#bedlam watches resistance

[mediawhorefics]

hiii can you please recommend me some gay novels ? thank you in advance :)

hell ! yeah !

you didn't really specify what genre you're interested in beyond gay so i'm just gonna rec my favs and go wild with it. apologies, i've prob. recced these books before but *shrug*

edit: i added books that aren't novels cos i couldn't resist. ooops?

edit 2: i've taken gay to mean gay ~umbrella term~ and not gay mlm, hope that's alright x

under a read more cos i got carried away !

the raven cycle | maggie stiefvater | completed series | ya | fantasy | follows blue sargent, the daughter of a skilled psychic who augments her family's abilities, but has no psychic power of her own. she becomes friends with four boys from the local boarding school -- gansey, adam, ronan and noah -- when she meets gansey's ghost and learns the upcoming date of his death. gansey is obsessed with finding the sleeping welsh king, glendower. In his pursuit of the legend, he and his friends encounter all kinds of mysticism and danger in henrietta, virginia.

the dreamer trilogy | maggie stiefvater | completed trilogy | ya | fantasy | raven cycle sequel focusing on ronan's character.

the disasters | mk england | ya | sci fi | star trek vibes | found family | a band of space academy rejects are the only witness to a terrible crime/galaxy-wide conspiracy & are the only ones who can save the day. 

emry merlin series | robin schneider | incomplete trilogy | ya | fantasy | arthuriana | a knight's tale meets bbc merlin | years after her father’s, legendary court wizard merlin, disappearance, emry takes her far less talented twin brother’s place when he is summoned to camelot to train and become prince arthur’s right hand wizard. studying magic properly is everything she hoped for, but posing as her brother isn’t as easy as it seems. not to mention those sparks that are flying between her and arthur.

cemetery boys | aiden thomas | standalone -> a sequel is planned | ya | fantasy | trans rep | yadriel wants to prove himself as a brujo (and a man) to his family so, in secret, he performs the ritual meant to unlock his powers that his family has denied him access to. only problem, he’s accidentally summoned a ghost he didn’t mean to and the guy won’t leave. also his cousin vanished and his spirit is nowhere to be found.

the last binding series | freya marske | incomplete trilogy -> the third one is coming out in november | historical fantasy | alternative edwardian england | romance | each book focuses on a new queer pairing while following an overarching mystery | when an administrative mistake names robin blyth as a civil service liaison to a hidden magical society, he discovers what’s been operating beneath the unextraordinary reality he’s always known. a dangerous deadly curse awaits him as he navigates the magical bureaucracy with his standoffish counterpart edwin courcey.

the kingdoms | natasha pulley | standalone | historical fantasy | time travel | alternate history | 19th c. | 18th c. | joe tournier has amnesia. he remembers nothing prior to stepping off a train in londres, england, a french colony. his only clue, a century-old postcard of a lighthouse in scotland, illegally written in english rather than french and signed m.

the watchmaker of filigree street series | natasha pulley | completed duology | historial fantasy | 19th c. | sherlock holmes vibes | telegraphist thaniel receives a mysterious watch on his birthday whose pre-set alarm saves him from a terrorist bombing on scotland yard. since the bomb was made with clockwork parts and only the bomber could have known when to set the alarm, thaniel is sent by a detective investigating the bombing to live with the suspected watchmaker to figure out what’s going on.

the bedlam stacks | natasha pulley | standalone -> twofs references/characters but not part of the main storyline | historical fantasy | 19th c. | magical realism | merrick tremayne is called upon by the india office to go on a dangerous expedition deep in peru to fetch quinine (essential for the treatment of malaria) despite the debilitating injury that almost cost him a leg. every expedition before his has yielded no results apart from dead bodies, but merrick has family history deep in the country so he goes against his better judgement. there, he meets raphael, a priest surrounded by strange stories of disappearances, cursed woods and living stones, and who might hold the key to his family’s past.

the binding | bridget collins | standalone | historical fantasy | 19th c. | romance | in a world where books are dangerous objects containing people’s painful memories they want to get rid of, emmet farmer is sent to become an apprentice to the local bookbinder after he had some sort of mental collapse.

captive prince series | cs pacat | completed trilogy + some short stories | historical fantasy | romance | no magical elements | dark themes | major trigger warnings apply | prince damianos of akielos is sent as a pleasure slave to laurent of vere, prince of an enemy neighbouring kingdom, by his treacherous half-brother who wants the throne for himself. the court of vere is a pit of deception and lies and both princes must reluctantly ally with each other to gain rightful control of their respective kingdoms. only problem, damen killed laurent's older brother auguste in battle and must keep his true identity secret to protect himself from laurent's hatred of his brother's killer. which is only complicated by the growing feelings between them.

a taste of gold and iron | alexandra rowland | standalone | historical fantasy | romance | kadou, the shy prince of arasht, has no intention of wrestling for imperial control with his sister, the queen. yet he remains at odds with one of the most powerful ambassadors at court - the father of the queen's new child. when a hunting party goes terribly awry and he finds himself under suspicion of attempted murder, kadou teams up with his new bodyguard, the coldly handsome evemer, to investigate a break-in at one of their guilds to salvage his reputation. but what appears to be a straightforward crime spirals into a complex counterfeiting operation, with a powerful enemy at its heart.

the house in the cerulean sea | tj klune | standalone | fantasy | romance | found family | 40 yo caseworker linus baker is given a special secret assignment to check out an orphanage of supposedly particularly dangerous magical children. linus has been a rule follower and someone who doesn’t want to rock the boat his whole life, but the children and their caretaker make him reconsider previously held beliefs.

under the whispering door | tj klune | standalone | fantasy | romance | found family | an unpleasant and selfish man in life, wallace price meets his reaper at his near-empty funeral and gets taken to a whimsical tea shop where he meets hugo, the ferryman whose job it is to help him move on and crossover into the afterlife. a task that becomes complicated as wallace starts developing feelings for hugo.

peter darling | austin chant | standalone | historical fantasy | romance | trans rep | peter pan retelling | ten years ago, peter pan left neverland to grow up, leaving behind his adolescent dreams of boyhood and resigning himself to life as wendy darling. growing up, however, has only made him realize how inescapable his identity as a man is.but when he returns to neverland, everything has changed: the lost boys have become men, and the war games they once played are now real and deadly. even more shocking is the attraction peter never knew he could feel for his old rival, captain hook—and the realization that he no longer knows which of them is the real villain.

the song of achilles | madeline miller | standalone | historical fantasy | mythology retelling | greek mythology | a classic ! | achilles' story, great love, and tragedy...

salt magic skin magic | lee welch | standalone | historical fantasy | 19th c | lord thornby has been trapped on his father’s estate by a strange curse for a year and when industrial magician john blake shows up, they must team up to investigate the mystery.

the secret lives of country gentlemen | kj charles | first in a series | historical romance | regency era | a shabby london clerk who inherits a grand house on the remote romney marsh is unexpectedly reunited with an old lover and gets unexpectedly thrown in the world of smugglers.

the will darling adventures | kj charles | completed trilogy | historical romance | 1920s | it’s the 1920s and tensions are rising along with hemlines. soldier-turned-bookseller will darling finds himself tangled up in spies and secret formulas, clubs and conspiracies, bbolsheviks, blackmail, and bright young things. and dubious aristocrat lord arthur ‘kim’ secretan is right in the middle of it all:  enigmatic, unreliable, and utterly irresistible.

the gentleman’s guide to vice and virtue | mackenzie lee | ya | historical romance | 18th c. | bisexual disaster nobility youth goes on his grand tour on europe with the best friend he has a crush on and his sister. nothing could possibly go wrong.

the seven husbands of evelyn hugo | taylor jenkins reid | historical romance | old hollywood | 1950s | 1960s | 1970s | aging and reclusive hollywood movie icon evelyn hugo is finally ready to tell the truth about her glamorous and scandalous life. but when she chooses unknown magazine reporter monique grant for the job, no one is more astounded than monique herself. why her? why now?

the charm offensive | alison cochrun | standalone | contemporary romance | reality dating show producer dev has always believed in romance/fairy tales and he works tirelessly to ensure magical happy endings happen on his show, even though his own love life is a disaster. but when disgraced tech wunderkin charlie is cast as the lead of their next season, dev has his work cut out for him to transform charlie into a man the ladies on the show might want and the viewers might like. charlie is far from a prince charming but as they get closer and closer, dev starts realising he might want him for himself. uh oh.

i kissed shara wheeler | casey mcquiston | standalone | ya | contemporary romance | a month before graduation, chloe green’s academic rival shara kisses her before disappearing. now, chloe is on a hunt for answers alongside unlikely allies.

one last stop | casey mcquiston | standalon | contemporary romance | time travel | a 23-year-old realises her subway crush is displaced from 1970's brooklyn, and she must do everything in her power to help her - and try not to fall in love with the girl lost in time - before it's too late.

red, white, and royal blue | casey mcquiston | contemporary romance | new adult | alex, son of the us president, and british prince henry have to fake a pr friendship after a scandal at a royal wedding puts us-british relations at risk. only problem? they despise each other.

check please | ngozi ukazu | graphic novel | new adult | contemporary romance | coming of age | bitty, a southern ex-figure skater armed with a love of baking and a vlog joins his college’s hockey team and falls for his captain, the prodigal son of a famous nhl player whose own draft was derailed by an overdose of anxiety medication.

angels in america | tony kushner | theatre | aids | angels in america is the story of a gay man, prior alter, a 30-year-old New Yorker, whose lover, louis, abandons him when he falls ill with aids. transcendent forces—visions and angels—help transform Prior from a man dying of aids to a man living with aids. along the way, several romantic and platonic couples come apart, and the final social configuration of the play comprises a loose band of multi-generational, multiracial, queer friends.

the normal heart | larry kramer | theatre | aids | focuses on the rise of the hiv/aids epidemic in nyc between 1981 and 1984, as seen through the eyes of writer/activist ned weeks, the gay founder of a prominent HIV advocacy group.

love song to lavender menace | james ley | theatre | in 1982, two friends bob and sigrid opened their new radical lesbian, gay and feminist bookshop, 'lavender menace' on edinburgh's forth street. on the eve of the shop's 5th birthday, sales assistants paul and david take a look back at its origins, in this funny, moving play.

this is how you lose the time war | amal el-mohtar & max gladstone | sci fi | literary fiction | epistolary novel | time travel | an epistolary story told by two future beings, operatives on opposing sides of the "time war" tasked with ensuring that past events happen in ways that are amenable to their goals.

on earth we're briefly gorgeous | ocean vuong | literary fiction | epistolary novel | a letter from a vietnamese american son to his illiterate mother.

night sky and exit wounds | ocean vuong | poetry

time is a mother | ocean vuong | poetry

crush | richard siken | poetry

brokeback mountain | annie proulx | short story | two ranch hands, come together when they're working as sheepherder and camp tender one summer on a range above the tree line. at first, sharing an isolated tent, the attraction is casual, inevitable, but something deeper catches them that summer.

fighting proud: the untold story of the gay men who served in two world wars | stephen bourne | non-fiction | history | wwi | wwii

coming out under fire: the history of gay men and women in world war two | allan bérubé | non-fiction | history | wwii

fabulosa!: the story of polari, britain’s secret gay language | paul baker | non-fiction | history | linguistics | 19th c. | 20th c.

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: PART 21 of the Bedlam au!

X

The Cat Library reluctantly allows the Bureau to borrow the book, and Muta flicks through it while Baron sets up the tracking spell.

"Yeah, so the author does mention that normally the Beldam seems to have a single door she uses," he calls from his usual sofa seat. "If we can find that and block it off, she'll lose her connection to her prey and have to start from scratch." He leans back to watch Baron fiddle with chalking a tracking circle into the Bureau floor. "That could be something, right?"

"Depends on where this door is," Baron says. He opens a palm in Muta's direction. "Doll, please?"

"Do I have to? It gives me the heebie jeebies."

"Heebie jeebies will be the least of our worries if Haru has indeed caught the interest of the Beldam. Now, Muta."

Muta grumbles, but drops the doll into Baron's hand. Baron doesn't comment on the way he'd picked it up with the tip of his claws, or the face he'd pulled while he did so. Baron sets the doll into the centre of the circle and moves to the edge.

Muta drops the borrowed book onto the desk and stands beside him. "Never like using these things," he grumbles as Baron places a careful hand along the circle's rim. "Always feels like we're about to summon a demon."

"That only happened the once."

"Yeah, and it took us a week to get this place back into order."

The circle begins to glow, light flowing from Baron's palm and streaking along the chalk lines. Where they converge on the centre, the doll begins to rise, as if floating on the light itself. Sparks crackle along the doll's stitching. Only the button eyes are untouched by the glow.

"Hey, I thought this was the fast way," Muta says.

"It is," Baron replies through gritted teeth. His arm shakes and then, as the spell draws more magic from him, begins to revert to wood. "It's resisting me."

"Can I help, or–"

Baron slams his other hand down, and the extra burst of magic breaks through whatever barrier is fighting against him. The doll's button eyes shatter, and a stream of golden light erupts through the cracks. Baron drops his arms from the chalk circle. His right is wooden as far as his elbow.

Muta visibly eyes the damage, and then the strand of golden light which disappears into the Bureau doors and beyond. "So if we follow that..."

"It should lead us to its origins, yes." Baron uneasily rises to his feet, wordlessly accepting the arm Muta offers to steady him. "To Haru."

"And to Toto."

They step through.

[bedlamsbard]

1K written today, though I also took another 1.7K from the previous draft of this chapter and fit it in here, with minor line edits to make it fit the new version of the scene better.  This chapter’s past my minimum chapter length by a couple thousand words now and will pick up another couple thousand in upcoming scenes, but I always think my transition/recovery chapters are going to be shorter than they are.  (Yonder 6 wasn’t initially meant to be a full chapter, it just turned out that way after I wrote it.)  I know the scene this chapter will end best on, but I don’t know if that will take me over 15K, and I’ll usually split a chapter at 15K.  This chapter has a day break in it, but I really don’t want another transition chapter before the end, so...whatever.  I don’t think anyone’s going to kill me if this chapter ends up in the 15K-20K range, though it might now.  Who knows.  There’s one chapter after it and that one might end up short, so it’ll all balance out.  *abruptly does the math*  oh.  I think this story is going to be 200K.  Which for those who only got here from my MCU fic and not the ones who followed me from Star Wars: that’s actually pretty normal for me.  Short, even.  Horizon’s actually a very typical Bedlam story; Yonder’s the outlier.

