. “Speak when told.”

You laugh at him knowing you can’t let him break you. The longer you hold out against him the better chance he wouldn’t… He needed you to be submissive and there was no way in hell you were gonna break. “That’s cute, Vinny. You think I’ll actually listen to you.”

“Don’t call me that. You will. I think you are wearing too many clothes.” Vincent picks a knife up. 

You simply stare at him with dead eyes. He takes the knife and slides it under the buttons of your blouse and pops them off. You never break eye contact with him. When the last button pops off he rips the blouse open. “Look at you. So pretty.” He slides the knife along your skin. 

“I’m going to mark you. I think I’ll carve my initials right next to your bullet wounds.” He looks down for the scar and your heart accelerates. You hadn’t bothered with the fake scar as trust had been reestablished. Vincent stares hard at your stomach where they had been before reaching for the waistband of your skirt to pull it down further. 

“Where are they?” He stares at you in disbelief. You just stare at him. Not saying anything. “Where are they?” he repeats more loudly and presses the knife into your skin where they should be. Your face twitches at the sting from the knife and he scrapes the blade across your skin raising a thin line that beads with drops of blood. You try to remain calm but the terror begins in the pit of your stomach. Vincent is about to realize what you are. You can already feel your skin knitting back together and his face is staring at the line as it is quickly disappearing. “What the fuck?” He says as he watches and then his eyes snap up to yours. There is pure glee in his face and you feel panic begin to rise in you. “You’re one of those! How far does your healing ability go, Eve? Secretive girl.”

You say nothing. 

“Let’s test it out.” He makes a deeper stripe across your stomach and you keep your poker face on as best you can. He watches as the line recedes again and then rips a piece of your shirt off to wipe away the blood revealing the smooth skin underneath. Then he plunges the knife into your stomach fully and you grunt at the pain. He pulls it out and watches again as your skin repairs itself. He repeats the action eliciting another grunt and smiles at you wickedly, “You still feel all the pain, don’t you? I can hurt you and hurt you and you’ll never have a mark on you. You really are the perfect woman.” He laughs sickly as he plunges the knife in again. 

“Where the fuck is she, Sam? Bucky is near out of his mind as the team scrambles to find you. 

“Redwing lost them in the trees covering the road. We’ll find her. There are only two ways they could have gone. I’ve got another asset that was following her but he hasn’t checked in.”

“I’m gonna kill this bastard.” Bucky fumes.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing and he picks up. ”Nate, man, where the hell ya been? Do you have her?” Bucky is looming over Sam. 

The voice over the line is breaking up, “Sam, got shit reception out here. They’re in a huge house. No way to get in there without being noticed and he’s got several guards on the ground.”

“I’ve got his location.” Natasha says behind Sam. 

“Let’s go.” Bucky bellows at everyone Vision puts a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. The quinjet is already heading the right direction. 

You are panting from the pain. Vincent has stabbed you a dozen times and your skirt is drenched in blood. He was reveling in the pain it was causing you but was also angry because you wouldn’t scream. 

“Scream for me once, Eve. Then I’ll give you a break. Just one scream.” He plunges the knife in again. 

You hold in any sound. You can’t let him win. Once you catch your breath, you laugh. “Told ya, Vinny. I don’t break.”

“Bitch!” He screams and slaps you again. You just laugh maniacally hoping to unnerve him more. Between the drug still in your system and the pain, you can’t concentrate well enough to use your telepathy. 

Vincent is suddenly calmer and your stomach clenches. “Let’s test something out. You heal, but can you grow back appendages?”

Shit. This was going to hurt. You had lost a toe once before and it had grown back but you’d never cared to test the limitations of the ability. He grabs your hand and then you hear the shots firing. Vincent looks towards the door. 

“Ready to die?” You say. 

Vincent picks up his gun and points it at your head. “We die together, Eve. Don’t worry.” He grins malevolently. 

The door is kicked in and Steve and Bucky freeze seeing the gun pointed at your head. 

“The Avengers. How interesting. I should have guessed with your abilities, Eve.” Vincent says before addressing Steve and Bucky, “Can she survive a head shot?” He grins.

“Shoot him.” You enunciate clearly and Vincent brings the barrel of the gun closer to your head. 

“Lower the gun.” Steve says. 

“I don’t think so. I’ll take her with me.” Vincent turns back to look at you and you wrench your head as far away from the gun as you can but the bullet still hits the right side of your forehead. Vincent drops to the floor dead from Bucky’s shot. Bucky runs to you immediately. You’re slumped over and not moving.

“Doll, doll, wake up.” He picks your head up to see the bullet hole in your forehead. “NO! NO! SANTI! Wake up, baby. WAKE UP, WAKE UP!” Bucky drops to his knees and screams. His jeans become stained with your blood that covers the floor. The rest of the team stand in the doorway taking in the scene before them. 

Steve comes up behind Bucky and tries to pick him up. “Come on, Bucky. Come on, man. Let me get you out of here.”

Suddenly a small tink is heard and Bucky sees a bullet drop into the pool of blood. He looks up sharply and sees your head move slightly. 

“Owwwww…” You say as a massive headache reverberates through your head. 

“Santi!” Bucky is up in an instant and cradles your face.

“Vis?” You slur. Everything feels strange and you can’t seem to get your words out.

“He’s here. He’s okay. Help me get her out of this.” Bucky says. 

Within a few minutes Bucky is carrying you to the quinjet. Natasha and Steve are checking you over for injuries which you find slightly ludicrous. You are exhausted and just want to sleep. Bucky keeps you cradled in his arms in the quinjet whispering to you, “You’re okay, doll. I’ve got you. Never letting you go again.” 

“Bucky,” you curl your fingers into his shirt. 

“Shhh, you don't need to talk. I’m gonna take care of you, baby.” Bucky reassures. 

You can’t hold out any longer and pass out. 

Day 102

You wake in the medbay of the tower and slowly look around. A monitor next to you shows your vitals. You see Bucky talking to one of the doctors. He turns to look at you and you lock eyes. He rushes to your side, “Doll, you’re awake.”

"Bucky." You reach out for him and he takes you in his arms. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s fine. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. How long was I out for?”

“It’s been almost 14 hours.” Dr. Miles says as she walks in. 

“Hey Doc.” You say to your usual doctor. Despite your healing abilities you are still required to have regular check ups with the medical staff. 

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Miles asks. 

You look at Bucky’s face. His arms are still around you. “I’m fine. Nothing feels off. When can I get out of here?”

“All your labs are normal. I want to monitor your vitals and keep you for another hour or two.” 

You groan, “Really, Doc?”

“Let her do her job, Doll.” Bucky says kissing the top of your head. 

She performs a cognitive and neurological exam. 

“Can you tell me what exactly happened? I need to do a full report of your injuries.” Dr. Miles says. 

“Bucky, can you give us a minute?” You look at him. 

“Sorry, Doll. Not letting you go. I need to hear it, too.”

“No, I… Buck.” One look in his stern face told you he wasn’t going anywhere. “Okay. Two slices across my abdomen. Around 20 or so full seated stabs to the abdomen. Bullet to the head.” You get a far away look in your eye. “Bullet to the head. I survived it.” A hand flies to your forehead. 

“You did and without any lasting damage it would seem. We did a cat scan while you were out and everything looks the same as the one we did six months ago.” Dr. Miles gives you both a smile and walks out. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to hear that. I’m sorry you had to see it. Sorry you had to do that.” You whisper to Bucky, pulling him tighter against you. 

“I would do it all over again to keep you safe. You never have to worry about him again.” Bucky holds you tight. “I’m just so damn glad you’re safe. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Several hours later, you’ve been released from medbay, showered, spent some quality time with Bucky, and are now joining the team for dinner. When you walk into the room, your eyes immediately go to Vision. Letting go of Bucky’s hand, you rush to hug Vision. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” You say as he returns your embrace. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, too.” Vision says. You put your hands up to his face and look at him for a minute. 

“I’m glad to see you, Vision.” You smile at him in his normal form. You move to Wanda and hug her fiercely. “Thank you. Without him… Thank you.”

“We’re a team. We will always look out for each other.” Wanda says.

You make your way around the room hugging everyone. You hear the elevator and see Sam step off of it with another man. He was wearing a cap and his head was down, but when he looked up at you a minute later you recognized him immediately. 

“Nate?” you say in disbelief. 

“Nate’s an old buddy. Pulled him in since he’s not a recognizable face. You did good, man.” Sam smiles at him. 

“Hi, Agent Delarosa. Nathaniel Spencer, at your service.” He holds a hand out to you. 

You shake it, “I take it you were how they found me.”

“Yeah, I was following. Sam wanted an extra set of eyes on you just in case.” Nate smiles.

“Thank you, Nate.” You smile at him and unable to contain yourself you step forward and hug him. “Thank you.”

Nate laughs, “Yeah. So, you’re not as mean as I remember.”

A laugh bubbles up, “I hope not.” You turn to Sam and pull him into a hug. “Thank you, Sam.” 