In Zoom meetings all day today, which...oof.  Plus it was raining all day; I haven’t been outside all day except to check my mailbox.  I’m stressed and tired and watching my computer like a hawk because I don’t have TIME for this, but today’s it been...fine. /she says warily  Made bread dough today, but I did some weird stuff so it came out a little funky.  (I know exactly what happened; I’ve made enough bread to know that.)

Snippet from The Horizon Line chapter 16.

“Everything okay?”

“Both of the Widows with the Hulk serum are still alive,” Natasha said.  She bit her lip, put the last file down, and said, “How much of that did you hear?”

Steve’s serum-enhanced hearing was good enough that he probably could have heard both sides of the conversation all the way down the hall, since the door had been open the whole time.  He had told Natasha once that he had to make an effort not to listen in on everything going on around him, which occasionally led to him missing something very important.  Like the Destroyer in Atlanta, presumably, but no one was going to mention that to him.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Just the end of it.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”  He looked down at the files in front of her, frowning a little at the Russian script, then looked back up at Natasha.  “I was thinking about going for a walk.”

Natasha looked at the window, where it had started snowing again sometime since the last time she had looked. “In this?”

Steve followed her gaze and sighed. “Maybe not.”  He looked at the files again and Natasha resisted the urge to throw a blanket over them, since she knew Steve could read Russian; like most of his languages, he had picked up bits and pieces growing up in an immigrant-heavy neighborhood of Brooklyn and then gotten to full fluency during the war, probably in part due to the serum.

[tsunderedoctor]

Hey Purple! Got a headcanon request I hope will be fun...how do you think Zoro, Smoker, and Rob Lucci (and Law for you, if you'd like) would react to a S/O a strong and normally self-sufficient S/O...but the S/O is essentially a vampire, and has a strong preference for their blood? Would the character allow their S/O to drink from them? Thanks, and hope things turn around for ya' soon!

Thank you Bedlam! ❤️❤️ (I also apologize it took a while- apartment hunting is not as fun as I though it would be-) But this ask was super fun to write!! Thanks for sending it in!

Just wanted to mention a possible trigger warning for mentions of cuts and blood- just in case!! 💞

Babes Below~!

Roronoa Zoro

He at first finds your strong physical strength to be admirable and amazing! He would want to fight and train with you whenever he could! He’s convinced you must have trained all your life to be as amazing as you are in physical strength. 

When he finds our your physical strength comes from drinking other’s blood, he’s a bit confused, but shrugs it off, he’s seen more weird things before. He still believes you worked hard though to get where you are, so he respects you and appreciates you helping him as well get stronger.

The first time you had drank his blood, it was completely by accident. He had cut himself while practicing, the tree he was fighting happened to break just right, and a piece of the wood cut into his arm. You were helping him clean the wound, when you couldn’t resist anymore and licked a bit of the blood on his bicep. 

You’ve never tasted blood like this before, you believed it was due to his pure intentions and strong heart. Breaking away from his arm you looked up at him to see his blushing face and confusion in his eyes. 

“I-I’m so sorry! Please don’t think less of me!”

“It’s fine--”

He didn’t think you would actually find his blood to be appetizing enough to ask for more, your only reply was always a deep blush, especially when you told him how you usually bite people’s neck to get the blood. He comes to not mind it too much, knowing you are doing it to protect yourself and the crew, he just wished it didn’t have to be in such embarrassing ways! 

Smoker the White Hunter

He knew about your special ability due to you working for the marines and being in the G5 unit. He made sure you knew that you weren’t allowed to bite the other members, due to them being normal humans and the only way you could be in the unit would be if you agreed to only biting enemies or himself. 

For the most part, it was mostly the enemies. The others didn’t mind your special ability and praised you for your hard work and dedication to the unit and always protecting them. Smoker himself would even praise you when you protected the unit in their time of need. 

Everything went relatively smoothly, until you felt yourself get weak after a hard battle, you were slowly losing your strength. Noticing your weakened state, he grabbed your waist and leaned you against his shoulder as he got you inside a safe place. He remembered being told once that your powers come with a price and if you don’t get enough blood you become like a regular human.

“Drink it.”

He had managed to cut his palm just enough to give you the blood you needed. Unsure, you shook your head at first, almost scared to drink the blood of your beloved commander. However, he ushered his hand closer to your mouth, closer to your nose making your instincts kick in.

After that, he seemed more willing, almost robotically, to give you his blood. He even sometimes made excuses to give you his blood; the enemy was too strong still or they had to take them straight away to Impel Down. You didn’t mind it too much after awhile, it eventually became something personal between you and your commander alone. 

Rob Lucci

Another one who knew of your abilities due to being in the CP9. He held no judgement on how you got your powers, as long as you were healthy and safe, he was fine with how you got your blood. 

Luckily, the organization provided you a supple amount of blood, so you never seemed to go out. 

Unfortunately after your teams fire from the organization, you had lost that once unlimited amount of blood. Leaving you growing weaker and weaker as days went by. Lucci was the first to notice this, and did his best to find ways to get blood, but eventually came to you one night with a preposition.

“For the time being, you are going to drink my blood.”

Confusion graced your features, but he continued to speak, not giving you a chance to question him.

“It’s the easiest way for now, until things go more smoothly, Cipher Pol requested our audience in a few weeks. I believe they will want our help again, if that’s the case we can get you more blood, but until then, you will drink from me.” 

Even when you and the others become part of the CP-0, he still feels suspicious and nervous of the organization and the possibly of failing their expectations, so once in a while, he will remind you that despite your strength, he wants you to still rely on him in your time of need, just in case you two find yourself alone again. 

Trafalgar D. Water Law

(I headcanon that Law has somehow saved everyone in his crew so that’s why I went with this scenario-)

He had learned of your ability almost right away, doing his own research he found you in front of a bar that held criminals of all kinds. You were fighting with some marines who had a bounty on your head for your odd abilities, to say he hasn’t heard of you would be an understatement. Quickly coming in with a swift “Room” and a “Shambles” the men you fought were now deformed creatures of their former selves. 

Turning towards him, ready to fight him if needed be, you let your guard down as he raised his hand in silent defeat. You continued to eye the man, feeling your body weaken by the second. 

“What do you want?” 

He raised his brow, curious that even in a weakened state, you still wanted to fight. He definitely admired that, but knew it was also a stupid attempt, if he wanted to, he would have already killed you by now.

“You seem to be in need, and looks like I’m the only one willing to offer it.” 

You glared once more up at the man, but your eyes widen as you watched the pirate bite his finger before bringing it closer to your face. Continuing to stare at the man, a dark glint shined in his eyes before he spoke again. His words holding a tone of a person who seen too much in his young life.

“What do you say, you ready to join the Heart Pirates?” 

Tag List: @chloe-abbacchio @musical-apple @macdonaldsmanager and whoever wants to join!

[vasiktomis]

Pomegranate, Chapter 18: Quiet Earth, Part II.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here! Notes: Co-angels @honeysides, @shallow-gravy, and @lilwritingraven all provided immense support while I toiled over this chapter, which I am forever immensely thankful for. Never would've been able to give people second-hand embarrassment like this without y'all enabling me. As always, thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. Sexually-explicit content. An angry cult leader with performance anxiety. You know the drill.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The comparative tranquillity of Seed Ranch had a way of making Cora feel like time was moving slower than it should have. In all seriousness, the chain-reaction of their escape from Fall's End was still firing, but without the gunshots and the shouting, approaching the property felt more like being in stasis. It was too still. Too unassuming.

The Project members awaiting John on the steps of the property were vigilant about a thorough, yet strangely distant reception of the man, as if they’d been hard-wired to anticipate his moods; warmly welcoming him home, but giving the man such a wide berth that one might have assumed he was carrying a live grenade.

Cora supposed he was at least consistent in his inconsistency; just as volatile toward his allies as he was his enemies. She wondered if the serenity of the ranch was a natural element of John's sect; whether they simply cared enough about the man to know his boundaries to the inch - or whether such a light-hearted environment was manufactured deliberately and specifically around his temper.

The Deputy’s presence did well to break the façade, however. It brought with it a range of cautious exchanges from the followers that ushered them into the home; some in fear of re-living the bedlam of her bunker escape, and others casting stern looks between her bare midriff and their leader’s refusal to leave her side.

She noticed it, too - how he stuck to her like Velcro.

It was only after she was administered pain medication and had her wound dressed (they’d been gracious enough to re-dress the haphazard bandaging on her hand, too) that John abruptly took his leave, excusing himself to apparently more pressing matters. Cora was simply confined to the foyer, drifting in and out of snoozing consciousness on one of the couches in front of the fireplace.

All in all, the mental and physical exhaustion of conceding defeat to the Project proved in all honestly a little boring. The blonde had expected she might break down once she was left alone. It seemed about the right time for it, and yet, all she felt was tired. Was it the cult who had done this to her? Run her so ragged that only anger remained?

Ideas of escape waxed and waned with cultists moving in and out of the space periodically to check in on her, lessening in their hostility with each passing visit until their warnings not to cross them turned into beratements over her refusal to sit still, for the love of Joseph.

In her restlessness, she sorted through thoughts and memories, deciding on the conclusion that while yes, today had been devastating, she’d long since thrown away her capacity to recognise it. It had been so long since she’d spared herself any emotion beyond rage that everything else felt only vaguely different. She might’ve broken down, had she not forgotten how to do such a thing. Trying only gave her a stomach ache, and so she resigned herself to waiting it out, growing more and more impatient with how undramatic this aftermath had turned out to be. How her captor had left her so unceremoniously after being declared victor.

Maybe he was similarly nonchalant about all this.

...No. That was impossible. He'd probably just excused himself to go dance a celebratory little jig. Perhaps he'd stepped through a hornet's nest in doing so, or been ambushed by coyotes. Something beyond mere choice that warranted the excuse to disappear like that.

The skylights in the ceiling changed hues over the course of what felt like hours, however, and John did not return.

It felt weird, being in his home without him present. It felt weird being fussed over by house staff who muttered for her to stop picking at her bandages while she lay across his furniture, warmed by his fire. It felt weird that her exposure to Sharky and Jess had finally led her to identify that the strange smell she’d always detected in the Baptist’s home was unmistakably raw cannabis.

Eventually, the clatter of plates and bubbling conversation drew the Deputy away from the couch and around to the other end of the foyer. The gigantic table she’d only ever seen stacked high with bibles in the past now carried an assortment of food, picked at by passing cultists like a barbeque line while they chattered away.

Watching them almost felt like watching her family back in Brooklyn. Waiting out the messy crossed streams of conversation in hiding until the coast was clear and the kids could swarm the reward of food without the labour of having to hang out with the adults. It was strange, how they mimicked a family, when the only similarity Cora could gauge between them were the logos printed on their clothes.

The spying didn't last. One pair of eyes flickering to her quickly became ten, and Cora's heart rate skyrocketed. Instinct kicked in. Eyes combing over each Peggie around the table for weapons. Hands reaching for her own absent holster and emptied pockets.

The group did not respond in-kind. Apparently, they were too preoccupied with loading up their plates to deal with a leader of the Peggie-killing movement in their space.

Cora didn’t buy it. Not straight away. Not until her gaze darted around the rest of the room, weighing up which of the Baptist’s gaudy home decorations might be most effective at bone-crushing and-

“Look who’s got her colour back.”

…

What?

The same cultist who spoke up - a woman - one of the group who’d been at the church earlier, gestured at the table. “Hungry?”

What?

One Peggie with a particularly heavy beard slid a plate over the table toward Cora. Two younger girls over his shoulder giggled to each other.

“Do you think we should offer her a shirt?”

“I’m not that brave. Leave it to John.”

“Anything fresh is all from the garden.” The bearded Peggie spoke, pulling Cora’s scowl away from them with a smile.

She inspected the table. Undersized apples and strawberries. Home-grown, by their imperfections. Multi-coloured silver beet and slightly burned sweetcorn. Homemade bread piled an end of its own, surrounded by a selection of preserves in blank jars. All of it, against her will, served as a reminder that she’d only ingested coffee today. This was bizarre, but she was hungry. Not to mention the Resistance diet consisted mostly of canned spaghetti.

Gingerly, the Deputy picked at one of everything, and while the group of cultists continued chatting, she stood awkwardly by on the side-line, trying to figure out the most efficient means of eating corn while still maintaining a hostile air about her and lot letting slip that it was fucking delicious.

Apparently tearing into the thing wasn't adequately frightening. The same talkative man split from the party to approach her, ignoring the roll of her eyes. A spot of shine glided over his bald head while he moved around the table, and as he neared, he gave her a moment to squint at him.

There was something familiar about that overbearing air.

“We’ve... -”

“Met.” He confirmed. “Briefly.”

“When?”

“Months ago now. I, uh, almost baptised you.”

Cora chewed the inside of her cheek, considering that. Somewhere in the back of her mind the memory of wet rocks beneath her feet swelled with the lapping of shallow waters. Just tap my arm if you need to come up for air.

He shrugged at her silence. “You were pretty Blissed-”

“No, I remember you.” The Deputy mumbled, turning her attention back to her food, intent on keeping it there. It didn’t last long. A hand stretched out before her, and with a laboured, full-mouthed sigh, she shook it.

“Andrew. Glad to see you again.” He offered.

“Okay.”

The silence was as painful as she’d hoped to make it, but tragically, he was resilient.

"Andy works, too-"

"Andrew's syllabically identical and perfectly sufficient. Where's your boss?"

“Upstairs, working.”

“And he’s asked not to be disturbed.” One woman interjected. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Cora blinked at that. Then, plate still in-hand, she spun on her heel and made for the staircase.

Behind her, the group exchanged a collective look of panic.

"Ma'am?"

"Sister?"

"Hey!"

“We’re not allowed up there!”

“Perfect." Cora grumbled back, already ascending the steps. "Then you don’t have to worry about following me.”

The second storey of Seed ranch was dead still in comparison to downstairs. A hallway presented a quiet stretch of closed doors and branching hallways that led out to balconies, part way between residential space and tactical efficiency.

Back in the day, she’d assumed the Baptist just had a thing for doors. Looking around at the space now, it was clear that John was well-aware of how many enemies he’d generated thanks to his work.

The crackle of a radio up ahead drew the Deputy’s attention, and as she drew closer, a hushed curse.

“Pick up. Come on, pick up.” John murmured. Then, in a brand new tone: “Joseph. Brother. I need you to call me back. Please, it’s been - just...whenever you can. I’ll be here.”

She found him beyond a cracked doorway, hunched over a desk. His fingers smoothed through damp hair hair, tugging, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

The door creaked as Cora pressed against it, and in the time it took for her to cringe at the noise, John had sat up straight, shifting out of whatever private mood she’d spied him in. He blinked up at her, inhaling deeply, reeking of uncertainty.

She felt it too. Of all the scenarios to catch him alone in, the blonde hadn’t expected that she’d be brandishing sourdough.

A moment passed. Both of them trying to feel out this new territory.

“Hey.” Cora eventually muttered.

John exhaled. “Hi.”

“Brought food.”

He looked away. “Deputy, pleased as I am that you’re making yourself at home, I asked for privacy.”

“Since when did you value privacy?” Cora asked, pushing into the room and seating herself on the desk. The tired irritation on John’s face when she set the plate in front of him was worth the day of boredom already. He glanced up at her, and she responded with a wolfish smile.

“You have corn in your teeth.” He mumbled, relenting, posture slackening. “And you’re getting blood flakes on my desk.”

The Deputy tried not to look so hurried about picking. “Isn’t that a garnish in Japan?”

“That’s fish. You’re thinking bonito.”

“I know what I’m thinking.”

Another pause.

“Is that what you thought you were filleting in the church? Bonito?”

Annoyed silence.

“It was Nick.”

Finally, John scoffed, glaring at her, offering a reluctant nod when she flashed her teeth to confirm she’d gotten rid of the food in her teeth. “You are so funny.”

“Thank you. Eat something.”

Cora watched the man regard the plate in front of him.

“How generous of you to take a bite out of everything first." His gaze landed on the shredded corn cob. "Except for that. That,  you demolished."

"Yeah, well." Cora plucked up the same piece of bread he'd been reaching for. "Why're you hiding up here? Thought maybe you would've starting laying on the torment by now. Not...brooding."

"Brooding."

"Yes."

"Pardon me for needing to adjust to having a murderer in my home."

Cora hummed at that, casting a look around the room. "Took you about 2 seconds to adjust to a murderer's tongue in your mouth-"

"Deputy." John spat, pushing the plate away from him in a final display of denial. "Please, leave. I'm busy."

“No, you’re not.” Cora bit back. “I want to know what your plan is. Now you’ve got me, what’s next? What’s the point in me sitting around on your couch all afternoon? You don’t leave me alone, ever, and now that I’m here you want me to make myself scarce?”

The Baptist's jaw rolled in annoyance, and when Cora shifted her legs to face him easier, he jerked away from her, avoiding contact. “You’ve grown too accustomed to being in the spotlight." He grumbled.

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What’s your deal? What's the plan? What happens now?”

“The plan is to get back to work. My apologies if your assumption was that you were the main goal of this valley, but there are dozens of things that require my attention-“

“Like sitting by the phone for your brother for hours?”

John paused at that. Something old and familiar flashed over his expression, and he stood from his seat. “You’re jealous.” He accused.

Cora’s lip curled, ears running hot. “You’re wasting time, and I want to know why.”

“Is that why you're nosing through my business? If I gave you details - what I'm working on - what the next step is - is that a strategic win for you?" His palms slid against the desk, planted on either side of her legs. "Or is my lack of undivided attention so awful to you that anything to help rationalise it would do?"

Something in her celebrated that look on his face. The renewed confidence in his attitude. It enraged her, but it was scores better than his absence.

She scowled, but she didn’t pull away when John leaned down into her space. It didn’t work the way it used to. Now it didn’t feel close enough. Now she wanted to part her legs and pull his hips against her.

It was a discomfort she’d never known before, and now, even with her wounds dulled, it almost felt painful. She wanted to know what the plan was. She wanted to plan an escape. She wanted to have just this one little victory if this was the end of the line. If he was going to convert her, then she could at least undermine him by ruining his faithfulness. It might destabilise him enough that she could find some advantage to getting back to Fall’s End. That would make it okay, if it were all driven by strategy or revenge. Her curiosity would be sated.

But then, as if he could hear her thoughts from the sheer volume of their demands, John drew away from her.

“You should shower.” He muttered quickly, snatching the radio from the desk. “Across the hall, on the right.”

He didn’t look at her as he left the room. He didn’t look back when he disappeared down the hall and made for the stairs.

Cora glared ahead at the space he'd left emptied.

What a fucking coward.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Despite her soured mood, Cora had done as she was ordered. She spent all of two minutes rinsing the old blood from her skin, and another ten reflecting in quiet judgement over the bottle of 3-in-1 sitting in the shower caddy with her. Maybe she should've allowed herself the opportunity to warrant having to bathe here earlier. Maybe she'd have developed more of a sense of disgust for the man if she had.

The clothes she’d arrived in were still stained, but it was an improvement. Less of a sensory distraction while she sorted through her thoughts, at least.

While the Deputy dried off and re-dressed, the haze of pain relief began to lighten, and she was able to focus on cobbling together some kind of a plan to get herself out of Seed Ranch. She might have conceded defeat, but the hideous tattoo marking her sternum didn't mean she was suddenly going to behave. Especially if her captor was refusing to even the playing field and let her know what the hell they were supposed to do now.

Whatever John was keeping from her, it was urgent enough that his entire demeanour had changed. What did he need from Joseph so desperately? If it had anything to do with the Resistance, or if had anything to do with Joseph coming here, the Deputy intended to put a stop to it.

If John Seed’s intention was to avoid her, he should’ve thought twice before locking her in his home. Ensuring that he’d keep his distance, however, was the easy part.

The real goal would be getting him away from that radio.

Descending the stairs, Cora found John in solitary silence in the foyer. There was no sign of the Peggies serving up supper anymore, and the dining table had been cleared.

John was alone, sitting on the couch by the fireplace with his head in his hands, no less agitated than when she’d first found him. The hand-held sat close by on his left. In front of him on the coffee table was a landline phone that hadn’t been there previously.

He didn’t notice her at first. To his credit, she didn’t announce herself until a creak of the stairs did it for her. Then, the snap of his gaze toward her was instant. Hyper-vigilant.

Cora reached the first floor. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Minding the perimeter.” John answered, making space for her to take a seat but keeping himself faced away. “You’ll be pleased to know that your troop is still yet to be captured. Little doubt they’re aware that you’ve been brought here. Even less that they’re on the hunt for you, given the state Fall’s End was in when we left. Boshaw seemed happy enough to blow up half the town to get to you. Shorty."

There was no mistaking his bitterness at the nickname.

When she approached, Cora found a folded Project sweater sitting where she intended to. John’s jaw rolled when she slowed to glare at the thing.

Still, he refused to look at her.

“Put it on. You’ll freeze.”

“I’d rather not look like one of you when the Resistance comes to rescue me.”

“You are one of us, now. Almost. Once you’ve pledged yourself to the Project, they needn’t consider it a rescue effort any longer.”

Cora huffed in response, pulling the sweater over her head and slumping into the couch. “You sound a lot less happy about that than I’d expect.”

“I’m fine.”

Stonewalling. Now she was beginning to understand how annoying it was when she did it.

“I’ve made enough of a career out of it to know what you look like when you’re not fine.” The Deputy remarked.

“I think I preferred it when I was asking all the questions.”

“I think you preferred me when I was tied up in a basement.”

That comment caught a glance. Amusement, unnoticed on her part.

“So, what - you’ve been sitting beside a radio all day and somehow weren’t inclined to terrorise me? Or were you just that busy arranging flowers for my Atonement?”

“Are you feeling stood up?” John asked. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were projecting, Deputy.”

Her ears flushed hot. Immediate rage flooded pitted in her stomach, but as much as the blonde would have liked to get up and stomp elsewhere, she had little other option without any better ideas.

Right now, this was all she had.

Channelling her inner Adelaide.

Cora inhaled, swallowing back a cursory retort. “Both work.”

In her periphery, John ceased all movement, staring straight ahead.

All she had to do was pressure him enough to move away. Then it was over. She’d been rejected by him before - anticipating it happening again shouldn’t have needed to feel as gross as it did.

“Maybe I think you got scared, not having me under your control.” She went on, finding the words already prepared on her tongue as she turned toward him. “You seemed like you were enjoying it when it was you-”

“-and then you punched me in the face.” John cut in stiffly.

“Didn’t deter you.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s against the rules.” The clip in his tone signalled a warning. Then, an impatient sigh escaped his nostrils. “And you said it yourself: it was a mistake.”

He wasn’t going to look at her. There was no pulling at his attention while he could hide her in his periphery.

“Is that why you’re upset?” She made a quiet move to touch her fingers to his forearm, but he pulled away with a scoff.

“If you’re trying to buy time -”

“Are you frustrated?” Cora pressed on. His shifting had given her enough leeway to get herself between him and the phone, and she took her opportunity, sliding down to kneel between the couch and the coffee table. Directly in front of him. “Knowing what people say about you?”

John finally inclined his head to sneer down at her, but if he had anything he was intending to say, it was silence by the bob of his Adam's apple. A gulp. His breathing was the only audible sound in the room, barring herself; shallow and staggered.

Almost there.

Cora kept her eyes on his. She wouldn’t lie - despite sitting at his feet like this, she could still gauge the power that she held. That while, yes, there was a spark of disappointment that came with watching him ignore her advances, there was also some odd thrill in watching the man who’d made multiple attempts on her life struggle so much. Knowing that, even with her unarmed and kneeling - even with all his connections and soldiers, and everything he'd done to her - he was powerless.

He’d taken her freedom, but she could get that back. She’d compromised his loyalty to dogma. Nearly made the tallied notches on his arm into a lie. He'd have to start again from the ground-up. He'd be middle-aged before he found the same progress.

“Now that I’m atoned. Now that no one’s watching.” She sat up, drawing closer to his thigh, inwardly cursing at his refusal to move away this time. “All that work you put into catching me, and now what? Nothing?”

“Deputy.” John growled, low and dangerous.

“You want this.” Cora concluded, watching the flush of red bloom from beneath his collar and the flex of his jaw while he grit his teeth.

“There are bigger things at stake right now-”

“And even now that you have me, you’re too scared to do anything about it.”

John inhaled a swift breath, averting his gaze. “That’s beside the point.”

“You want this."

“Would you quit it? You’re wrong.”

Finally, the Baptist shoved himself out of the couch, back-stepping several paces until he was half-way across the room. Once he’d gotten himself to a safe distance, he regarded the Deputy once more, gaze cold and angry while she cycled through unknown victory and equally unknown disappointment.

He wasn’t going to be made to give in.

“You haven’t been atoned. Not yet.” John breathed, turning on his heel and marching into the kitchen.

Cora stared at the doorway he'd escaped through. Now was her chance.

One...two...three...

Okay. He wasn't coming back in a hurry. She'd successfully scared him off.

There was no time to waste.

While the faucet ran in the next room, Cora twisted around, snatching the phone upside down and hastily unclipping the cable from the device. The dial-tone cut to silence. Communication blocked, but cord hooked up to the damn thing was already conspicuous without  evidence of tampering. She couldn't just discard the cable.

There was no way John wouldn’t notice its absence when he returned, and so the Deputy did what any effective home invader would do.

She bit down on the cord, close as she could to the adapter, chewing hard until grinding wire snapped between her teeth. When she plugged the cable back in and set the phone straight again, the machine remained dead, but intact.

Good. That'd buy some time.

The radio was next. Rather than switch the device off, Cora tuned it a few notches, finding a dead station and placing it back right where John had left it.

Done.

Sabotage successful. If Joseph had any intention of making a call-back soon, he’d be going unheard. There was no telling how long it would last, but unless the Baptist was stocked on landlines, half of his communications were disabled entirely.

Cora exhaled, inviting in the momentary relief. Being kept here was one thing. Having to be in the same room as Joseph Seed was another dimension entirely.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” She called, rising to a stand and following the Baptist’s trail.

No response.

When Cora entered the kitchen, John was dabbing his neck with wet hands. The moment he sensed her, he grumbled a sharp curse, bracing his hands against the counter to keep from facing her.

“Is this the plan? We just sit and wait?”

His shoulders seized. “...Yes.”

Cora stalked past him, finding a counter of her own to lean against, finding her own patience dwindling. Coiling irritation at the very notion of Joseph having so much sway over the Baptist that he could seemingly halt time.

“So what’s the point in taking me? In bringing me here?” She spat.

“Disregarding our personal rapport, it’s no small matter, having you here.” John ground out. “My family will want to know-”

“Have you tried calling Jacob?”

Something twitched in John's expression. A button, pushed. Dispelled rage.

“The Father  will-”

There was no holding back the snarl that brewed in her throat. Hitting its boiling point. He did  have that much sway over the man. They were sitting here in stasis, all because of him.

“Are you that fucking sad? We’re stuck here just because you need to hear Joseph tell you how well you did? A whole fucking resistance effort just blew up half of Fall’s End. You caught  me. Dozens of people are dying, and all you can do is sit by the phone?” Cora demanded, scowling while his muscles trembled. “Are you serious?!”

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, CORA?!”  John bellowed, head snapping around to fix her in place, eyes blazing. The sheer volume of him froze her to the spot. "Did you assume that you were somehow different from anyone else the Project takes in? That your place here; that you're even alive  had anything other to do than Joseph requesting it? Did you think that you'd somehow slipped through every possible crack in the system for any reason beyond this path being carved specifically by the Father? Because, frankly speaking, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

The Deputy didn't reply. She couldn't.

Not that it would've mattered.

John, it seemed, was far from finished.

“You're so selfish. One moment you insist on making your own salvation impossible. The next, you assume you can simply start calling shots." He bit, voice already hoarse from yelling, but with no less poison. "You think I enjoy waiting around for whatever order comes next? That I enjoy you waltzing around my home, eating my food, whining that I'm not doing enough  for you? After all the wrath you’ve wrought - after all the death and the destruction - you’re still so fucking entitled to assume that I’d throw aside my loyalty to the Father. All just because you’re here, and not even by fucking choice.”