“You got it, Santi.” Sam squeezes you.

“Okay, okay. Enough, Birdbrain.” Bucky says pulling you into his arms.

“I can’t help it if she’s grateful to me.” Sam smirks at Bucky. 

“I’m grateful to all of you. I’m just sorry we didn’t complete the mission and find out who was being supplied. I didn’t realize how obsessed…” you trail off. 

“You couldn’t know what he’d do, doll. You and Vision made it out alive. That’s all that matters.” Bucky says. 

“I, for one, am both glad and jealous that you can apparently survive a headshot.” Natasha says. 

Steve clears his throat, “I’m just glad we’re all back together. You need to take it easy for a bit though, Santi. Doctors orders. No mission for at least six weeks.”

“I know, Steve. Doc told me.” You smile at him. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!”

After dinner you asked to speak to Steve and Sam alone. Of course, that meant Bucky too. He hadn’t left your side since you woke up. 

“Fury?” You asked simply. 

“His only concern was getting you back. He knew Caruso was dangerous and unstable. No one could have predicted that he would do that.” Steve says.

“Figuring out who he was supplying for was the goal and now we’re back at square one.” You frown.

“Not exactly.” Sam says.

“What do you mean?” 

“That house was a treasure trove of intel. It wasn’t on anyone’s radar. SHIELD got several leads to follow from it.” Sam says.

“So, it wasn’t a total bust?” Relief floods through you. 

“No. SHIELD will be chasing everything down. Caruso had several links to HYDRA.” Steve says.

“It’s out of our hands now.” Bucky puts his arms around you. “You did more than enough.”

You lean into his touch. “Okay. We’re gonna call it an early night, guys.”

“Night.” Sam says. 

“Night, Santi. Night, Buck. Get some rest.”

You lay on your side facing Bucky, studying each beautiful feature of his face. He is doing the same. His eyes keep wandering to a certain spot on your forehead. Your heart broke a little every time they did. Knowing the agony he must have been put through. 

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper with tears in your eyes. A sentiment you had repeated several times since waking up in the medbay.

“We’ve been over this. Not your doing, doll.” Bucky cups your cheek. 

“I just…” You start sobbing again. It felt like the hundredth time you had that day. Everything replayed in your mind again and again. Bucky pulled you into his arms and held you. The mission was over but the effects had a hold on you. The damage Eve always left in her wake.

Part 9

[vidkid20ssimblrlair]

Episode 29: No Bones About It (Part 2)

As I reached the bottom of the steps, I thought about Gemma. She was in the kitchen now tied up in a chair again. Thankfully we all came to an agreement on that being the best option for now. Regardless, it still wasn't a permanent solution and I certainly wasn't breathing a sigh of relief just yet. Tied up or not, she was still here. Still a threat. Also still creepy as fuck.

I peered into the kitchen and immediately saw her bushy red hair. She was seated and all tied up with rope as I expected. Wade stood on guard beside her just in case she managed to wiggle free. Nothing usual about that, but someone else was with her. I looked over her shoulder and there was Aaron kneeling down in front of her. He appeared to be stitching up her arm.

"Aaron?! What are you doing?" I gasped staring down at the doctor.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he murmured refusing to meet my eyes. "I'm...I'm stitching her up."

"Wade," I fumed. "Did you put him up to this?"

Wade scoffed. "No. Why would I?"

"I have my own mind, thank you. No one made me or put me up to it," the doctor shot back. "DJ asked me about Gemma's wound and I as a doctor decided to have a look at it. Good thing too since it needed a few stitches."

"Are you kidding me?! After what she did?"

"I'm a doctor. I took an oath and refusing to see her would go against everything I believe in."

"So fixing her arm is more important than you telling us about what happened earlier? Or did you take some bullshit oath for that too?"

"Don't be crass, Parker."

"She threatened you and her presence threatens our lives. If it was me, I would let her bleed out," I snapped eyeing Gemma as she stared up at me. I shook my head. "You’re either really stupid or a coward."

I stormed off feeling the heat of anger rise up to the surface. I exit out the door and sat down outside on the bench. I looked up at the night sky thinking back to just a few hours ago. Aaron could barely speak. He looked terrified and broken. Now he was stitching up her arm as if it was nothing.

I sat there for a while trying to make sense of that while having Lin's words echo through my brain. I then heard the door creep open and looked over to see Aaron. He came over and sat down beside me. He folded his arms and crossed his legs looking downcast.

"Parker. I didn't do it because I wanted to, but I had to. Besides, her wound wasn't life-threatening. It would have just got infected at the most and I doubt she would have let herself decline to that point. She knew what she was doing when she cut herself."

"Oh?"

"It’s quite obvious it was self-inflicted. Audrey wouldn't do that. She didn't. Gemma..."

"Aaron?"

He seemed overcome with emotion pausing for a second, but he continued. "I have a confession. I've been drinking way too much, but you know that I guess from my abhorrent behavior. What you don't know is I've been self-medicating. I've been using some of the medicine DJ brings back from supply runs. Pain pills. Sleeping pills. Anything to selfishly numb my own inner pain."

"God, Aaron. We needed those. Matthew and Lin especially. Why would you...," I sputtered. I calmed myself. "Aaron, why are you telling me this?"

"She threatened to expose me. She knew. You know it's weird, but I do feel like someone is watching us sometimes. She said as much at least."

I looked around out into the darkness wondering if that was true. The hairs stood on the back of my neck just thinking about it. "What else did she say?"

"She told me if I say anything about what happened, that she would kill me. Maybe let me turn and watch how many of you I could infect. She made it seem like it was something fun. Like a game or something. Then she said if she really wanted to, she could have us all dead in a second with a snap of a finger. All she would need to do is signal her group." he said trembling. "But she told me if I keep my mouth shut and be a 'good little coward', she might spare me. Even after she's done with you all."

"Holy crap, Aaron. Why didn't you tell us that before?"

"Because frankly, I'm a coward, Parker. She scares me. You don't know how she is. How she is truly. She acts sweet, but she's terrifying."

I smirked. "Well, I got a taste of that the first night she came here. I have sort of an idea."

"I should have just told you, but I was afraid. This whole us vs. them thing. I don't know if I can do it. I feel so powerless. So worthless."

"Nah, you're not worthless. I can't even say you're a coward really."

"But the pills and the drinking..."

"We..we all make mistakes. It's all in how we handle them and you telling me shows me you're not a coward. The fact that you're still here and not packing your bags shows me that."

"Where am I going?" he scoffed. "Pack my bags and go where? Surviving in an apocalypse isn't exactly my forte."

"No, but you have your own strengths, doctor."

"Like what?"

"Like saving our asses. Do you think we would have survived this long without a doctor on hand? I'm pretty sure we would have been in rough shape right now if it wasn't for you."

"I guess I've contributed in my own way. Gemma did say she might spare me at end of this because I was useful."

"Well, you're more than just useful to me. To us. Your our friend and hopefully will see the end of this because of you," I said smiling. "Hey, maybe you'll be one to find the cure."

"I doubt that Parker but thank you," he sighed. He sniffled. "So you're not mad at me?"

"No. I mean you messed up, but I'm not mad."

The doctor grinned and grabbed me into a hug. I froze as he seemed overtaken by emotion. He whimpered, "I...I don't know what I do without you. If something was to ever happen. If...if..."

"Nothing going happen. We're going be alright," I insured him pulling away, but I paused staring at him. He looked so small. So sad and fragile. I gave him earnest smile. "We're going get through this together."

"Together?"

"Yeah. You. Me. Everyone."

He laughed bitterly. "Of course. I should have known better. I'm a fool to think... nevermind."

"Aaron..."

"You're a womanizer and I'm just an idiot. You also have Lin. You've always fancied her. I don't even know why I'm talking about this. Then there's no way you're -"

"Aaron. Shut up please," I moaned. "First off, I'm not a womanizer. Secondly, me and Lin aren't together and we will never be together at this point. Thirdly, I'm not entirely sure what you're going on about. Am I missing something?"

"You really are dense, Parker. Nevermind."

"You like me? Is that it?" I asked catching him off guard. He stared back stunned. "I know. I've always known. I tried my best to ignore it, but not because I don't like you. Because I don't know how to really feel about that. I do care about you. I wouldn't rule it out."

He then looked over to his left looking strange and gasped. "Nathan!"

I placed my hand on his. "Aaron. A relationship like that is not a foreign concept to me. It's just it's not entirely something I'm used to or been open about, but life is too short to worry about those things. Especially now right?"

He said nothing. I finally noticed he seemed focused on something. Not me as I expected, but something in the darkness. I frowned. "Aaron. I'm pouring my heart out to you and opening up to you and you're-"

"I heard something!" he whispered. "I swear."

"Ok. Probably just a walker. I'll kill it in the morning," I said. I leaned in inches away from his face. "Now I'm willing to take this seriously. Only if -"

This time I lost focus. I stopped immediately as I saw someone run past. It was a blur, but it was something or someone. A walker? No, they weren't that fast. A deer? No. It had to be human. The height. The size. That shadow was human.