Cora swallowed, calming the nerves that egged her on to snap back at him. "I didn't - I don't - "

After a moment, the hostility thinned. John's shoulders sagged.

"I know it's not optimal. It might not seem like it, but we're lucky. Things could be a lot worse for both of us, but on Joseph's order, they're not. It's his wisdom that made you being here even possible. So yes; the plan right now is that we sit and wait."

John turned toward her, then. He looked positively miserable.

“What happened last night…can’t happen again.” He explained. “It doesn’t matter that you’re here now. I’m the Baptist. Joseph is my brother. There’s nothing he doesn’t know, and there’s nothing he won’t find out. We need to do everything we can to stay on his good side.”

He did have a point. As much as she wanted John to be the last of her enemies, he was only one of three, and likely the lowest ranked of the Project's leaders. Pushing John to defy a higher power was unwise.

Her job was done, anyway. There was no more need to pursue him. Curiosity didn't matter. Want didn't matter. No meant no.

“Okay.” The Deputy croaked finally, nodding.

John raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She attempted a smile. "Water under the bridge."

He returned the expression. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Great.”

“Cool.”

They both stood still, watching each other for a long moment.

Then Cora’s heart sank, and she felt herself detach from the counter. John did the same, marching toward her while she advanced on him with equal urgency.

Her fingers found the front of his shirt just as his found her face, and his mouth was on hers in a heartbeat. For all her rationalisations, the blonde reciprocated immediately, clutching him closer, humming into his kiss with a pitch she’d normally find mortifying.

“I’m sorry.” John breathed, hardly breaking away long enough to put the words together before he was kissing her again. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean that."

Cora nodded, barely able to formulate a response against him. Every word she reached for melted on her tongue, completely enraptured by the heat of his mouth and his desperate hands not knowing whether they wanted to grip at her hips or keep cradling her jaw.

She didn’t even know she’d been walked backward until she felt the cold countertop hit the small of her back, and then - much more pleasantly - the warmth of John’s body pressing against her front. She gasped, winding a hand into his damp hair and slipping beneath his shirt with the other, pawing at whatever skin she could access and drawing another one of those pitiful sounds she’d pulled from him last night.

“Wasn’t - ah, fuck,” the Deputy choked, not anticipating the Baptist’s impatience when he dipped his head to kiss her neck, arms coiling tight around her waist, “Wasn’t a mistake.”

"Fuck no." John moaned against her throat, tongue barely darting out to taste her skin. “Won’t hit me this time?”

“Not this time.”

He pulled back then, leaving a half inch of aching dead space between them. Swallowing back a pant and looking at her directly. Like he was weighing up every possible pro and con about this scenario. Cora stilled, trading hesitation with the man, sobering for all but a few fearful seconds.

“If you don’t-”

“Don’t.” John breathed. “Just let me commit this to memory.”

“I mean it.”

“Deputy, you have no idea - how many times I’ve -...how much damage this could do."

Cora shifted under his gaze, searching impatiently to find which direction his resolve would fall. "I can keep a secret."

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, breaking through apprehension.

“You want this.” She murmured.

“God, yes.”

He kissed her deeply, holding her steady through the shiver sent through her as his tongue slid across her bottom lip. Then, as soon as it felt like they were picking back up where they’d left off, he pulled back again. The grin he flashed at her frustration pulled a little noise of protest out of the blonde, and when she chased his mouth, he held her still.

“For the sake of being on the same page,” He began, “you do, too, right?.”

What a ridiculous assertion. What kind of answer was he hoping to gain from that? He already had her consent; did he really need the pride of knowing how badly she wanted this too? It wasn’t even something she’d actively considered, anyway. She’d have to think about-

“Yeah.” Cora breathed, ragged. “Yes.”

John settled into a more comfortable smile, and while the eye contact wasn’t something she could uphold for long, Cora mirrored the expression.

Then, a sigh rolled out of the Baptist. “Thank fucking Christ.”

She didn’t have time to chuckle at that.

His mouth was back on her in a instant.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What’d I tell you?” Jess hissed, looking Sharky up and down while she waded toward him through torn up asphalt and cement debris. “What’d I tell you about making a fucking idiot of yourself?”

Sharky traded a look with Hurk at that. The man was nearly unrecognizable from all the dust clinging to him.

“I thought we did pretty good.” The arsonist defended.

“The town’s half blown-up, dipshit.”

“We did real  good.” Hurk weighed in.

He wasn’t wrong. They didn’t even kill nobody they weren’t supposed to. There’d been bumps in the road, sure, but all in all, things hadn’t been a total disaster. Once you translated that into the kind of situation they were in, total disaster  was actually kind of...well, awesome. Especially once the Cougars had arrived.

Sharky hadn’t heard word from over East since they’d left, but things must’ve been mighty fucking boring up there at the County Jail for a whole fucking convoy to come charging through town.

He’d never seen so many baseball jerseys in one place, let alone jerseys toting assault rifles.

There wasn’t any chasing leftover Peggies out of town once they’d shown up. It was a purge so quick and so direct that the blonde understood a little better why Shorty had been so pissed about not getting the extra help earlier.

Everyone had found their way back to each other pretty quick once the chaos had died down. As luck would have it, Kim had been walking Boomer when Eden’s Gate had arrived. She’d managed to get a couple of the general store clerks to safety and found a cattle shed to wait out the fight about a mile up the road.

It might’ve been the adrenaline getting him going, but Sharky could’ve sworn her tits were even bigger than yesterday.

Grace and Mary May reunited quick, but disappointingly did not  start making out. Instead, they helped Kim cart Nick and Pastor Jerome off to Dr. Lindsey.

After they’d rounded up any remaining hostages, the team made their way back to Sharky as the stand-in replacement for the Deputy. That part didn’t surprise him. He was  best mate, after all...after the dog, at least. The part that did surprise him was that the Cougars seemed to do that same.

Tracey surveyed the wreckage on her way toward the group with Sheriff Whitehorse and that tight-lipped Marshal in-tow.

“Jerome says Stammos got carted out with John’s people.” The woman announced. “They took the road down to the airport.”

“Then unless they’re plannin’ on looping back around, they’re probably headed to the ranch.” Adelaide replied.

“Probably a smart move after last time.” Hurk added.

The Sheriff inclined his head, incredulous. “Last time?”

“Long story.”

Sharky watched the disappointment pass over Whitehorse’s face. Must’ve felt shitty; losing all of his employees to the cult.

“I tried chasin’ ‘em down, Sheriff.” He said.

“And given how you’re dressed, Boshaw, it’s no surprise they were so quick to leave.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jess asked.

Tracey was already turning back around, headed for the truck she’d arrived in. “We keep liberating.” She answered. “Stammos called us to take back the valley, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“John’s ranch is almost the Southernmost point before the border.” Whitehorse elaborated. “If we do everything right, he won’t have many friends left to help him cross it once he gets word of us coming.”

“Sounds like the same plan as last time.” Adelaide commented.

“No stone unturned.” He affirmed. “Same as last time. Take care of John the same way we took care of Faith and bring our girls home.”

The Marshal, however, didn’t look as happy about that option. Dude always hated taking the long way around. “And what if John’s taken care of your Deputy before we get there?”

Sharky exchanged a look with the others.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John’s fingers tangled in Cora's hair, hurriedly tugging out the damp tie and wincing when a caught snag caused the Deputy to hiss. “Sorry. Sorry.” He muttered, breathless.

“You’re - you’re certain this is okay.” She huffed against him. If there was any acknowledgement of the apology on her part, it was only in how she clawed at his vest, dragging his mouth back to hers.

“Not at all.”

“What about your -” A gasp briefly did the trick of silencing her, but then: “What about your brothers-”

“Please don’t mention my brothers right now.” John whined.

Cora eyed him. “Door’s locked?”

John stifled a chuckle at that. “No, why would it be?”

Cora eyed him dangerously.

“I’m kidding." He defended. "What, you think I let people walk in and out of here unannounced?"

“Fucking prick.”

“Obviously, I’m kidding. You’re a-aaah…” His retort dwindled when the blonde’s hands slid down his front, stopping short of the hem of his vest and creeping back up to his collar again. He pulled back to glare. “A captive.”

“And you’re sensitive.” She replied, simply.

“7 years is a long time.” John’s own hands fell from her hair, slipping down her sides until she couldn’t feel them anymore. “Not sure how much I can...handle.” That last phrase came cautiously. Awkwardly.

The blonde’s fingers traced back down while she listened, more quizzical than apprehensive at the warning.

To her, that sounded more like a challenge.

"What."  John grunted at the smirk that played on her lips.

"Just the audacity of you asking for mercy."

A shiver worked its way out of him when she went lower, ghosting over his hips and then back up again. Deliberately avoiding the ever-insistent graze of an erection against her stomach, sporadically tensing against denim confinement whenever her hands got close. Every reminder of it sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

“Seriously-”

“Mr. Seed, either we carry on like this, or you fuck me. Right now.” The Deputy spoke low, watching the Baptist’s pupils dilate more with each word. “Either way, we’ll find out how much you can handle, but 3 years is also a long time. I’d hate for only one of us to break a streak.”

John stared, dumbfounded.

Then, his hands reappeared, tugging around her waist, wrenching her up and onto the countertop. Her wasted no time pushing her knees apart, drawing near enough between her legs that she could reach for his belt, but not close enough that she could find the friction she was looking for. His fingers pawed her thighs, then gripped hard when her fingertips ghosted over the bulge that impatiently jutted between them.

“Ah. Shit.” He shuddered, folding down to balance his forehead in the crook of her neck, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Cora found that she liked the idea of that. Ten times the amount of experience she had, and yet here he was, barely functional.

She pressed her palm against him, content with the hitch in his breath and the little jerk of his hips. A responding, dulled twitch pressed back. Through the obstruction of clothing, it was impossible to get a sense of him, but biology didn’t discriminate. She wanted him in her.

“Doing good.” Cora murmured against John’s temple, running her fingers through his hair in reassurance while his dug into her thighs in a vice grip.

“So good.” He choked when she slowly began to move back and forth. “So - so good. Feels - ah, fuck - let me -“

Maybe a little too quickly, Cora pulled herself closer to the edge of the counter, tugging John’s unbandaged hand further up her thigh and hoping he’d get the message while she busied herself with his belt.

She knew his smirk too well to mistake it for anything else when she felt him hum against her throat.

John straightened, pulling Cora’s attention back up to him. Lo and behold, he was looking as arrogant as ever; as if he hadn’t just been whining at her mercy. “Deputy, have a little patience.”

“After all that ranting about giving, you sure are selfish.”

“Oh, so you were listening.” He grinned, tracing a thumb back and forth over the junction of her hip. “Tell me, what happened to my little ranger who loved to play by the rules?”

“Hypocrite.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hurry up.”

John flinched when Cora’s hand shoved beneath his still-fastened pants, palming him through his underwear. He managed to hold strong, though, even if his voice near-cracked. “Or what?”

“Or John Seed’s gonna come in his pants.”

Again, he twitched in her grasp, but his movement remained torturously slow.

Realisation hit the Deputy at his resistance.

He was getting a kick out of this.

He was testing her.

“How crazy does it drive you, not having total, complete control?" He asked. His thumb reached the seam of her pants, almost too light to feel. She still throbbed all the same.

"You're an asshole." Cora growled.

“You know, I always suspected you got off on that.”

“Evidence suggests it might be the other way around.”

“Answer me, Deputy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll do just that if you don’t cooperate.” John tutted at her frustrated ineptitude at deciphering his belt buckle. “Are you really in a position to be calling the shots?”

Cora stopped to consider that, locking to his gaze with a scowl. Why did every interaction with him have to feel like a chess game?

Fine.

Not breaking eye contact, Cora simply pulled her sweater over her head in response.

John’s gaze broke immediately. He tried to recover, but the damage was done. There was no picking his composure back up after the attitude slid from his face and left him with nothing but prying eyes and a slackened jaw.

“Well,” He croaked, “when you put it that way…”

“Help me with this.” Cora urged, still tugging at his belt. He acquiesced immediately, although with the two of them hastily fumbling with the same mechanism, the extra help wasn’t much better. John swore under his breath, pulling out of Cora’s reach while she clicked her tongue. “Does that thing double as a chastity belt?”

“It’s not my fault we have a single functional hand between us.”

“You stabbed me first.”

“For God’s sake - fuck - got it.”  John sighed, finally unbuckling the monstrosity, rushing back to the blonde’s reach. She dealt with her own belt while he hurried with his jeans, tattooed fingers shaking. The moment he’d succeeded, his hands flew to her waist, revering bare skin and savouring her impatience for him to touch her where she wanted to be touched.

She would have cussed him out, had his teeth not grazed her lip, refreshing the taste of him with his tongue slipping into her mouth - right as his left hand wriggled it way into her pants and pressed.

Cora saw white for a second. Untouched nerves awakening in a frenzy that had her gasping into that bastard’s mouth. Jesus, she could feel  the grin on his face.

“Hm. Hypocrite.” Came the reminder, followed by a strangled noise when her fingers enclosed around his cock; separated still by underwear, but gripping him all the same. His body shoved against her, crushing their arms between them in the attempt to find his way closer - to find more. “Ah - shit. Careful-”

A knock from beyond the kitchen sent a collective jolt through both of them, and John’s head whipped around in a panic.

“W-...what is it?!” He called, voice cracking.

“John, have you got a minute?” A deeper voice Cora didn’t recognise responded from outside.

“Doubt I’ve got more than ten seconds.” The Baptist hissed to himself. “I recall saying emergencies only! Ask yourself - is this something I need to find John for, or can I find my own way?”

Christ. He spoke to his followers the same way she spoke to hers.

“O-okay. Sorry.”

John didn’t reply. He simply turned his attention straight back to Cora, stroking up and down along the material of her underwear. His cock twitched impatiently in her hand, at odds with his leisurely pace. “You’re soaked through.” He taunted, but the tremor in his voice delivered it as a revelation.

Cora’s brow furrowed. She stroked once, sweeping her thumb over the head of him. “Speak for yourself, Baptist.”