I stood up, grabbed my handgun from my back pocket, and turned to Aaron who was in panic mode again. "I'm going to take a look."

I headed out into the darkness and made my way towards the bus. The shadow seemed to run towards that direction. I stood by the bus looking around, but I saw no one. I scratched my head trying to figure out how something like that could just disappear. Then I heard someone scream from inside the house and I looked up spotting it. A skeleton? No. A man in a skeleton mask. On top of the bus. Right below Lin's window.

Before I could utter a cry, he jumped down barely missing me, and ran off towards the garden.

I ran after him and to my surprise, I heard Aaron following closely behind me breathing heavily. I wanted to tell him to stay back or go back in the house, but it was no time. I just hurried after the stranger ready to confront or tackle him if need be. 

Then the man abruptly stopped in the middle of the garden. Despite almost colliding, we both stopped to stare at the man's back. It felt like a standoff. I moved forward. Finger on the trigger ready to shoot.

"Who are you?" I shouted. "You're trespassing."

The man turned around and the terrifying red-eyed skeleton mask stared blankly back at us. He folded his arms and cocked his head as if he was mocking me. Then without warning, he ran towards me full force. 

It was all a blur after that. I remembered pulling the trigger, but the gun didn’t hit its target as I pictured it. No. Instead, I saw it go flying up in the air as he kicked out my hand, and then his other foot was the last thing I saw. I felt it smash into the side of my face and I found myself laying flat on my back on the ground disoriented. The wind knocked out of me. My face and hands throbbing. My brain trying to catch to what just happened. He had run, kicked the gun up in the air, and kicked the side of my head like a soccer ball apparently. I wasn’t sure if I was dealing with Bruce Lee himself, but I sure as hell didn’t expect that.

The skeletal masked man then ran past me and pushed the doctor out the way as he bolted out the garden. Aaron then came over to me after making sure the close was clear and peered down at me expressing concern.

“Are you alright?"

"Yeah just peachy," I mumbled. "What the fuck was that?!"

"I don't know, but it looked like something out of an action movie just now," he said sounding excitable. “It was sort of awesome! He did some cool karate move on you. You should have seen it!”

"Aaron."

"Yes."

“Just shut up and help me up please.”

Part 1

Previous Episode

[dragonagecompanions]

How would the companions react to finding out the inquisitor’s family abused them? Bonus points if they’re a Trevelyan and it comes to light during that war table quest or similar Inquisition business.

Abuse mentions, so read at your own comfort. 

Cassandra: As a Seeker -and someone who has devoted her life in one way or another to the art of both peace keeping and war- Cassandra Pentaghast is not a stranger to the cruelties people can inflict on each other. Her own parents chose ambition and the allure of power before family, and it was only their youth and the affection of their uncle and  paterfamilias that spared both of their children the punishment for treason. Home is not always safe, and the farther up the social ladder one climbs the truer that becomes. Abuse- be it physical, emotional or even sexual- is an open secret among far too many ‘noble’ houses.

Hearing that it affected the Trevelyan’s does not surprise Cassandra. This does not stay either her anger or her blade. When it comes to light just how bad their childhood was, the Right Hand of the Divine is more than willing to work with both Cullen and Leliana to make sure the family never hurts the Inquisitor again.

Solas: Cruelty is an evil unbound by time. He’d always known it, but there is still a shadow is disappointment when it is brought to light so suddenly here. The Inquisitor has fought for them all, bearing the pain of a magic never meant for mortals and the burden of saving their entire world on too young shoulders with a grace that defies their age. Knowing that they have done so despite efforts to break the foundation of their youth by those whom they should have been able to trust is...infuriating.

It doesn’t matter that the Heralds quest is noble but futile before his own plans, or that their abuse at the hands of family is another link in the chain of his justification. The Rift Mage may intend to destroy this world in due course, but for the moment he has sworn his aid to their leader. And if that means calling on aid from both sides of the veil to ensure that they are kept safe he will do it gladly.

He was not called Dread, after all, for nothing.

Varric: Skyhold’s current author is resident has a theory he’s been working on for awhile now, and it can be summed up very simply: heroes aren’t formed without a tragic backstory. The Warden is a good example, and thanks to yours truly Hawke’s own grief stricken tale is well known. So finding out that the current leader of the largest paramilitary group in Thedas comes from what could arguably be called a broken home isn’t terribly surprising. You have to understand suffering, after all, to want to stop it.

That doesn’t make him any less happy about it, and while on the surface it looks like he only fumes quietly and writes a lot of letters...well, in reality that’s what he does. As tempting as the daydream of taking Bianca to the cruel and deluded backwater nobles who thought that abusing a child to form them into the proper image is, the start reality is that it wouldn’t accomplish much. But the Trevelyans are Free Marchers, and when the last link of Bertrand’s sanity snapped- and ended a chain of abuse that Varric frankly would like to avoid talking about- he inherited a sizable amount of power with the Merchant Guild. It means his influence is slightly less hands on, but he can hit the nobility where it really hurts.

And if they are ever stupid enough to try and continue their abuse in Skyhold? Then it’s Bianca’s turn to....influence.

Sera: Even big people can feel like little people when they are little and the people who are supposed to protect them act like complete shiteheads. And even when you aren’t little, being scared can make you feel little, yeah? The Inquisitor’s the biggest person around, but inside their like one of her little people-- and Sera protects her own. Pranks are nice, and she prefers arrows to talking endlessly, but this is more serious.

Working with the other Jennies can be complicated, and its even worse that she can’t just sketch it out like her network. The Baker who is her contact in Ostwick has a stick up his arse and wants proper correspondance, so she sits down and writes out what se wants, and then takes it to Dorian and has him add some stupid noble shine. 

Her other people will handle their end. And if they ever decide to show up there and go after her Herald? Arrows.

Vivienne: Abuse in noble houses is not an unknown event to the Lady of Iron, but long before her rise to court and intrigue Vivienne saw far too much of it in the circles. Mage children were all to often a bane to families-- destined to go to a circle they could not add to the house hold and could spell trouble if the family was caught hiding them. This all too often brewed resentment, and by the time Templars came to collect the youngsters a life locked behind stone walls away from all they had known was often a mercy.

But whether their Trevelyan inquisitor is a mage or not is of no consequence. The child who was no doubt once a whipping post for a noble family- to beat into a desired shape no matter the consequence- is now on a meteoric rise. And Madame de Fer knows enough about politics to suspect that their Herald’s family will not stay absent for long. Knowing this story of their early life may not be a surprise, but that does not mean the Imperial Enchantress intends to allow the Trevelyans access to her charge. Let them try to approach, if they dare.

They have not yet seen abuse.

Blackwall: He has caused enough suffering to children in his life without intent that can never be atoned for, and that haunts the would be Warden. Callier and his family had suffered and died, and while he had not meant it to happen he would carry the burden all his life. But the idea of tormenting a child purposefully, and doing it for months or years? It infuriates him. Thom Rainier was only ever a soldier, and Blackwall offers little more political clout. He has no network to call on, no secret societies to help get a revenge well earned.

But he has a sword, and a shield, and a willingness to protect their leader. If the Trevelyans ever come sniffing around, they will live just long enough to regret it.

Dorian: It would be almost criminal to compare a childhood of distant affection and disappointment to that of consistent and methodical abuse, and the Scion of House Pavus would bristle at the very idea that he had suffered any sort of ‘abuse’ at the hands of Halward Pavus. No matter the truth of what had happened, Dorian would much rather discuss what to do about their leader’s current situation than ancient history, thank you ever so much.

And if his palms sweat and his heart races when Sera brings him the news, and he has to force his mind to work to make sure her letter is what she wants when all his mind is screaming for is a bottle of wine and a few moments alone with his staff and the people who had tormented the gentle leader who had taken in a Tevinter despite perhaps better judgement, well. That is no business but his own. He will not act on it, not yet. But should the occasion call for the resident evil ‘Vint to stand between their Herald and the ones who just might haunt their own dreams?

Vitae Benefaria.

The Iron Bull: He’d known, of course. He’d known long before the intelligence left in dead drops detailed the open secret in Ostwick, before his own people could confirm what his eye had already told him. Abuse among children is almost unnheard of among the Qun-- Tamassrans are made so because they are intended for that role, and those who would not thrive caring for children are not put in the position of caring for them. But it was all too common among the Viddathari, and as a Ben-Hassrath trained in the minute detail of behavior and its causes a personality shaped in part by childhood abuse was not a hard thing for him to see signs of.

Of all the companions however, the Iron Bull is likely the only one among the Inner Circle to approach their leader. The thirst for revenge is all well and good on a personal level, but killing or maiming or even simply frightening the family of their leader might not be the best thing for someone who has likely never had the chance to deal with their childhood. It is painfully common for such things to be a secret kept through out a whole life, but in order to know the best steps to take against the potential abuser it’s vital to know the extent of the abuse.

Its a painful conversation, and he certainly brings alcohol no matter the inquisitor’s age. But by the end of it they can both agree on the best plan going forward, and that is exactly what Bull needs. Killing, threatening or leaving them be, he can roll with it. Asit Ta-leb.

(But later, if he needs time to recite the Cantos, to remind himself that there is no struggle, the tide rises and falls for hours before the Blood lust and instinct of a reaver to protect one’s own fades....well. That’s no ones business but his own.)

Cole: It hurts, and it tangles with other hurts in a knot. Pulling one string pulls the other strings, and not all of them hurt, and it confuses him. Sometimes there are happy times around the bad times, and sometimes the happy times are the bad times, and there’s too much to untangle to heal the hurt. He wants to kill the ones who caused the bad times and the pain, but they are the same ones who caused the good times. He’s lost He wants to help. But helping can hurt. 

So he finds them a hat, because hats are good. And it helps.

-- Mod Fereldone

[mermaid-of-the-valley]

Wedding Bands and Earthly Bonds

Special thanks to @ironwoman359 for her thoughts on the idea I anonymously sent and @theeternalspace for helping me flesh out some of the scenes.

Summary: Two rings, two bodies, four people. A ghost story of misunderstandings and finding ways to live together.

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Patton and Logan

Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality, and potentially LAMP

Part 1: Fluff and Waking Up

The rings were from one of those consignment shops. Virgil’s idea, because he didn’t want anything expensive or to deal with a pushy salesperson in a jewelry store. Roman, bless him, was understanding and even a little excited to find the unique pair of wedding bands in the display of second hand sparklies.

More than a little actually, they’d been home for only a minute before the man was on one knee with the blue topaz studded, silver ring. He extended it to Virgil with his best (dazzling) smile! Virgil pressed his hand away, eyes aside with a similar twist appearing on his lips. “That’s for engagement rings, you dork.”

Roman caught his wrist and gently tugged him to the floor. “We never got the chance to do this properly, my Sulking Siren. Surely you can indulge me the script just this once?”

Which, yeah it was true, they were too jumpy to save for a traditional wedding when the courthouse was right down the street... and with how shaky the current climate was.

Virgil fished around in the shopping bag with his free hand for the other ring, a gold band with a navy sapphire and created diamonds on either side. He slipped it on Roman’s left ring finger while his husband did the same with his. Roman pulled him onto his lap, rocking and laughing at the simple joy. “I knew you couldn’t deny my charms!”

Virgil let slip a high pitched laugh of his own at Roman’s antics and the sight of the stones on their hands. Roman hummed behind him, then reached forward to swipe a thumb across his cheek. A bit of wetness flicked away. Virgil sniffed. “Hey there, Eventide. It’s okay.”

Roman was just gazing at him with a look of pure adoration while he fell apart from nothing. He coughed to cover wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Sorry, don’t know where that came form.”

Roman held up his now decorated hand and intertwined their fingers. He pecked Virgil’s forehead and let him lean into his arms. “That’s alright, Virge. I think I do.”

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Once they had the rings, they never stopped wearing them. Roman likened them to a reward for a year well weathered. He always felt a surge of warmth to see Virgil spin his ring as a comfort or absentmindedly rub its opposite when relaxing with Roman on the couch.

They were doing as such with a movie when he was hit with a hyper-focus on the music in a romantic scene. Specifically the timing of it. He started tapping on the arm of the sofa what he imagined must be the beats of the song.

Virgil chuckled softly, catching his attention. “You good there, Maestro?”

“Hmm?”

“I may have switched to bass a while ago, but I know piano scales when I see them.”

Roman looked down at his slowing fingers. “Oh.” He smiled at his partner. “Must have gotten it from watching you so often, my Corpse Bride.”

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It was a few days out from their anniversary when Roman came home to a heavenly smell in the kitchen that made his mouth water. Bits of flour and egg shells peppered the counter while Virgil stared intently at the oven. “Well, this is new!”

Virgil sprung from his crouch, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. “God, Roman!” He huffed, patting his chest. “Warn a guy!”

“Apologies, my Cornish Pixie Stick. I’ve just never seen you making sweets before! What is that anyway?” He made to crack the over door only for Virgil to rap his knuckles with the spoon.

“No naughty nibbling!”

And like that, the slight sting was immediately overshadowed by the sheer hilarity of the words, knocking a deep, rumbling laughter out of him.

Virgil blinked and slapped a hand across his face, which was turning a spectacular shade of red. He sank back down into his earlier squat, and Roman joined him with quite a bit more mirth.

“I’m going to need you to kill me. The fumes have clearly gone to my brain.”

“I love you.” It was such an easy statement that Virgil peeked out. “You never fail to surprise me, mi Nube de Tormenta.” He said, still grinning.

Virgil sighed, gesturing at the oven. “I hope it’s a pineapple upside-down cake. I kinda spaced out halfway through, but I know you wanted one from the store last week.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” It certainly smelled good. “Can I get the first piece?”

“I’ll think about it.”

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T’was the night before their anniversary and all through the house, Roman heard Virgil grousing, curled up on the couch.

He hadn’t felt right all day, haunted by a vague unease and presumably an oncoming flu. Roman finally had to steal his phone to get him off of Web M.D.

“I almost certainly have cancer.” He spoke into the couch cushions.

“Doubtful, Love. But I’ll call the 24 hour nurse line if you start feeling worse.” Roman said, carrying in a large pot and humming something under his breath.

“Really, Princey? Even Stevens?”

Roman’s lips quirked. “You’ve got some soup. Delicious chicken soup.~”

“Stoooop!” Virgil chortled.

Roman obligingly set the pot on the coffee table and spooned the soup into two bowls without further comment. After nudging Virgil up against him, the emo was more accepting of his offering, even leaning on his shoulder when he was full. “Artist, actor and chef.” He said.

“Triple threat.”

“What are the odds you’d get stuck with me?”

Roman picked at the collar of his shirt. “Well, assuming soulmates are determined at birth, they are in your age group and love at first sight is real? 1 in 10,000 or .010 percent.” He blinked out of his thoughts when Virgil leaned back, staring at him like he’d just grown a second head.

“What was that? I thought you hated math?”

“Well, that was mostly statistics, but...” Roman ruffled his hair sharply. “Yes, I do hate math!”

“You’re brother-in-law is getting to you isn’t he?”

Roman flopped his head into his palms. “Probably.” He sighed.

Virgil yawned. “Long depression nap?”

“No, how about some beauty rest?”

“Nah, how ‘bout we just go to sleep?”

Roman scooped him up. “Deal.”

Virgil started squirming. “Wait, hey! C’mon at least get the dishes!”

Roman continued up the stairs. “I’ll come back down once you’re ready for bed.”

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It was a confusing sensation. Like pushing upwards from the deep end of a pool, a tight urgency settled in the chest and an equal force pulling against you even while you are propelled to the air. A break in surface tension and a sudden assault of stimuli.

All at once he was hyper-aware of his own breathing, a heartbeat that ticked up slightly with consciousness, muscles tensing under skin.

His back was uncovered and colder than his front. His arms curled around something- someone much warmer. He could feel them breathing little puffs of air against his chest in the way only the deepest sleepers did.

And at last he takes hold of the ability to open his eyes. The blur of sleep only lasts a short time and the clarity that settles in its place shocks him. As does the person he’s apparently holding.

Brown hair with purple tips, a pale face and concerning shadows stamping the skin beneath their eyes. That’s not...

He’s flying backwards off the bed before his brain even registers the movement and hitting his head on the nightstand. He hisses at the pain holding a hand to his head. He hears the mattress creak as his bedfellow peers over the edge.

“Lo?”

The familiar voice from an unfamiliar face makes him freeze. “Patton?!”

The rings on their fingers shift in color and downstairs the dishes sit undone in the sink.

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (7/18)

Chapter 7: Romantic as a Pair of Handcuffs

It has been a busy month for the Valentine Detective Agency—Madelyn, Nick and Piper regroup to go over all the evidence in the case against Eddie Winter. Marty Bulfinch arrives with a lead and an invitation to an event perfect for “Charmer” and Deacon. After having her partnership with the Railroad spy questioned a second time by Piper, Madelyn confides in the most unlikely of people. Later, at the Third Rail, it’s showtime for two undercover agents.

“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” - Debby Marsh as played by Gloria Grahame (The Big Heat, 1953)

[read on Ao3] x  [chapter masterpost]

April 8th, 1958

The first signs of spring arrived in Boston not a moment too soon, alleviating the city from a harsh winter—weather wise, at least. Piper couldn’t resist using the change in seasons as a clever headline for the latest edition of Publick Occurrences— “Winter is over, but Eddie Winter isn’t.” It had been a busy month for the mob boss, who had all but taken control of all the major crime families in the city. With the exception of a few holdouts, his men had wormed their way across the criminal underground and begun to infiltrate once reputable businesses. Nowhere in Boston was safe.