A grunt sounded from the man. His hands moved quickly, yanking her to the edge of the counter and gripping at her pants. Tugging the material down and off her legs while he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. The Deputy’s initial instinct to draw herself together and hide from scrutiny was jarred by the way the Baptist gaped between her legs. Like closing them would be some cruel disservice to him. So, she let him stare. Held still while he drew close, dotting a kiss to her knee and shivering when his beard skimmed her inner thigh.

“Thank you for wearing white.” John murmured, stroking a careful thumb over the cotton, leaving only aching want in his wake.

“That a religious thing?” She tried not to croak, raising an eyebrow.

“Not in this circumstance. Just...thought about it.”

“Oh. You just - casually speculated on the colour of my underwear.”

“Something like that.” He continued the action. Back and forth. Up and down. Trying to find the same spot as earlier. For all his enthusiasm, however, he was still out of practice and just as impatient as she was. He’d draw close, but any hitch in her breath pulled his gaze up to her face, searching for praise and losing his place in the process.

When his mouth suddenly descended upon her, though, fingers giving up their place to yank the material to the side and grant him direct access, the Deputy found herself uncomfortably on the complete other end of the spectrum. From not enough, to way, way too much. A squeak shot out of Cora, and her legs clamped shut on John’s skull just as her fingers gripped his hair in an attempt to pry him away from her. Both actions earned a separate “Ow,” from the man.

John pouted up at her. “What?”

“Stand up.” “I like where I am right now.” He protested. “You’re not shy,  are you? I want  to-”

Cora tugged at him anyway. “I don’t want you to practice on me. I want you to fuck me.”

John blinked. “Okay - not shy.” He pulled himself back to a stand, averting his gaze while she guided his hips back between her legs. “I’m - er - it’s just…-”

He bit back a resigned curse when her fingers circled his erection once again, passing over the noticeable slick of precum on strained cotton.

“Just what?”

“I'd like you to - enjoy it." The admission came. "And I’m not going to last.”

“Good. I'll enjoy that just fine.” Cora replied, earning a questioning look. “Won’t look so smug anymore when you’re coming in record time.”

John's expression darkened at the challenge, but his hands shook as they swatted her away, struggling to manoeuvre the fly of his underwear into just  the right position.

Anger was still the quickest way to get through to him.

“Just you wait." He warned. "I’ll-“

She cut him off with a kiss, pulling his hips against her, and his threats evaporated. They were pressed too close for her to see, but his cock grazed the hem of her underwear, finally pulled free. Then, John’s fingers hooked around the material, pulling it to one side.

The Baptist held her gaze, brow upturned like he was worried.

Was he nervous?

“Ready?” He asked.

He looked...kind of pretty like this. Pupils blown. Lips a little swollen. Hair all messed up. Eye-contact wasn't so uncomfortable when he looked this wrecked.

She nodded. "Yeah." The pitch of his gasp matched hers when the head of him slid with dangerous ease along the wetness of her cunt. All she could focus on was the heat of him. The blunt press, drawing closer and closer to her entrance until he was finally lined up. The ache of resisting muscles and relieved nerve-endings when he pushed forward, torturously slow, concentration and bliss fighting for equal real estate on his face, and okay,  he was exceptionally pretty like this.

A tiny little 'fuck'  crept out of John when Cora sighed at the feeling, insistently encouraging, tugging. She needed more. It wasn't fair. Didn't fucking matter how long for; she just needed to feel him. All of him.

Then, when he was barely two inches in, another knock at the door pulled her out of her stupor.

“John? I spoke to Andy. He says it’s an emergency.”

John froze. Then, his eyes scrunched shut in a long-suffering grimace, and once again, his forehead dropped to Cora’s shoulder. Frustration radiated from him, infecting her within moments.

"Has he been out there the whole time?" She grunted.

"Christ." The Baptist sounded almost amused at that. He pulled back to offer a half-smile.

He had to investigate.

Cora, meanwhile, had no patience for his imminent departure. Her legs locked against his hips, but he was gently prying himself away already, muttering repeated, gasped apologies at her protests.

“I’ll be right there!” He called back, already resetting his belt. “Give me a minute.”

“Are you kidding?” Cora hissed, sliding down from the counter.

“I’ll be 30 seconds. I swear. Then we can - we can go upstairs, and we can stay  there. Emergency or not.” John assured her, punctuating his words with kisses wherever he could land them while she struggled to multitask between receiving and yanking her pants back on. Then, he pulled away completely, stumbling out of the kitchen on visibly shaky legs.

Cora took a moment to silently lament before heading back out into the foyer, buckling her belt while she surveyed the space in an attempt to distract herself from impotent fucking rage.

John murmured away with someone outside, half-visible through the gap he’d left in the door. His arms had crossed, but with his back to her, she couldn’t discern his mood any further.

Nonetheless, her concern grew, and when the man said his goodbyes with a nod and entered the building once more, the Deputy found it had good reason to.

John passed through the room, not sparing her a glance. He snatched the radio he’d abandoned on the coffee table, but to her fleeting relief, simply clipped it onto his belt and moved on.

He’d turned pale.

“Hey.” Cora frowned, following him to the trophy cabinet where he began rifling through memorabilia. “What’s going on?”

“We have to leave.” He muttered, unboxing a small case. It rattled as he shook the content into his hand. 38 Specials, most making it to his back pocket, some clinking to the floor, forgotten when he moved on to withdraw his revolver and tucked it into the back of his pants. “Now.”

John continued hurrying about with Cora hot on his heels, unable to really do anything but watch him build a collection of valuables on the dining table. His coat. His keys. A particularly raggedy old bible. He made some effort to conceal the zip-lock bag he pulled from behind the décor on the mantle; definitely the source of the odour that permeated the foyer.

They traded a look - critical on Cora’s part, and John rolled his jaw while he shoved it out of sight, irritated. Perhaps embarrassed.

“Did you know?” He huffed.

“Mr. Seed, I studied in Colorado. I know what a half-bag looks like.”

“Did you know about the Cougars?” John’s voice hardened. “According to the Chosen, there’s one hell of a convoy inbound from the North. Did you know?”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Oh. Fuck.” Cora noted, still too dazed to even bother lying. “I called them in.”

They actually came?

“Wonderful.” John had stopped to run a hand through his hair. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well sure, but I don’t see what good they’re gonna do you. They’re probably here to-”

“Sarcasm, Cora.”

“That makes more sense."

John started to pace, then, relenting. Dispersing his temper. He tugged the radio from his belt, holding it to his chin. “Joseph, for God’s sake, come in.”

Half a minute passed by. The little curses under John’s breath became more punctuated until his patience thinned. He angled the dial, and then stopped. Examining the station he’d been using, incredulous.

His gaze flickered to her for a split-second, eyes narrowing, and Cora’s stomach coiled.

Shit.

He knew.

She winced while the Baptist strode past her, anticipating his approach to the phone, investigating an absent dial tone and her now-obvious tampering. He turned the machine over, holding up the ruined cord for her to see.

"Your handiwork, Deputy?" The smile that spread over his face was sharp as ever. The mask was back on.

Perhaps this hadn't been her best plan.

She should've let him go down on her when she had the chance.

[firesongbard]

Sanctimony

A short snippet from my Post-Control longfic. Read more on AO3.

T ’ L O A K

Something in the universe had determined it would be inordinately funny to take her most recent failure and chase her across the entire breadth of the Milky Way galaxy with it.

Of course, Cerberus would bring Adjutants to raid the Citadel. What a marvelous idea that could in no way backfire on them. It had gone so well for them on Avernus Station and Omega. Three times they had dropped her blue ass in the middle of their disaster and expected her to play ball.

Fuck. Cerberus.

She removed her glove to wring out the blue cyberfluid that had exploded outward from the monster she’d killed. Then she tried for a second time to activate the haptic interface of the C-Sec console.

Finally.

Her initial plan of opening the jails and counting on the bedlam that ensued to work in her favor was no longer the best option. With Bray likely still playing taxi somewhere in the wrong star system, she was out a second in command. What she needed was an army, organized and under her control. And she’d need an XO she could trust to remain on her short leash.

Shepard had left her an unanticipated gift with her pure conscience. Jona Sederis was still in lock-up instead of flying the Eclipse Fleet against the Reapers. That was a woman who had proven she could lead. She could certainly fight. And she had the weak mind of a person with a long history of military service and a very short temper.

Perfect.

C-Sec holding cells weren’t designed for long-term use. Smooth floors, empty rooms with four-sided barrier-enforced glass walls—one way, of course, to allow for maximum observation. Inside the cells, some prisoners were dead, some dying, and some were near mad from isolation. These people had been here since the start of the war, most likely. Not easy to shunt prisoners off to Mercantile Prison Ships when supply lines were cut and communications were spotty at best. None had been given food or water since Cerberus invaded, and humans and salarians were such fragile creatures.

She curled her lip in disgust. This is the price the council was willing to pay for their pretty promise of ‘safety’. This was the dirty secret they kept, the blood they hid from their hands.

The sanctimony of it made her sick.

She pulled up her omni-tool and started a broadcast, accessing every comm panel in every cell.

“Forgotten of the Citadel: Your savior demands your attention. Join me, and together we will claim this Citadel as our own. I will lead a force that no party in the galaxy can resist. This place would have you believe you must trade freedom for safety. I lead the lawless because they believe me. I protect what is mine, because others fear me.”

She had an art for speeches. Almost a thousand years of watching the beaten, broken, and damned wander space looking for purpose and there was nothing new in their desires.

“This chaos may lead to your freedom, but Cerberus is NOT your friend. They would see you starved and drowning in your own filth in your little cages as they go about their petty machinations. But I, Aria T’Loak, will set you free. Make your choices. Join me… or don’t. I won’t force anyone to leave the safety of their four bare walls.”

She cut the transmission. Let them stew on it. Let them feel desperate. By the time she was through the whole station would be under her command.

But first…

“Sederis.”

The ex-commando had a wild, starved look in her eyes and she overplayed the sex appeal as she sauntered to the window. Aria keyed in the code to clear the glass both ways.

“Oh my, well look what the rats dragged in.” Jona bared her teeth in what should have been a smile. No class.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Sederis. You want out, I have the keys. I want Cerberus heads to roll, you have an unhealthy obsession with decapitations.” Aria turned away, emphasizing her disinterest in the outcome. Just a little more pressure, and the Eclipse leader would lose her mind with rage. That was when she was easiest to manipulate.

“After you left me here to rot, I had to take a few things into my own hands. You’re not the only one sitting on a collection of—” she bit her lip seductively with the word, “—favors, hmmm?”

Aria walked.

“You cunt!” Sederis flared with biotic energy as she very predictably lost her temper. “You can’t do this without me, not this time! When I get out of here I will—”

Suddenly, the world went white with light and a cacophony of static drowned out the last of the empty threat. It only lasted a moment before every light and screen winked out. Aria took a chance and lashed out with biotic energy, pulling Sederis toward her. Good play. The barriers were all down, and now every cell was wide open into the blackness.

This. Was not. In the plan.

“Listen to me and listen closely. I’m only going to say this once.” Aria tightened her grip around Sederis’ throat. She reached out with her senses and felt her nervous system, falling in tune with the flickering pulse under her fingers. Couldn’t have her prey slipping into unconsciousness too soon. “I. Don’t. Need. Anyone. You are replaceable, but your loss would inconvenience me. I do not like being inconvenienced.” She loosened the pressure enough to let Sederis gasp a lungful of air. “You play nice, I give you a gun. We take out our anger on the assholes that stranded us both on this bureaucratic hell hole.” Content she had made her point, she let go.

Sederis coughed and sputtered, but she had been cowed. No sloppy sexual quips or blatantly grotesque death threats.

“Good. Now, Follow me. We need to collect my army before the Adjutants kill them all.”

Read more of Aria kicking ass here.

[pagingdoctorbedlam]

Stay (What I Meant To Say) ch.1

Pairing: Rob Lucci x Kaku x Doc Bedlam (OC)

Genre: Modern AU, Meet Cutes and Fake Dating meet Spywork and Cult Escapees. Expect varying levels of fluff, drama, and hurt/comfort.

Chapter Length: approx. 2k words

Chapter Description: Kaku expects another tedious day at his undercover job...but then his unusual new driving student shows up with a connection to his current case. Time to keep cool, gather info on the down-low...and remember the turn signals.

(New fic new fic, yay! This is my first time writing in this genre, so I hope you all enjoy it!)

As far as undercover gigs go, this one isn't so bad. At the very least, working as a driving instructor gives Kaku an excuse to observe all over town at odd hours of the day without raising any suspicions, even if he occasionally has to remind his students to press the correct pedal or to please remember the turn signals. And when his shift is done, he's got plenty of time at night to follow up any leads he'd uncovered during the day, and other than a few rumors about a "small town Batman" roaming about (he'd beat up a criminal one time, c'mon now), no one's really noticed.

Still, Kaku muses to himself as he waits in the parking lot for his newest student, he and Lucci haven't made much progress on their current case. After their last mission went sour and their old boss nearly fired them, they're on thin ice to keep their jobs. And for a government spy (and occasional assassin), there aren't many options for retirement other than the grave. Kaku sure as hell doesn't plan on dying before he's even reached his thirties.

He leans back and takes a deep breath of the chill air. Autumn crept in quick this year, and this tiny town is far colder than the last city he'd been stationed in. Five years of sunny weather only rarely punctuated by storms had eroded his resistance to the cold, and only his pride keeps him from turning on the car early and cranking up the heater. At least the falling leaves are a welcome sight, one he'd missed before coming here.

The local bus stops nearby, and out stumbles a stranger with long hair and tall boots both the same bright red as the falling maple leaves. They amble into the parking lot, glancing between the sparse amount of cars and their phone through thick cats-eye glasses. Kaku watches the stranger a moment; there's a contrast in how they move, a proud posture with head held high but an unsteady gait and eyes that dart about like fish in a recently disturbed pond. The combination makes Kaku curious, and the longer they stick around the lot, the more sure he is that this is his new driving student.

He rolls down the window and leans out, Autumn air brisk against his face. Their eyes meet. He waves. The stranger smiles and jogs over, practically tripping over their own feet in the process.

Kaku says, "Hey there! Bedlam, right? I'm Kaku, your driving instructor today. Pleased as punch to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine. Sorry I'm late, the bus...well, I'd say it was late, but that tends to be the norm. Which is why I'm here and all." Their dark eyes flicker across the car, a hint of nerves settling between the brow.

Kaku slides out of the driver's seat and gestures. When Bedlam doesn't immediately move, he asks, "So, how about we start with your current experience with cars? Ever tried to drive one before? No shame in saying no, I know this town is pretty easy to walk or bus across."

"Mmhmm. I've...never gotten around to driving. Don't know the first thing about cars. But I figured, hey, best to pay a professional who won't judge me and who I won't see every day at work or anything, right?" Bedlam shuffles at this, gaze downcast. Kaku's trying to gauge their age, definitely older than a teenager and maybe a little older than him. A little odd, but again, this is a small town that's easy to traverse. And part of why he took this job was to talk with locals casually and gather information, so he won't complain in the slightest.

"I try not to judge for free, but I appreciate the reasoning. We'll take as much time as you need until you know this car inside and out. Want me to go over all the parts you'll need to know?"

"Yeah. Think I'd like that. Thanks." Bedlam's grin is a lopsided thing, and they move like a newborn fawn as they settle into the car. But they laugh it off as they sit down and settle their hands on the steering wheel, afternoon light catching on the collection of old gilded rings decorating their fingers. They cannot hide a low exhale.

Kaku says in an attempt to ease the tension, "Don't worry, the steering wheel won't bite you. I'd keep my fingers away from the tape deck, though. Always tears through my Sinatra tunes."

That gets Bedlam to laugh, a hint of tension to slip from their shoulders. "And where have you been the past few decades? We've got CDs now. Phones, even."

"And yet, vinyl's back in style, and now I'm the cool cat with my record player."

"Well, if I need to learn how to swing instead of drive, I guess I know who to call. Now, what are all these needles and numbers for...?"

Kaku doesn't realize that he's got a smile stuck to his face—a natural one, the kind that stems from easy humor and someone able to keep pace with his quips—until an hour's passed and his student's finally inching the car around the parking lot. Bedlam taps the gas a little too hard at first and nearly gives them both whiplash, and their eyes briefly widen, an innate "sorry" almost spilling out but bit back last second.

As a spy, curiosity is part of the job. But it's not the place of a driving instructor, especially not on the first lesson with a student simultaneously so bright and nervous, so Kaku just shrugs and says, "Every car's going to be a little different, so you'll have to be careful when you first drive a new car. Some have stiff pedals. Others are spongy. Again, you'll get used to gauging it."

"You'd almost think they were living things, if they're so different and finicky." They try again, and the Camry moves far smoother this time. The sun slips along the sky and rests atop a nearby rooftop as the duo navigates across the lot. To their credit, Bedlam only slips into reverse on accident once, and they narrowly avoid hitting a light pole when parking. Kaku does his best to encourage, even if Bedlam deflects with a tell-timed joke half the time.

The shadows have grown long by the time either of them checks the clock. "Oh shit, next bus isn't for another forty minutes," Bedlam grumbles. "Good thing I brought a book."

"I could give you a ride," Kaku says without thinking. "Show you a bit more about how the car and traffic laws work. How's that sound?"

Way too forward, Kaku thinks as soon as his brain catches up with his mouth. Like he's trying to score a date, which he's definitely not, he's not even looking or interested but Bedlam has no way of knowing that...

"If you're sure it's not too much trouble," Bedlam says with an apologetic wince. "I'm heading to the other end of town. Not that this place is huge, I know, but..."

"It's no skin off my nose, long as you steer me in the right direction. I only moved here a few months ago." The car eases out of the parking lot and onto the road, stopping at a red light while pedestrians cross. Even though Kaku hasn't lived here long, many of the faces are already familiar. It's the sort of place where everyone knows each other. "What about you? You a local?"

"Nah. I'm from Birka."

Kaku briefly misses that the light has turned green.

"Ah, so you know it. Then again, who doesn't nowadays? Let me guess, true crime fan?" Bedlam watches Kaku with cool dark eyes, almost black, until he nods in answer. "Mmmhmm. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Go on and ask. Everyone does. Bit of an open town secret, at this point. Things don't stay hidden long around here. Everyone knows each other's secrets sooner or later in a small town like this, so you may as well hear it from me than someone else."

Kaku stays quiet for a long moment, even though he's screaming inside to know. He's got to play this cool. "I mean, it'd be awful rude to assume that everyone in that town was really part of the Electric Choir, even if that's what all the journalists say. Reality isn't so sensationalist."

Bedlam gives him a funny look in the rearview mirror, eyebrows crinkled together like they're not sure if he's polite or naïve. "It's the reason I didn't learn to drive until now. No one really drove there. Didn't want folk sneaking away or warning the outside world, after all." They lean back in their seat, hands behind their head and eyes on the clouds. "I got kicked out before things got too bad, though. So I wasn't present for...you know."

The Birka Town Massacre. Carried out by the core members of the Electric Choir cult, spearheaded by the enigmatic figure only known as Enel, who's still at large and out of sight. Oh yes, Kaku's heard of the incident. And he's got so, so many questions.

"Are you alright?" No, that's a stupid question Kaku, who would be after that? "I mean—"

"Nah, I get what you mean. Sweet of you to ask." A softer smile replaces the forced neutrality on Bedlam's face. "After I got out, I stayed with family for a few years 'til I could leave my room without a panic attack, at which point they were driving me pretty damn batty. So I moved out here. Fresh start and all. Learning to drive's part of that. But enough about me, yeah? Where'd you wander over from, Kaku?"

"Oh, small fishing town back east, even smaller than here. Two stoplights and a post office, that's all we really had out there. And fish, of course. Mountains of fish."

The lie is easy and practiced. And if someone ever reviews his official records, there's a hint of truth to it. Kaku tells rehearsed stories about a town he doesn't remember, about going fishing with an uncle who doesn't exist or riding in the bed of the family pickup truck when they'd drive to get groceries a few miles over. Bedlam laughs when Kaku mimics throwing a crab back into the ocean. Happens every time he tells that tale. But it gets those lines of worry and memory to ease from his passenger's face, so he doesn't mind this time.

Bedlam doesn't direct him to a house, but near the south edge of town where half the buildings have been closed for years and the others are restaurants of infamous quality, but also the only big box store in town that draws the townsfolk in with its cheap prices. At the end of one such street, nestled between a decrepit diner and a pawn shop, is a garish building painted in pinks and blues and violets, with a bright neon sign declaring this as the "Newkama Club", a neon figure of indeterminate gender winking as part of the logo. Bedlam asks Kaku to park in front.

"And now, I won't be late for my shift. Thanks again." Bedlam opens the door and gets halfway out before pausing to ask, "We still good to meet next week? Didn't scare you off, did I?"

"I don't scare easy," Kaku says. "Meet you again next week. I can meet you here next time, or nearby, so you don't have to worry about the bus?"

"How considerate. Might take you up on that." There's a brief exchange of phone numbers for scheduling future sessions, and then the passenger door shuts. The ex-cultist marches into the town's sole queer bar with head held high like they run the world, nerves bleeding away with each step. Kaku gets the feeling he's seen a side of them that most don't get to witness, nervous and vulnerable while making up for lost time.

The lights of the winking sign dance across the rearview mirror as Kaku drives away. He's done for the evening, so he returns the Camry to the driving school, grabbing the tape he'd left in the tapedeck on the way, and heads home. The Autumn air is brisk against his face as he runs and clambers over obstacles, pent up adrenaline carrying him to the door of his apartment.

"We've got a lead," Kaku says before the door's even shut.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Eight (Zuko x Reader)

Part Seven

Word Count: 3,000

Warning: This chapter gets violent - there are mentions of death and assault. I'll include a recap at the beginning of next week's chapter for those who choose not to read for the sake of their mental wellbeing. No harm done in not reading; I appreciate you taking care of yourself ♥

Author’s Note: .......... yeah idk what happened either. oops there’s actually a plot here lmao

~ Muerta

Your tour of the city the following day is rained out by mid-morning, leaving you cozily stranded at the Jasmine Dragon until the weather decides to clear. Iroh gives you a private room to relax in while you wait, coming by every hour or so with a new menu item for you to sample. Since the weather is quite chilly, he’s converted the table in the room into a kotatsu, which you’re curled up under with Toph leaned comfortably against your shoulder. From where you sit, you have a perfect view of not only the street from the room’s window, but the rest of the tea shop, your gaze shifting between watching passerby avoiding the downpour outside and customers milling about inside, smiling to yourself each time you catch a glimpse of Zuko darting between tables; He insisted on working the rush that day, all of you changing out of your ceremonial robes and into something more low key so as not to attract attention.

Regular customers are happy to see Zuko, greeting him excitedly and asking how his “travels” have been; he nods over to you a few times while speaking, multiple people coming up to meet and congratulate you. Toph smirks at you, teasingly nudging your arm.

“I think you’re more popular as Lee from the tea shop’s wife than you are as Firelady,” she observes. “Not one person who’s come over here has said anything about the royalty sitting next to us.”

Kuei looks up from his reading, shrugging his shoulders as Bosco - whose head rests lazily in the king’s lap - lets out a grumbling yawn.

“I’m not meant to be noticed,” he states. “Besides, I come here all the time; regulars are used to seeing me here.”

“Are they also used to your guards taking up every table within twenty feet of you?” you joke. You’re only half kidding - plainclothes guards are stationed at three tables beside the room’s open door, all tensing up and ready to pounce every time anyone who isn’t Iroh or Zuko approaches.

Kuei grins sheepishly at you, offering another shrug.

“Not all of us are warriors,” he excuses.

“We need to teach you to fight,” Toph comments. “Having a scrawny Earth King is embarrassing.”

Before Kuei can retort, Zuko appears at the threshold, sliding the door shut behind him with urgency. Kuei stands immediately, instantly alert.

“The Dai Li were just spotted in the refugee district,” Zuko announces. “A customer told me they're staging some kind of protest.”

“Does it really count as a protest if they're facists?” Toph mutters. “Seems like the kind of thing they'd be opposed to.”

“A protest against what?” Kuei asks. “They don't typically operate so boldly.”

“I don't know,” Zuko answers, “but we should go there and stop it. They're too powerful for the regular guard to subdue.”

He turns to you, eyeing you sternly.

“Stay here,” he orders. “Toph and I will handle this.”

“Oh, the hell you will,” you quip, standing so abruptly that Toph tumbles over. “I've already told enough imperialist assholes that I don't answer to you - you shouldn't have to be one of them.”

Zuko shakes his head, ignoring your harsh comment.

“Darling, please, I'm not trying to boss you around,” he explains. “The Dai Li are dangerous and I want to keep you safe.”

“I'm not even safe in my own home, Zuko,” you counter. “We’re a team - we face danger together.”

You cross your arms, challenging Zuko with a determined, defiant glare. He sighs frustratedly, furrowing his brow but eventually giving in.

“Alright fine,” he caves. “We don't have time to argue. Let's go.”

You leave the Jasmine Dragon through a hidden panel in one of the private room’s walls, installed for just such occasions when Kuei needs to make a hasty exit; his guards are already assembled on the street, perched on ostrich horses with two steeds empty for the Firelord and king.

As Kuei mounts, you help Toph onto the back of his saddle, where she takes hold of your forearm and pulls you close so she can whisper in your ear.

“Did Sparky call you ‘darling' just now?” she marvels.

You blush, realizing that yes, he most definitely did.

“I think so,” you mumble in response.

Zuko calls for you and you part from her, noting the smirk that spreads across her features. You climb into the saddle behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist as he digs a heel into the ostrich horse’s side, sending you speeding through the streets of Ba Sing Se; you hardly feel the rain biting at your cheeks and hands against the firmness of his back.

The refugee district scatters in chaos, people scampering like ants separated from their colony as they attempt to flee the terror the Dai Li have inflicted.

Agents prowl up and down the streets, raiding homes and businesses seemingly at random and interrogating their owners, many of them beaten or bound in stone cuffs. You ride past an agent looming over a man and his young children, his hand raised to strike; as you pass, you pull Zuko’s sheathed katana from its slot in the saddle, holding it out so it hits the agent in the throat and topples him, incapacitated; the man wails, tears streaming down his face as he lifts his children and carries them away from the scene.

You arrive at the source of the bedlam, where the heads of the Dai Li have gathered in a market square and bark out commands, taking prisoners and making displays of their battered, comatose bodies. Zuko reins the ostrich horse to a halt, leaping off before fully coming to a stop and removing his dual swords from the horse’s pack, strapping them onto his back. He hands you the reins, roughly taking your hands in his and leaning in close to you, shouting over the din.

“Can you ride?”

You nod as you settle yourself into the center of the saddle, squeezing his hands tightly.

“Go with Kuei and take out as many Dai Li as you can for the guard to arrest,” he tells you. “Toph and I will go for their leaders.”

He places both of his palms on either side of your face, bringing your head down so he can press his lips firmly against your forehead.

“Be careful,” he says in parting.

You kick into the ostrich horse’s side, turning back the direction you came and following Kuei through the streets, Zuko’s katana strapped at your hip.

Despite Toph’s teasing, Kuei is actually a skilled rider; though weaponless, he maneuvers his steed with ease, steering headlong into members of the Dai Li and trampling them, the beast lashing its long, razorlike talons until they fall unconscious. You ride close behind, sweeping the surrounding area whenever he overtakes a target and stunning anyone who tries to interfere, driving the edge of Zuko’s katana into their stomach or back; the only time you unsheath the blade is when you come upon an agent with a young girl pinned beneath him, her dress hiked above her hips and his body far too close to hers for your liking.

The image sends rage coursing like fire through your veins, and you remove the katana from its casing, riding up swiftly behind the man and drawing the blade across his neck, slitting his throat before he has a chance to react; his blood splatters across your legs and the face of the girl he attacked, causing her to shriek and crumple into tears. You reach down and lift her into the saddle behind you, riding her to the nearest area of relative safety you can find before returning to Kuei’s side.

“Is there anyone else?” you ask, looking around. Things seem to have calmed, the guard already arriving to take their prisoners and the citizens of the district starting to collect themselves, those not harrowed by shock either coming to the aid of their neighbors or starting to tidy the buildings that were raided.

Kuei shakes his head, panting heavily as he attempts to catch his breath.