Madelyn had kept herself just as occupied, juggling her work with the agency and the Railroad. Most days she would investigate leads with Nick, tracking down the necessary proof to pin Winter for his crimes. In her spare time she was partnered up with Deacon, fielding the work from Desdemona or Doctor Carrington, and the few odd job from Tinker Tom (maybe odd was putting it lightly). The two had caught a break and made contact with a surviving safehouse—Randolph—and worked to bring them back into the fold, strengthening the organization numbers. It was still slow going as the data from the Switchboard was decrypted, but she was glad to have given the group—and Deacon—a second chance.

Meanwhile, the agency had been successful in collecting the evidence that had been disappearing from police custody through their own unscrupulous means—but if there was sabotage within the precincts, their options were extremely limited. MacCready’s lead on recordings had so far been a dead end, as promising as it sounded. Nick had followed up on the rumor with his old friend Marty Bulfinch at Precinct 8 but finding physical proof of Eddie Winter’s crimes was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle. Winter’s corruption had spread through the entire government—from law enforcement to the mayor’s office—with anyone from beat cops to prosecutors offered bribes. Nobody could be trusted.

Madelyn was carefully inspecting the handwriting of a newly obtained letter, comparing the messy scrawl to the copies on hand, trying to determine if the note MacCready snatched off a drunken police detective belonged to their set. She read over the lines of text again, wishing that more than a few words in a sentence were intelligible. The most she could make out were the words sir, head, and artist. Whatever that meant. At least she could say the scribbles belonged to the same hand who wrote the other letters. Even though none had been signed, there was enough inference to say Eddie Winter had penned them all.

“He’s done it again!”

A Boston Bugle newspaper slammed down right atop of Madelyn’s work, causing her to snap up in alarm. Nick was fuming, pacing in front of her desk as a waft of cigarette smoke trailed behind his head like a halo. This wasn’t a surprising mood to find him in as of late—as they ramped up their investigation, the detective had become more stressed than ever, bordering on manic—relentless in his endeavor to stop Eddie Winter’s takeover of Boston. Late nights in the office had left his jaw shadowed, in need of a shave, and his light green eyes were dull with sleep deprivation.  

Madelyn glanced down to read over the newspaper print, frowning when she saw the bolded typeface—Boston mob leader Ron Trevio found dead. Nick paused in his footsteps and approached, reaching down to tap his finger against the article in question.

“What they don’t say is that Winter had him assassinated,” he muttered, reaching up to grab at the nearly burnt out cigarette. Madelyn scooted the ashtray she kept in her office specifically for him closer so he could snuff the smoke out. “Whoever he got to do the job blew his head clean right off, destroying the bullet in the process.”

She grimaced at the thought, swallowing down the sickly feeling that crept up her throat. Not that she doubted Nick, but she questioned what made him so confident. Trevio was a mid-level player on the mob-scene but had stayed out of Winter’s way—rumor was that he was even making plans to head east to New York. For him to wind up dead and deposed of in such a gruesome way seemed unbefitting of even Eddie Winter.

“Are you sure?” Madelyn asked, watching as Nick ran a hand through his dark hair, distraught. “We both know he’s unhinged but this…this seems brazen.”

Her partner gestured to the newspaper again. “He knows he can get away with it. He has this entire city in his palm, and this is a warning to anyone who dares to go against him.”

She considered his words, wondering if he had thought about what Eddie Winter would do if he knew about the depth of their investigation. It was likely no secret to the crime-family organization that the Valentine Detective Agency was after them, but Nick had always been considered a joke to the city—something that used to bring him shame, he was now using to his advantage to keep their work under wraps. Still, Madelyn was on edge. If Winter and his men knew how much they had discovered, how close they were to finding a smoking gun, her and Nick were as sure as dead.

“Hey doll,” her partner called her from her thoughts, and she flicked her gaze up to meet his eyes. “You alright?”

This was what she signed up for, wasn’t it? When she first came to the agency all those years ago, he didn’t just need a legal assistant, but somebody who would help him in the pursuit of justice. After Nate’s death, she wound up relying on him for similar reasons. Nick was more than her partner, but her friend and somebody she trusted with her life. She was more than ready to see the Eddie Winter case to the very end with him, even if it killed her.

She put forth a smile. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Before Nick could protest, quick footsteps echoed though the lobby and the two could hear Ellie correcting their guest to the right office.  

“Oh so we’re in here for a change,” Piper joked sarcastically, taking a second glance at Madelyn’s name on the door before entering. She had a copy of the Boston Bugle and her own newspaper tucked under her arm, her bright red coat thrown over the other. As she threw herself into one of the cushioned armchairs, she let out a large sigh. “You saw the news?”

“Yes,” Nick and Madelyn answered simultaneously.

Piper regarded them both, grumbling under her breath. She tossed the papers haphazardly towards the desk, and Madelyn had to fumble to catch the copy of Publick Occurrences. The front page lacked any information on the Trevio murder, instead focusing on Mayor McDonough and his finances—sources were able to track donations to the McDonough reelection campaign back to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—

“This wasn’t the first time a murder has occurred and we’re the last to hear about it,” she sneered, interrupting Madelyn’s reading. “Talk about a media cover-up. Police corruption is one thing, but now Winter is messing with the freedom of the press!”

Nick choked over a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course they’d have a mole at the Bugle. Control the flow of information to the public. Spread fear through lies.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Madelyn warned, reading over her friend’s newspaper again.

Ever since the agency had begun collecting hard evidence against Eddie Winter, Piper had been itching to blow the whistle, promising to site the two as anonymous sources. As convincing as she made it sound, and as safe as her previous unidentified informants remained, Nick vehemently denied her request. The agency and Publick Occurrences were cut from the same cloth, and it wasn’t because they shared the same building. If Piper shared any information, she’d be painting a target on her back too.

“I know Blue, I know,” she relented, looking more defeated than before. “We’re so close.”

Nick nodded, pulling a new cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. “We are,” he nodded towards Madelyn as he flicked at his lighter. “Let’s go over the list again.”

She shuffled through the small pile on her desk until she found her steno notebook, lined with the details of the case. With a pen, she started at the top, suppressing the memories the name conjured. “Johnny Montrano, Jr.”

Nick and Piper nodded in agreement that they could still find a way to pin Montrano’s murder on Winter, even without a witness. Based on the information she had learned from Henry, the casefile and street rumors, they could corroborate that Eddie’s old hitman Robert Cooper had been hired for the job.

“Mac said Winter’s boys have been trying to keep that one quiet from Johnny’s pop,” Piper quipped. “Maybe he’s afraid of somebody after all.”

Madelyn shrugged, continuing down the list. “Arlington Green three,” she paused. The bodies had been discovered in the sand-trap just before Thanksgiving while Eddie Winter was still incarcerated at Cedar Junction. “Doesn’t Boston P.D. want to pin this on one of the O’Malley brothers?”

“Doesn’t mean the order wasn’t given down the chain of command,” Nick said, tapping his smoke over the ashtray. “Did they ever identify the victims?”

She solemnly shook her head. “The theory is they were low-level members of the Irish crime families.”

“They also could’ve been innocent bystanders for all we know,” Piper argued. She waved her hand, encouraging Madelyn to read on.

“Arthur Black,” she spoke. “Murdered a waiter in Winter’s presence. His girlfriend was there too.”

“Claire Pozinski, what a piece of work,” Nick scoffed. “What she sees in him—”

“Money, probably,” Piper interjected. “That, or she’s got a few screws lose in the head.”

“That’s besides the point,” Madelyn brought them to attention, dragging her unclicked pen down the paper. “Black was found dead, multiple stab wounds outside one of Winter’s clubs.”

“He was a liability. Leaving him out in the open was a warning to the others,” Nick reminded, harkening her back to their earlier conversation.

She nodded, blood running cold at the next item. “Danvers.”

None of them said a word, silently nodding in agreement. Just over Christmas, right after Eddie Winter had been released from prison, there had been a shooting in a speakeasy in the small town north of Boston. Two rival gangs had encroached on neutral territory and it didn’t take long for guns to go blazing. When the dust settled, each side had their fair share of casualties, but civilians had also perished. The prevailing rumor was that Winter had sparked the confrontation, sending his men to provoke the fight. Police had closed the investigation with all responsible parties arrested, even if their leaders still walked the streets.

“Alice Lansky,” Madelyn voiced after a moment of silence. “The missing safety inspector that was found…” she shook her head, unable to form the words. The poor woman had been stuffed into a barrel, remained dissolved in hydrochloric acid. Out of all of the victims linked back to Eddie Winter’s crime family, her death had been the most grotesque.  

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around why they needed to off a safety inspector,” Nick mused, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “How does she fit into this?”

“Maybe she stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to see,” Piper suggested, lips falling into a straight line the moment she said the words. As if Madelyn hadn’t already been worried about meeting an untimely end at the hands of Winter’s men, now she was imagining being crammed into a metal barrel, never to be discovered again. She did her best to hide the shiver that ran down her spine.