“I passed the head of the guard a moment ago,” he tells you. “She said they have most of the situation under control - they're having trouble getting the leaders to surrender.”

“Let's go back,” you suggest. “We might be able to help.”

Kuei nods, trailing beside you as you gallop back to the market square, stumbling into a standoff between the Dai Li and the guard, Zuko and Toph in the middle of the fray - they have the leaders cornered, Toph having bent the earth around a few of them and Zuko with a flame ready in hand, one of his swords in the other. The scene is still but tense, and you sit with Zuko’s katana drawn.

“It’s your choice,” Zuko booms, approaching one of the captured Dai Li with predatory grace. “Either you come peacefully, or your entire troop will be killed.”

The bound man gives Zuko a wicked smirk, rolling his head to the side.

“Wouldn’t your father be proud,” he drones deeply. “His disgraced son, meddling where he doesn’t belong and threatening death when he can’t get his way - just like daddy. Even after you defeated him, you’re still seeking his approval, aren’t you Firelord Zuko?”

The man grunts as Toph’s fist closes, the rock around him compressing his chest.

“Watch it,” she snaps. “Zuko might be above squashing a slimy little roach like you, but I’m not - and he’s not the one who has you in a vice right now.”

“The Firelord is merely following Earth Kingdom law,” Kuei interjects. He rides into the center of the circle the guards and seized Dai Li have formed. “Dai Li have been considered highly dangerous by my guard since a child was found murdered in the catacombs under Lake Laogai preceding the end of the war; any members who resist arrest are sentenced to death once taken into custody. It’s your choice - be found responsible for the death of your men, or let them face fair trial.”

You don’t hear the man answer. One of the apprehended Dai Li nearby takes hold of the knife from the belt strap of the guard who holds him, stabbing her in the stomach to free himself; he makes a beeline for you, shoving his shoulder into your ostrich horse’s side and knocking you out of the saddle, sending you to the ground at his feet.

The Dai Li grips you by the hair, hoisting you up by the scalp and pressing his arm forcefully into your chest - the knife, still wet with blood, digs into your neck, so rigidly you feel a sting as its blade slices through the top layer of your skin. Zuko, who’d rushed forward the instant the man lashed out, pauses, his stature braced and eyes wide with terror. The Dai Li chuckles evilly, running a blood-soaked hand through your hair.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you Zuzu?” he mocks. “Let’s see if your no-killing rule applies when your pretty little plaything is up for grabs.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Zuko snarls. “You already face a death sentence just for touching her.”

“Then I might as well go out with a bang,” the Dai Li hisses.

You feel your skin start to split as the knife cuts deeper, and you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for your lungs to fill with blood.

Before the worst can come, a metallic snap cuts through the strained silence, the arm flattened to your chest going slack as the man it belongs to slumps into a heap beside you.

You fall to your knees, limbs quivering as a quiet, heaving sob escapes your chest. Zuko sprints to your side, scooping you into his arms and immediately taking you away, carrying you into the back of one of the guard’s wagons and ordering to return to the palace.

“Kill them all,” you hear Kuei gravely command as the cart rolls away. “None of them can be trusted in trial.”

You don’t realize it until you arrive at the infirmary, but you’re soaked. Healers strip you of your wet clothes and assess you for injuries, finding only a small laceration on your neck from where the Dai Li threatened you. They clean the wound thoroughly, draping you in a large blanket and serving you sweet, calming tea, keeping you there for a few hours before allowing you to return to your suite.

Rain streaks down the sitting room window in sheets as you ghost through the threshold, thanking the healer who escorted you in a whisper as she assuringly touches your shoulder, then shuts the door behind you.

Zuko stands from his place by the pane when he hears your voice, swallowing heavily as he watches you enter.

“What happened?” you rasp, blinking drearily.

Zuko approaches you slowly, gingerly lowering you into the nearest chair.

“Toph snapped the knife and shot the tip through the Dai Li’s forehead,” Zuko recounts. His voice is dark, roughened with gravel. “They’re all dead. There are more still out there, but their numbers are significantly less after today.”

You nod, your gaze directed away from him, eyes unfocused as you stare into nothing.

“The guard who was stabbed is okay,” Zuko continues, taking one of your hands and clasping it between his own. “She apologizes for letting her duties slip.”

You shake your head, pressing your eyes tightly closed as you try to force the image of the day’s events from your mind.

“She has no need to apologize,” you murmur. “I’m okay; she’s the one who got hurt.”

Zuko sighs softly, reaching up to rest his hand on your cheek.

“This is why I wanted you to stay with Iroh,” he chides. “You’re not trained to defend yourself. It’s too dangerous for you to go everywhere with me.”

You pull your face away from him. From the corner of your eye, you shoot him a glare.

“Don’t scold me,” you mutter. “I defended myself well enough.”

Zuko retracts his hand, leaning away as if you struck him. He lets out a frustrated huff.

“Seriously?” he quips. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“And so you could you,” you retort. “I’ve had a price on my head ever since I came to the Fire Nation; I don’t think I have to remind you that a man was murdered for the sake of making a threat towards us. Everyone’s after both of us, so we might as well stick together.”

“No,” Zuko snaps. “I won’t allow that. You’re my responsibility and I have to keep you safe.”

You jump to your feet, glowering down at him. He stands in return, taking a step back as your eyes meet his in a heated stare.

“You won’t allow that?” you challenge him. “What the fuck happened to treating me like an equal? You said in your damned wedding vows that you wanted to give me freedom. Did that only mean when it was convenient for you? You only want me as an ally when it looks good? Need I remind you that you were perfectly willing to let me ride out into battle when I was doing so under your command? You know that I’m capable of standing up for myself - I don’t need you playing savior whenever you think I can’t.”

“I’m not trying so suppress you,” Zuko counters. “I’m trying to make sure that the people who want us dead don’t actually achieve it. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you because you were following me. You need protection.”

“Zuko, I killed a man today.”

You make the statement plainly, in a deadpan, looking him directly in the eye. He pales, his face going completely ashen.

“What?”

“I killed someone today,” you repeat in a hiss. “Before today I’d never even held a weapon, let alone used one on another person; that didn’t stop me cutting a Dai Li’s neck open because he tried to rape a teenage girl in the street. I feel like a monster, Zuko, but don’t you dare tell me I need protection - what I need is your help. I don’t need a knight in shining armor. I need my husband.”

Zuko’s expression falls, your brows still arched together as you realize you’ve been shouting. You take a deep, shaky breath, crossing your arms and clutching the sleeves of your robe.

Zuko crosses the room to you, resting one of his hands behind your head; his other arm curls around your waist, pulling you in and pressing you flush against his chest.

You didn’t notice before, but your whole body is trembling, tears starting to pour down the sides of your face. You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko breathes. “You’re right. We need to stick together. I just… I hate the idea of losing you. I… care… I care so much about you…”

You bury your face in his shoulder, your fingers knitting themselves into the fabric of his robe; the shock of the day finally hits you, and you feel as if you’ll crumble in his arms.

“I know,” you whimper. “I care about you, too.”

Zuko lifts you into his arms, cradling you like a child as he carries you into the bedroom. He lays down beside you, and for a while that could be minutes as much as it could be hours, he holds you, rocking you gently and rubbing your back as your body heaves with sobs, tears soaking your face the way the rain beats against the walls of your room. When you’re finally calm, he leaves only as long as it takes you to change into your night clothes, returning once you’re dressed and taking you into his arms again, comforting you as the sound of thunder trembles somewhere in the distance.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, clutching him tightly through the night. You dream of nothing, and for that, you’re thankful.

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[monmuses]

10. Is there a crossover you just can’t resist?

15. Which muse is the most chill to write?

- for multi muse question

Multi-Muse questions

We should really give those fabulous muse collectors some special attention more often. Be it a gathering of muses on one blog or spread across the oceans of tumblr bedlam. Send one of the following for the mun to answer.

// *i love any sort of like.. videogame crossover. one that i’m really familiar with. anything with tf2, l4d2, borderlands, resident evil, red dead redemption, any shooter game with really good story. any game mentioned, ive probably played it or watched gameplay! hit me with those videogame crossovers, i will LOVE them

// *most chill muse? ill have to think on that one...

// *Pelkha is pretty chill! shes my egyptian cat muse, daughter of Bastet but she’s very chill w/ anyone she meets. she talks to u like ur a best friend of hers. i love writing her bc how she talks to people is how i generally talk to those im friends with

[moonstruckbucky]

Come Over (5/7)

Summary: You’re new to New York City. Fresh out of post-grad and wanting a change of pace, and this change comes in more ways than one.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader. Neighbor AU.

Warnings for Chapter: There’s some fluff and a quick look into Bucky’s head.

Notes: We’re getting into the thick of it here, folks. There’s only two more parts after this and I can’t even believe it. Feedback is always appreciated! Enjoy x

P.S. - I almost forgot the goddamn Read More again.

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist 

The rest of October passes by in a chilly blur and in surprising quiet. It’s because, you learn, that Sharon is away again for work. You can’t help but notice the change in Bucky; he smiles more, doesn’t appear to walk on eggshells with anything, and you’re back to your regular coffee dates. You know it should set off alarm bells in your head that he’s so closed off when she’s around, but then you realize Bucky probably doesn’t have a lot of friends due to Sharon’s obvious insecurities and probable control issues. So you ignore it, allow yourself to feel bad that the only time Bucky can be himself is when she’s away.

The tension from the month before is gone, and so you choose not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bucky’s apologized again and again for obviously upsetting you by being loud, and you find no choice but to accept each one when he looks at you with those goddamn eyes.

It’s during one of your weekend coffee dates that Bucky opens up a little bit more. About himself, his relationship, how Sharon went from being an amazing woman when they first started dating to now, where he barely recognizes her most days. 

“Her jealousy is out of control,” he sighs, shaking his head. He looks off to the window in your kitchen, lost in his head as if he’s trying to pinpoint the exact moment his relationship took a nosedive. Unthinking, you reach across the table and lay your hand on his and his eyes snap to first you and then your joined hands.

“Have you talked to her? See if you can find out why she’s started being like this? There has to be a reason…”

You can see the minute Bucky gets defensive; his jaw locks and he sits up, yanks his hand out from under yours. “I haven’t cheated, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t insinuating anything, Bucky. I was just asking. Sometimes these kinds of issues are deep-seated and stay dormant for a while before coming out. When did you start noticing her jealousy spiking?”

He blows out a breath and shakes his head, his long hair hanging in his face. You have to clench your fist to resist reaching out and brushing it aside. Bucky leans forward on your small table, chin resting on his hands as he thinks. His eyes light up in realization and he seems almost bashful now. Your curiosity piques.

“A-About the time you moved in,” he admits quietly, and then hurries to add, “I-I-I mean, there were other, smaller instances, I guess. But it was just, you know, her arm around my waist or some sudden PDA. Nothing huge. But, god don’t take this the wrong way, but when I told her you’d moved in, it’s like some kind of flip was switched. We ended up fighting about it.”

“I...I heard,” you mutter, twirling your coffee mug. Bucky looks horrified and you hurry to placate him. “I couldn’t hear specifics. Just...just your raised voice, that’s all.”

Groaning, he slides a hand down his face. “Some neighbor I am, huh?”

You smile sadly and shake your head. “Bucky, you’re a great neighbor. People argue. It’s fine.”

He meets your eyes, gratitude shimmering within the blue depths, and his gaze holds you there. Heart beating erratically in your chest, you realize this is a moment. It’s magnetic, the pull between you, and it takes an exorbitant amount of effort to break the stare and shatter the tension. Bucky shifts in his seat and focuses on his coffee cup.

“More coffee?” you ask because you need to fill the silence with something. At his nod, you scoot back from the table and refill both mugs. Take your seat and try to bring back some lightness to the room. “So Thanksgiving is coming up. You and Sharon have any fun plans?”

He scoffs bitterly as he stirs his coffee. Body rigid and an eye roll barely suppressed. “She’s away for work so, I’m on my own.”

“For Thanksgiving? That’s unacceptable. You should come spend it with my family. Clint will be there, and maybe Sam. I’m sure they’d love to have you.”

The invitation is out before you can really think too much on it. It feels natural, asking him to join you. Feels too natural if you let yourself think on it, but you don’t. It’s out there between you and you watch Bucky for his reaction.

He’s surprised. But he wants to say yes, you can see it on his face, but he shakes his head. “I couldn’t intrude on your family like that.”

It saddens your heart to think Bucky would be intruding. For people who aren’t really that close, you’ve shared a lot of personal baggage between you, and the thought of Bucky spending a holiday meant to be spent with family alone hardens your resolve. You won’t accept ‘no’, can’t. Not when Sharon doesn’t seem to care about being home with him.

“You won’t be.” You’re sure of this. Clint loves Bucky, and you’re damn sure the rest of your family will too. “You’re coming with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Got it?”

Bucky thinks better of arguing with you. Sighs and nods his head like an obedient child but with a quick smile that says he’s grateful for the invitation. The two of you settle back into your chairs, the air between you both light but with a lurking tension that bubbles just beneath the surface.

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving are hectic, manic, whatever word that describes ultimate bedlam you prefer. Stark Industries is closing on a new deal to allow for human trials of a new “super-suit” Tony has dubbed it, and it’s crucial that all ducks are in their designated rows to minimize liability risks. It’s a tornado of paperwork, phone calls with lawyers and insurance companies, emails back and forth with the physicists assigned to the project.

It’s a mess, and it leaves you haggard, exhausted, and more than a little cranky. You’ve accidentally snapped at Wanda more times than you can count, and if you hadn’t been paying attention, Tony might’ve been at the end of one of your fits as well. Fortunately, you’d just managed to catch yourself after he’d reminded you—again—about the write-up due to the project managers before the holiday.

It’s late the Tuesday before the holiday when you return home—nearly eight o’clock, and you’re about ready to collapse. You feel drunk on exhaustion as you stagger down the hall barefoot, your stupid heels hanging over your index finger. Eyelids heavy, like two lead weights are weighing them down, you stifle a yawn in your elbow. One of your heels goes clattering to the floor.

“Fuck,” you hiss, groaning long and loud as you bend over to retrieve it and your back protests the movement. You don’t realize you’re in front of Bucky’s door until it opens, and your neighbor, in all his pajama-clad muscled glory, frowns down at you.