“Other than the numerous unexplained disappearances, robberies and drug running that have been occurring,” Madelyn sighed as she leaned back in her chair. “That’s what we have so far.”

“I know we’ve been over this before but,” Piper started. “Are you sure there isn’t anybody you trust within Boston P.D. with this information? Other than Marty, that is.”

Nick smiled, shaking his head. “You must think I’m real thick if you believe I trust that snake in a blue suit, Piper.”

The reporter laughed along with him, though Madelyn held back her amusement as she noticed Ellie leading a guest towards the open office door. She straightened in her seat. “Speak of the devil.”

Marty Bulfinch stood in the doorway with a sly grin, hands poised midair as he surveyed the room. He looked disheveled as always—even the expensive, navy pinstriped suit he wore didn’t do much to hide his less-desirable features. “Nicky, you talking trash in here?”

“You can’t walk around Boston with ducks on your ties and expect people not to say something, Marty,” Nick joked, deflecting what they had been actually been speaking about masterfully.

The other man rubbed at his necktie self-consciously. “Hey now, the other guys think its hilarious.”

Madelyn grimaced, wondering when, or how Nick would’ve ever been friends with such a slimeball. Even if her partner kept him on a short leash, she had her doubts about having the police detective as an informant—it was too risky, for all parties involved.

“What brings you here, Mr. Bulfinch?” she finally questioned, motioning for him to sit in the other armchair. Madelyn knew that her politeness always seemed to unnerve him and fairly quickly his expression shifted, eyes fixating on her as he moved from the doorway to the empty seat. He looked like a nervous child, come to the principal’s office for a punishment—that is, until he flicked his gaze back to Nick.

“You know those recordings you’ve been asking about?” he said, hand disappearing into his jacket pocket before revealing a holotape—technology only used by police, the government and a few lucky hospitals—the others in the office were taken aback by its appearance. “Now, I couldn’t well smuggle a holotape reader out of the office, but, I have it on good authority that this tape has Winter’s voice on it. With some self-incriminating information.”

“You don’t know what it says?” Piper asked directly. “Is there a transcript?”

Marty glared at her, tired eyes unblinking. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he slowly handed it over to Nick, who carefully inspected the foreign piece of data in his palm before passing it over to Madelyn. Marty shifted in his seat. “You’ll have to find your own way to listen to it.”

She had her own ideas, thinking about all of the various gadgets and inventions Tinker Tom had built and tucked away beneath the Old North Church. Of course, she wasn’t about to make the suggestion in front of their guest—for all he knew, the Railroad was a fairytale.

“I also have a lead on where ol’ Eddie might strike next,” Marty continued, fidgeting with his tie again. “Tensions between Winter and Skinny Malone have reached a fever pitch and he’s ready to have him offed.”

“That frosty, huh?” Piper chimed in, eyeing the rest of the room’s occupants. “Last we heard, Winter was allowing Skinny and his Triggermen to operate the speakeasies downtown, as long as they got a cut.”

“Skinny Malone doesn’t want to share anymore,” Marty explained, flatly. “And that made Eddie flip his lid.”

“Any idea on when the hit is supposed to take place?” Nick asked, extinguishing his cigarette. He leaned against the front of the desk, staring his former partner down. “The whole scene has been brimming with activity lately, it could be any day now.”

Marty nodded in agreement. “Skinny Malone is throwing a bash at his joint this Friday to celebrate his broad’s birthday,” he tilted his head side-to-side. “Ya’ know, the Third Rail? It’s been pulling in customers from Scollay Square ever since it opened.”

“That has Eddie Winter written all over it,” Piper remarked, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s no way he’ll make an appearance himself, though, right?”

“I doubt it,” Nick grumbled, considering the information. “Is Boston P.D. working on this? Are they going put Skinny Malone into protective services?”

Marty shrugged. “A few of us are being sent to the Third Rail undercover just in case we have to intercept,” he explained. “That’s when the offer will be made. We don’t expect Malone to come in quietly unless he feels his life is truly in danger.”

“Speaking of,” the investigator spoke, pointing to Nick. “Say the word and I can get you on the short list and inside that club.”

Nick was dumbfounded by the offer for a split second before smirking. “Undercover work isn’t really my schtick, Marty,” he said, raising his right hand to emphasize the prosthetic he wore. “Kind of hard to blend in. And don’t get me wrong but working with a precinct of cops that already hate me seems…risky.”

“I could always fill your shoes,” Piper grinned, fanning her fingers through her hair. Almost immediately the others were shaking their heads.

Madelyn softly chuckled at her friend. “Everybody in town knows about Public Occurrences, Piper. Even if you dyed your hair blonde and wore Nick’s trench-coat, you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

The reporter slumped, defeated. That’s when Marty reluctantly flicked his gaze to where Madelyn was sitting behind the desk. He cleared his throat. “What about the dame?”

Nick raised an eyebrow, irritated that he was still going on about calling her that. “Madelyn?” When he realized what Marty was implying, he made to argue. “Marty, if you think for a second I’m sending Madelyn in with the wolves, you’re outta your damn mind!”

The danger was very real, and while Nick had every right to be upset and defensive, she couldn’t help but feel offended. It brought her back to that night in the agency, after the destruction of Ticonderoga, when he and Deacon almost came to blows. If the last month proved anything, she did her best work not cooped up in the office or behind a desk, but in action.  

“Nick,” she said his name calmly, gaining his attention. The moment he met her gaze, he knew she had made up her mind. But she could ease his worries, if only slightly. “I don’t have to go alone.”

Piper caught on to what she was inferring immediately, a disgruntled expression pulling at her lips as she sank further into her armchair. Nick remained stoic, but eventually relented as he nodded, looking back to Marty.

“You can get her in?” he asked. “Plus one?”

The Boston police detective looked unsure, meeting her gaze for a long moment. “Uh, sure,” he mumbled, before quirking his mouth up in a smile. “You better come with one hell of a disguise, ya dame.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes, and Nick took the cue, politely gesturing to Marty that it was time for him to leave. “Come on, you oaf, you better get back to the pen before they start searching the gutters for you.”

Marty let out a hearty laugh, slapping Nick on the back as he brought him into a handshake. “Don’t be shy around the precinct, Nicky. They don’t hate you—that much.”

The three were silent as he exited the room, listening to Ellie wish him farewell.

“You’re seriously going to take whatshisname to the Third Rail?” Piper wasted no time in questioning Madelyn as soon as the agency door slammed shut.

“He has a name,” Madelyn replied with a sigh. “If I can’t take you or Nick, what’s the harm in taking Deacon? Undercover work is what he’s best at.”

“Are you sure about that?” Piper mumbled, crossing her arms.

Madelyn frowned. Her friend had been upset ever since she had first met the man and learned of the deception it took to keep the Railroad a secret. The strain hadn’t eased, even as she continued to work with the organization and as his partner. It seemed the reporter couldn’t get past the fact Deacon wasn’t willing to divulge much of the truth—at least with her.

“What do you have against him?” Madelyn asked, wanting to clear the air.

“I’m just saying Blue,” Piper’s tone softened. “You seem to trust this guy a lot, but you barely know him. How long has it been? A few months? And he’s come in here and—whew—swept you off your feet like it’s damn Roman Holiday!”

Madelyn was stunned into silence, a warmth settling in her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, or excitement at having the relationship she had with Deacon described in such a way. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized how whirlwind it had been. Since their first meeting in the Memory Den, she had been chasing that feeling back and forth all through winter. There was an unspoken intimacy between the two, lingering touches and close calls where she was sure either one of them could’ve closed the gap and just kissed. And yet, there was also a silent boundary, an invisible line keeping them apart—she had always assumed it was her guilt, the weight of the wedding ring she still wore on her finger, the specter of a dead husband lingering above watching her every move—but now, she wondered if there was something more.

“I mean, what’s with the codenames?” Piper sighed. “Do you even know his real name?”

“I—” Madelyn choked on her words, at a loss. Her friend was right, and she was suddenly second-guessing every one of her emotions all over again.

Nick had been silent through the entire exchange, but finally spoke, reading her mind in the process. “Maybe Piper is right,” he mused with a little shrug. “But damnit if this isn’t the happiest I’ve seen you in months.”

Madelyn was flattered, especially when she noticed the way Nick was smiling at her, considering she knew how there was still tension between the two men whenever they happened to interact. But her chest felt heavy—the doubt had already started to creep its way in. Piper seemed ready to continue her verbal pestering when Nick sharply shook his head in warning.

“Don’t let it get to you,” he assured—a little too late. Still, Madelyn put forth a small smile and nodded. “We should plan for Friday.”

They had work to do.

The conversation with Piper and Nick continued to replay in Madelyn’s head the remainder of the day and into the evening. Even on the carbide home (on which she insisted on, so that Nick could make it home at a reasonable hour for once), her mind was clouded with conflicting emotions. She couldn’t deny that she had felt livelier, more like her true self in recent months—but didn’t want to base that happiness on lies or deception. A part of her understood it was the way the Railroad operated, outside the fringes of society where dishonesty was a necessity.

“Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”

“Even you?” she asked.

“Especially me.”  

Months later, he would put an addendum to his well-spoken phrase, holding her hand as he told her he was in her corner, and always had been. As the memory came to her, all she felt was confusion. Madelyn wanted to see him, but she wasn’t sure what she would do or say, or how her feelings would shift—for better or worse? What was stopping her from acting on impulse like she had been as of late? What if Codsworth had never walked in on them that cold March evening? Would she have kissed him and sealed the deal right then? She shook her head, breaking herself free of her delusions, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to dream of what-ifs. Instead, she needed to focus on the future and what she really wanted—if only she could figure that out.

As Madelyn walked into the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed Drummer Boy at the mailboxes, sifting through various envelopes. He regarded her with a polite smile, moving to join her in the trek up the staircase.

“Have a good day at the agency?” he asked.

She sighed, trying not to sound too disgruntled. When he shot her a concerned look, she forced a smile. “It’s been very…busy. With the Winter case, that is.”

“Right,” Drummer Boy replied, letting her half-assed excuse slide. It was difficult to bluff when she was emotionally compromised, and exhausted after a long day—and hauling herself up seven flights of stairs. “I have a note for you, from Deacon.”

Madelyn swallowed down the tightness in her chest at the mention of his name. “Isn’t he in DC?”

He had been put on a special assignment by Desdemona to make contact with the southern branch—something about helping set up a new safehouse for the newfound agents and assisting with their first round of assignments. As much as Madelyn wished she could’ve joined, her obligation to the agency and the Eddie Winter investigation kept her in Boston.

Drummer Boy nodded, handing over a folded note. “I thought it was a serious correspondence, so uh,” his cheeks became red in color, which made her feel equally flustered. “I shouldn’t have read it.”

The two paused on the third story landing if only so she could scramble to read the letter, which was hardly filled with anything important, or relevant. Rather, it was incredibly lewd, and even a modern woman such as herself was turned flushed by the contents. Of course, she realized fairly quickly as the note rambled on and became more grandiose that it couldn’t possibly be real. Oddly enough, it sparked a wave of relief as she was unable to contain her laughter.

“You know he did this on purpose to get a rise out of you, right?” she chuckled, trying to give it back to Drummer Boy who waved it away, still red in the face.

“His idea of jokes sure are…elaborate,” he sighed, lifting his blue cap to run his hand through his hair. “Too much time on his hands, even hundreds of miles away.”

Madelyn regarded his words. “Do you think he’s bored?”

“No,” he answered as they continued walking up the stairs. “The opportunity to set up a new safehouse is right up Deacon’s alley. Not that he doesn’t have the experience, but to do it all on his own is a big deal.”

“He helped with HQ, right?” Madelyn clarified. She eyed Drummer Boy carefully. “After…”

He looked solemn but held back any grief. “After the Switchboard, yes.”

“Deacon’s been a big help to Dez even before the move, he does a lot more than is asked of a regular agent or heavy,” Drummer Boy mused. “You’d think he was the second in command, or the head honcho but…”

She stole another glance when he paused, seemingly in thought. “You know our history, right?”

Madelyn shrugged, taking a reprieve on the fifth story landing. “Tom once rambled off a lot of codenames to me in-between telling me how the air was going to poison me while I slept and that I needed to take the immunization shot he invented to protect myself against ‘invisible bugs’”

Drummer Boy softly laughed, nodding along. “Well, before Dez, there was Pinky Thompson. She only became leader because of a string of organizational failures under Pinky’s watch.”

“Are you suggesting that somebody might be vying for Desdemona’s position?” Madelyn questioned. “As in, Deacon?”

“No, not really,” he replied. “Deacon would never stage a coup like that. Carrington maybe, but never Deacon,” he smirked. “He’s been around…well, before my time. He was around when Wyatt and John D. ran the show, building the Railroad into the organization into what we know today.”

She found herself amused. “I always thought he was lying when he said he helped create the Railroad. Sounded too boastful, even for him.”

“Well, depending on who you believe or what you make of the records,” Drummer Boy flashed an impish grin. “Some of the agents like to think Deacon and John D. are one in the same.”

The confusion from earlier settled back into her mind, but this time, she wasn’t sure what to make of the information. This was just more conjecture—a rumor—Railroad gossip that had been passed down from agent to agent. Deacon himself had even fanned the flames, relishing in the spotlight. If anything, it only fueled the argument set forth by Piper that Madelyn truly didn’t know anything about him—about his past, about his present…about their future. Rather than anger, she felt despair—whatever had been built between them had to end, and when it did, it wasn’t going to be easy.

On the seventh floor, the two separated to their doors across the hall from one another. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back to him, motioning to her ajar door. “I prepared a pot-roast this morning, if you’d like to join me for dinner,” she offered, feeling more awkward than she meant. Even he looked perplexed. “As my neighbor, Robby. No Railroad business. Otherwise, most of it is going to Dogmeat.”

After a beat, he laughed. “Pot-roast sounds great, Hardy.”

April 11th, 1958

Madelyn hardly recognized the woman staring back at her in the reflection of her vanity mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup, searching her drawers for the perfect red hue of lipstick. Her natural golden hair had been tucked back and hidden beneath a long, wavy dark brunette wig, the soft barrels falling over one shoulder and resting across the sweetheart neckline of her dress. Gown—she could hear Jenny correcting—Madelyn reminded herself she would need to be extra careful with the borrowed garment. It would not end up in the box of ruined clothes she had ripped or stained while running around the city investigating with the agency and Railroad.

Outside her bedroom, she could hear Dogmeat happily barking, Codsworth murmuring something while a third voice laughed along. Deacon—fresh from his trip to the nation’s capital, he had wasted no time in agreeing to an undercover operation and promised a show. She hadn’t seen him since he departed—communicating through dead drops to confirm their ‘assignment’—and could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface over her conflicted feelings for him. But that night, more than ever, she would need to suppress her emotions for the sake of the investigation and stay focused.  

She slipped her feet into a pair of strappy black heels as she stood, reviewing her appearance in the full-length mirror. The strapless gown was black, with a sheen to it that sparkled under the right light. The fabric hugged her curves (and then some), loose around her legs with a slit along one slide that was almost too high for her tastes. It was unlike anything Madelyn had in her closet, and not something she would’ve expected her partner’s fiancé to own either, until it was offered as the perfect outfit for the evening’s festivities. The only problem was that she and Jenny weren’t exactly the same size—she stretched to reach the zipper again, struggling to get the right angle to make it budge.

“Miss Madelyn,” Codsworth buzzed outside in the hallway. “Mr. Deacon is inquiring about your presence. Is everything alright?”

With a defeated sigh, she opened her bedroom door for the robot, laughing at the way his mechanical eyes widened as he inspected her appearance. “Can you work a zipper?”

“Pardon, mum?”

She gave his metal chassis an affectionate pat as she walked past him, awkwardly holding the dress to her body as she walked the short distance to the main room of her apartment where Deacon was sitting at the kitchen counter, turned towards the hallway as if he had been waiting for her appearance. Or at least she thought it was Deacon—if it weren’t for his ever-present reflective shades, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The black pompadour (which High Rise had strongly hinted wasn’t natural to begin with) was gone, replaced with a short, wavy style instead, a warm ginger in color—it matched his eyebrows. He wore a different, well-tailored black suit than he had before, black wingtip shoes looking like he hadn’t been walked a step in. Handsome was an understatement—Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of the not-so-subtle transformation—reminding herself to remain on task.

“Need some help there, Charmer?” he asked, breaking the silence. He gestured to her dress and beckoned for her to come closer.

Madelyn approached with a small nod, finding that her tongue felt too heavy in her mouth to speak. She turned her back to him, breathing in deep and straightening slightly when she felt his fingers brush across her skin for the zipper of the dress. What should’ve been a simple and quick movement had turned into another spark between the two, his touch lingering far longer than necessary, thumb sweeping across her spine. But she didn’t move away.

“You look downright sinful.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he couldn’t sense how nervous she was, how her skin had turned burning hot at his words. She focused on his hair, and curiosity got the better of her.

“Is that your natural hair?”

He smirked, one eyebrow arching up like he expected something a little more flirtatious from her. “Maybe.”

Madelyn twisted around to face him, resting one hand along the kitchen counter to balance herself. As Deacon pulled his hands back to himself, she noted the glimmer on his left hand and a new tightness formed in her chest at the sight of the golden band. Why was he wearing a wedding ring? At her confusion, he gestured to her own wedding band, causing her to clamp her right hand around the diamonds to hide the jewelry.

“I knew you weren’t going to take it off, even for the sake of an undercover persona,” he explained. “Figured we’d go for the easiest play in the book. Better to blend in than stand out.”

As uncomfortable as she suddenly felt, a new wave of emotions taking over her body and mind, Deacon was right. He was also far more of an expert at espionage than she was—he knew what he was doing, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she needed to trust him.

“We’ll need a good cover story,” she offered, nodding in agreement. Still, she anxiously twisted at the ring Nate had given her almost twelve years prior, burning against her skin. More than ever, she could feel the weight of his presence around her, the guilt compounding as she agreed to this charade—even for one night.

“What do you suggest?”

Madelyn deliberated, fidgeting with the slit of the dress before thinking of who had leant it to her in the first place. Her mother had always taught her that when in doubt, use what you know.

“I’m a nurse at Medford Memorial Hospital and you’re a retired army vet. We met when you ended up in my ward after a training exercise went wrong and I had to nurse you back to health. Sparks flew, our parents disagreed, and we had to elope. Thanksgiving weekend, 1954 in Manhattan.”

She thought about the rest of the specifics. “Catherine,” she said. Her mother’s name—not that Deacon needed to know that. “My name is Catherine. Kitty for short.”

Deacon looked stunned. “Did you just come up with all that right now?”

She softly chuckled. “Thank Nick and Jenny, give or take…the rest of the details.”  

“How romantic,” he mused. “I’d say you’re better at this than you think. A natural.”

He stood, signaling to the clock on the wall that they needed to catch a cab across town, or they would be more than fashionably late to the party. Feeling more confident than she had earlier, she smiled at him. “So husband, what should I call you?”

Deacon grinned as he laced their hands. “Dollface, you can call me Johnny.”

The Third Rail was classier than Madelyn expected for a speakeasy, built into one of the abandoned subway tunnels downtown. Even if Skinny Malone and his gang of Triggermen—as he dubbed them—were gangsters, she had to give it up to them for the ingenuity of the idea. There was a certain kind of ambience to the place—low lighting and dark linens spread across the tables—seedy characters lining the walls with leery expressions, it was enough to make anybody fearful. Yet Madelyn felt strangely at ease, and it had everything to do with the way Deacon’s hand was resting along her waist.

For an hour now, they had been seated at a candlelit table, chairs pushed close to ensure their cover as husband and wife remained intact. Despite her comfort, her mind had been running wild, filled with questions about Johnny. Was that supposed to be an allusion to John D.? As Madelyn took a sip from her glass of champagne, she took a side eyed glance at him, fixating on his hair. She wondered if this was his way of shedding his Railroad persona and if for a little while, he could be himself without anyone knowing. The mystery of not knowing frustrated her even more—this wasn’t exactly the place to confront him for the truth. Instead she continued to sip at her drink, allowing herself one brief moment to think about brushing her fingers through the ginger waves before looking away.

A gorgeous woman adorned in a sparkling red dress crooned a slow song about love from the lit stage, her small band of jazz musicians accompanying her like they had rehearsed the melody a hundred times. Skinny Malone had introduced her as Magnolia—a starlet in her own right among Boston nightclubs, there as a special treat for his beloved girlfriend on her birthday. So far the evening had been as calm as one could expect when in a room full of drunken mobsters, with no sign of anyone suspicious, even as she sighted a few men so green they had to belong to the Boston police force.

“Kitty darling,” Deacon leaned to murmur in her ear. “We’ve got eyes on us.”

She nonchalantly glanced to find a man at the bar taking too many looks at them over their shoulder. In spite of his disguise, his fidgeting and whiskey gave him away. Marty Bulfinch. With a small smile she shook her head. “That’s a friend.”

Deacon nodded, though his lips twisted into a thin line. “Looks familiar.”

“Hmm?” she was genuinely curious, wondering how their paths could’ve crossed.

He frowned, quickly dismissing the topic. “Not now. Later.”

Madelyn continued to survey the crowd as she drank her champagne, giggling on cue when Deacon would provide her with information from the conversations he was eavesdropping on, under the guise of saying something nonsensical into her ear.

“You didn’t happen to sneak a weapon past the guards, did you?” he asked, fingers tightening along her waist as he took a long sip of his brandy.

She brushed her foot against his ankle, catching his attention so he’d glance down to wear she was hiking up the slit of her skirt ever so slightly to reveal the holster attached to her garter belt—a trick Piper had taught her after watching too many detective movies. Madelyn didn’t realize how practical it would become, the .22 cold against her skin. Deacon made a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl and it caused a warmth to bloom in her chest.

“If all else fails, there’s the hairpin in my curls,” she added, adjusting her dress and flashing him a knowing look.

He held her gaze, the candlelight flickering in the reflection of his sunglasses. “We both know how deadly you are with that.”

As Magnolia dedicated the next song to Skinny Malone and his gal, Deacon shifted out his seat and extended his arm to her. “Come on Kitty Cat, let’s dance.”

Madelyn took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart racing with excitement and skin tingling alive with goosebumps. Almost immediately she was transported to that first dance at the Memory Den—the electric feeling that had engulfed her body and soul. Maybe she should’ve known then that she would be enraptured by his enigmatic nature. It was inescapable, no matter how hard she tried to deny herself the truth. But what was the truth?

Deacon tugged her close as they swayed to the slow song, dipping his head so his lips were angled near her ear. “What do you think?”

She blinked, struggling to remind herself what he was referring to. Her eyes danced around their environment, looking from the pairs of dancing couples to the patrons that sat at the surrounding tables. As far as she could tell, the only people present were Skinny Malone’s Triggermen and the people Marty Bulfinch had brought from the precinct. If any of Eddie Winter’s men were in the building, they had yet to make themselves known. She didn’t want to assume they wouldn’t take the opportunity to strike, not when the iron was hot.

“Something isn’t right,” she muttered, unsure. Madelyn focused on the bar where Marty was sitting earlier, only to find he had disappeared. In an effort not to panic, she steadied her breathing, looking towards where Skinny Malone was standing, entertaining some guests near the stage. A waitress came by with a new round of drinks, just in time for the birthday toast.

Madelyn tried to lead him closer, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Easy now, kitten,” Deacon assured, the hand at her waist tightening a little. “We have an audience.”

She flicked her gaze over his shoulder to the two Triggermen on the edge of the dancefloor, muttering to themselves as they gestured to where they were dancing. With one steady breath, she slinked herself closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “We need a distraction.”

“I like the way you think.”

Madelyn looked up at him through her lashes, and felt his fingers trail up to her shoulder and then her neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. Cupping the side of her face, she could feel the cool metal band of the wedding ring he wore, reminding her of the charade they were meant to be playing. He wasn’t Deacon, but Johnny—not her Railroad partner, but her husband. If she wanted to, she could kiss him, and blame it all on the undercover assignment. It didn’t matter what her real feelings were—she could face them later—or live in this fantasy and sin for as long as she wanted.

He noticed her hesitation. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

She didn’t say anything, tilting her chin a fraction closer just as Magnolia finished her song. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sound of clinging glasses and the echoing sounds of cheers! It faded away as Deacon’s lips ghosted over hers, and she didn’t even care if the Triggermen were watching. Madelyn fluttered her eyes closed and could feel herself drifting—

A loud crash resonated through the entire club and on impulse she pulled herself away, inhaling a sharp breath as she focused her vision. For the split second she settled on Deacon’s face it was difficult to discern his expression—was he disappointed? It quickly melted away as they both diverted their attention towards the stage where Skinny Malone had collapsed, the table knocked over and glasses shattered. Madelyn was disoriented as she rushed over through the crowd of people—there hadn’t been a gunshot—what had happened?

A stocky man in a well-made, pinstriped suit was inspecting the tray of drinks that had been discarded on the floor. “Boss’ been slipped sumthin’!”

Poison? Madelyn felt the dread settle in her chest—this was unlike Winter—he always liked to take a direct approach when killing off his competition. But she had no time to question his methods when as of late, his crimes had become unpredictable.

“Move away!” she yelled over the crowd of frantic Triggermen. “I’m a nurse, maybe I can help!”

In the chaos, nobody made to stop her as she knelt over Skinny Malone’s crumpled body, pressing her fingers to his throat to check for a pulse. Frosty white foam was sputtering from his mouth and his eyes were wide, bulging. His hands were scrambling at the carpet for purchase, but a moment later they switched to yank at his jacket and tie. It was all in vein as he lie there suffocating, choking on his own tongue—there wasn’t anything Madelyn could do, even if she was a real medical professional. She gave him a sympathetic look, before noticing the thick pocketbook in the seam of his blazer. Without a second thought she snatched it, tucking it as well as she could in the front of her dress.

Skinny Malone began to struggle, gripping the arm of his nearest Triggerman. Madelyn was swept up at that time, Deacon’s hands tight around her waist as he led her away as calmly as possible.

“Time to hit the road,” he said through gritted teeth, suppressing his distress that they would be stopped in the confusion as they made their exit.

As they left the Third Rail, Madelyn felt as though their undercover assignment was a failure. Eddie Winter had gotten what he wanted with Skinny Malone’s death and was one step further in his complete take over of Boston.

It was time to play their hand.