“Y/N? What the hell happened to you?”

You sigh and close your eyes, lean your head against your knee. “Thanks, Buck. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He rolls his eyes before stooping to wrap a hand around your arm. Gently he helps you to your feet, and you can’t help it when you stagger just slightly into his body.

“Whoa, easy there,” he coos, steadying you. His body is unnaturally warm where it presses up against yours and for a second, you let yourself bask in the heat. A moth to a flame. Wings scorched, but you’ll gladly burn.

“Sorry,” you sigh after a few moments, shaking your head, “it’s been a busy past couple of weeks and I’m about ready to collapse.”

“C’mon, gimme your keys. Let’s get you inside.”

He slides your keychain from your hand, opens your door, leads you in. You whine at the sight of your couch, but before you can faceplant into the cushions, Bucky’s steering you away.

“B-But,” you stutter on a whine, reaching out dramatically, childishly, for the piece of furniture.

“Mm, nuh-uh. First, comfy clothes. Then I’m making you something to eat. And then you’re going to bed.”

“Bucky.” You’re still whining, but you’re far too tired to care. Bucky sits you down on your bed, lunges forward when you tip backward in an attempt to climb under your duvet. He keeps you upright, and you pout. “Bucky.”

“Patience. Which drawer is your pajama drawer?” He sighs when he glances over his shoulder, sees you curling up in your blankets in your work attire. Averts his eyes when your skirt rides halfway up your thighs.

“Third from the top,” is your sleepy, mumbled reply paired with a half-assed lift of your arm. The drawer slides open then shut, and you grunt as fabric hits you in the face.

“Get changed and meet me in the kitchen.”

“You’re awful bossy,” you snark as you sit up, but he’s gone, and you can already hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When you’re finished, you step out of your room to see Bucky bent over the stove with a box of pasta in his hand. He dumps the entire contents of the box into the pot, stirs, and then glances up when you appear in his line of vision. He smiles softly. 

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” you sigh as you sit at the island, dig your hands into your eyes as if to ward off said exhaustion. “We’re ready to move onto trials with one of the suits and Tony’s been running me ragged but fortunately he gave me tomorrow off because of the holiday Thursday so…”

“Good. You should rest a lot tomorrow.”

“You’re still coming Thursday, right?” you ask tentatively. You’re trying not to come across too eager, but Bucky’s sly little grin tells you you kind of failed.

“Of course. It’s definitely better than spending it alone.” There’s a bitter undertone in his voice, but he’s moving on before you can press on it.

You eat in the living room; Bucky throws on some true crime documentary that only holds your attention for about ten minutes. Between the comfy clothes, the blanket you’re under, and the warmth of the food in your belly, you’re out like a light, head cocked uncomfortably against the arm of the couch.

Bucky glances over, does a double take and smiles softly. Mouth open, eyelids fluttering. It shouldn’t make his heart race, yet he thinks it might give out with how fast it’s beating, how his chest vibrates with its beat. He gently grabs the nearly-empty bowl from your limp fingers, which curl up and into the blanket, tucking it under your chin as you roll over and shove your face into the back cushion of your couch.

It’s endearing, despite the deep circles Bucky can see even in the dimmed lighting in the room. Setting both bowls on the coffee table, he wipes his hands on his sweatpants; he’s nervous, has never been this close, much less in such a vulnerable situation. Your warm against him as he scoops you up; his conscience would never let him rest if he’d left you to sleep on the couch. He feels his heartbeat stutter when you curl into him like you’d curled into your blanket, nose buried against his chest. He hopes the rapid thudthudthud of his heart doesn’t wake you, prays you stay oblivious to the way you’re making him feel. Your nightshirt slides up and his fingers touch your bare skin. It’s like setting fire to flint—a spark, and then all-consuming flame as it slithers and writhes up his arm and into his belly, his chest. He knows his cheeks are a thousand shades of red; he’s never had such a visceral reaction to touch before, even when he’d met Sharon and still knew who she was. 

He side-steps into your room, avoids bonking your head or your dangling feet against the frame. Blankets pulled back, your soft and pliant body laid underneath. A soft sigh that slides between your parted lips, a content smile as you roll onto your belly, tug your second pillow to your chest, a visible deflate. Bucky’s immobile, feet planted so firmly into your floor he wonders if he’d grown roots there. He knows he should leave, knows he’s a creep for remaining unmoving, but he can’t look away from you.

Your eyelids still flutter, your mind lost in some dream that he’s yearning to hear about. How did he fall so deeply?

Like dragging lead through water, he begins to walk from your room, freezes when your lips mumble out something that sounds oddly like Bucky. He swallows around the lump in his throat, the rising guilt in his belly that burns like acid. He leaves the door open a crack, cleans your empty bowls, and leaves because he can’t bare the gnawing in his gut, the want, the longing, the absolute need for you to destroy him.

Chapter Six

[ishkah]

Early Beginnings...

My 22 year old self spinning 15 year old diary entries into something or other…

One of my earliest memories is sitting by a river bend after school just sitting and thinking, being, remembering family togetherness building dams on the river, playing poo sticks. I wanted that deeply, I was aware I couldn’t be seen directly, playing with the other kids, but I also liked the idea that the adults would have to take time and think to know where I was.

With this came an identity, I heard a pride in my mum’s voice when she told the other mums where she found me, a deep nature boy that one.

I knew she would because whenever there was bedlam at home I would always take myself off outside. I knew how important it was that I didn’t see her cry because I saw it once, or get upset or argue but more than anything, she didn’t want me involved in the drama; to become something I didn’t understand.

My brother was a resistance fighter, in the trenches telling both parents what they were doing wrong, living the trauma, with two sunburn creased lines between his eyebrows to prove it.

I was a dreamer I liked this new state of being, I distrusted and held onto my words because I saw them used by other people like daggers or simply to pull on heartstrings. I must have thought a lot about how words are only used to hurt each other and get one over each other because by the time I was in secondary school I’d been given another personality story to hold onto.

I was like my great granddad I told people, he was a quite honorable man, would say hardly a word, but he always knew when something was at odds, so when he did speak his words had a profound impact on people. I became the listener and solver.

I thought about how small I was in this incomprehensible beautiful universe that I read in stories, I didn’t try much to understand it just admire it. I wanted to mimic its uniqueness, I wanted to be compassionate. I probably started labelling a lot of things, good and bad, normal and extraordinary. I went vegan with this people gave me the identity pacifist.

It wasn’t till the army came to school that I had a chance to practice what I’d learnt. Reading back over my diary at the time I felt a huge responsibility to my friends that they wouldn’t go off and get killed for no good reason. I’ve tried to stay as real to the 15 year old kid who’s newly forming ideas were shaped through the experience of what follows.

I spread my ideas militantly, if they were going to advertise the killing of innocents in my school, me and my young cronies were going to disrupt it. I wrote up a petition, confronted every kid in school with this reality. I made a ruckus because I was doing something radical that had never been tried before in the school’s history.

I must have got three quarters of the whole school to sign my little clipboard chart, not least because of the rumours that were spread, some of the kids straight out of primary learning about conscription in history class cued up to sign it, expressing a tangible fear.

My betrayal came suddenly, the teacher who invited the army to school flipped out at me, saying I was trying to limit other student’s access to knowledge about the army. I walked away furious, even more committed to stopping them, I schemed with friends how we could lock doors and sit on stage. I thought how an institution committed to educating, expanding minds could let someone go off and kill others halfway across the world.

I stubbornly asked all the head of staff each day when the army would be coming to school, all of them told me it hadn’t been scheduled but they’d tell me when they knew, not for a while…

When I walked into the school the next day to find everyone at assembly with teachers keeping a close eye on their forms in rows, I was pissed. I walked in from one side of the hall and surveyed the scene with contemptuous hilarity, down the hall, past the class sitting quietly transfixed on me, ignoring my form teacher’s calls to come sit down, and out the other end.

I sat outside with 4 girls fuming, a teacher came round to ask us back in, I glared back but 3 of us slinked back in. So this was the great resistance effort the 2 of us crumpled down to the floor.

We started talking about how depressing it all was, how powerless the teachers had made everyone feel, people had been scratching their name off the petition for fear of getting punished. We hated everything that was in that room and we threw in a few choice words of our conversation into the hall.

BULLSHIT!

The teachers guarding the doors peered through the curtains at us, they were afraid of us! Aha so they should be! Our beings and ideas were powerful!

The talk ended, the army officer came out and I felt an anger welling up in me, but I had nothing to say to him, the head of department came next, I had a maths lesson with him next but he’d lied to me only yesterday, I had no interest in hearing what he had to teach me. He encouraged me to move, saying it’s finished now, I laughed a laugh that came from the pit of my being, it was just the opposite of how I was feeling, a dramatic change in my being, nothing had come and gone, only feelings inside of me had grown a 1000 fold.

He threatened me with truancy, I learned the best way to get on an adult’s nerves was never to rise to them, never give them any ammunition. I just looked at him. None of the politics needed words, we weren’t going to get one over on each other, we were simply diametrically opposed and I wished the opposite of wanting to be understood by him by engaging him in conversation. I just watched him walk away.

The rest of the day I sat exactly where I was and made paper cranes for peace and talked to anyone and everyone. I was committed to public resistance. Resistance is emotional, beautiful even and I’d crossed a treasonous line with characteristic style. Action would from now and forever be how I wrote my story.

The next few weeks I was in and out of full-time detention where I wasn’t even allowed to go to class, I had to be watched carefully to curb my disruptive ways.

I raged against the teachers that had lied to me, but when I was in detention I got my first whiff of privilege, the kids I was in with admired my rage but with a sense of novelty.

I thought they’d understand more than anyone why I was fighting them, but they didn’t, they believed in the system more than anyone, they just got angry sometimes and needed to lash out and so were seen as unpredictable.

For most of them a care worker or teacher were the only people that would believe in them, show them the rails. I knew where the rails were but I wanted to derail them and set a new course.

But I began to hate the idea that I could afford to step off and be an example only to later intelligently articulate a political reason to excuse myself.

Even more entitled than that I had a co-conspirator mother who used her knowledge of childcare regulations to stop me from being expelled and afford me an easier sentence than my new friends who earned their detention by setting off alarms by setting fire to bits of paper and smoking in toilets

I came out of school feeling a strong sense of purpose, that words weren’t necessary in finding my-self, which validated my search for a spiritual interconnectedness based on compassion. Also the people telling you what you should or shouldn’t do can be the worst amoral shits on the planet.

I grew up as an outsider, the scouser transplanted into a tiny village in a valley in Wales. This moment was the activation of an identity I only knew through the biker friends of my mum and the stories they would tell together that I looked up to. An identity known only to myself that no one could take away from me, and I felt my internal world growing stronger, I felt a sense of purpose, the more active I felt fighting oppression, the more alive I felt. Now I have the privilege of being able to jump into so many struggles without getting burnt out or losing face.

My only limits are when I am being asked to conform to a situation I don’t agree with, in this way I need to stay spontaneous, my inner strength comes from the efficiency by which I can throw myself into a struggle and make gains, I am learning now to transform that into a circular routine of building my bases.

My outer self is a culmination of novelty stories of struggling through hardship and pushing through in pursuit of truth and finding pockets of hope. I need people around me to be open, allow me to tell my story slowly and not restrict my image to something that suits them.

When I’m on the road I’m still that little kid who disassociates, but the game of living with strangers allows me to feel creative. I feel like I need to make connections more strongly; because mutual aid is so important, the entire journey is dependent on other people. When I look at my life I see the journey, my life is about the means by which we make change not the end.

[rather-impertinent]

A Decade of You

A/N: we are all going to ignore the fuck out of how I have used both book and tv show canon in this fic,okay? Great! Enjoy friends xo

~~~~~~~~~~

Caroline Enys sat down on the edge of her bed and kicked off her shoes, which thudded against the floor with a sad sense of finality. The night was over. Her marriage was over. Nothing could be clearer. 

Today was All Hallows Day 1805 - Dwight and Caroline Enys had now been married for ten years, a fact which Dwight had forgotten. 

He had been distant these past few weeks: he had not touched her, he rose at the earliest opportunity and came home at the latest. He told her nothing of what he was doing, where he was going; two words beyond ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ had scarcely passed between them all week. 

So, Dr Enys had finally grown tired of heiress Caroline. She had dulled him into silence with her frivolity and empty-headedness and so he sought more sensible company and conversation elsewhere, wherever that may be. 

Clearly, it was within the proximity of the pretty young woman he had spent most of the evening engaged in conversation with! He had sat beside this woman at dinner and the two of them had been whispering about something or other - sweet nothings, no doubt! - and would occasionally burst into quiet fits of laughter. All the while Caroline was stuck beside Lord Sloane, who smelled to high heaven and who never once said anything interesting, not even by accident. 

The carriage ride home from Trelander House had been silent, uneasily so. Caroline’s silence was anger and Dwight’s was seemingly disinterest - in her, in the evening, in their wedding anniversary! He spoke only to tiredly ask why Caroline had worn her hair that way, to which Caroline replied it was the latest fashion; Dwight then informed her her usual way of styling her hair suited her better. The nerve of the man! 

Dr Enys had practically ran to his study as soon as they set foot over the threshold of their home, Bone scrappily catching his coat and tricorn as the doctor zoomed passed him. 

Affronted by his treatment of her all day and evening, Caroline had immediately climbed the stairs to their bedroom to sulk in uncharacteristic self-pity, which is where she now found herself. Years of strained conversation and pained one-sided affection now lay before her. “At least I still have Sophie and Meliora,” Caroline thought dully as she pulled pins out of her hair and carelessly dropped them on the bed around her, “If they would stay here, that is, and not follow their father wherever he was planning on going.” She let out a tired sigh and stood up in search of her hairbrush. 

What on Earth was that noise? It sounded like heavy footsteps, a leaping of sorts... perhaps up the stairs? Dwight had done so on several occasions in his younger days, but now in his forties, he had elected to retire from the act of bounding up the stairs two- or three steps at a time. It couldn’t be Dwight... it was!

He burst into the room, dropped a box onto the soft mattress, put his arms around Caroline’s waist and lifted her from her feet, laughing as he spun them both around like a crazy school-boy. He set her down in front of the bed, the candlelight glowing on her face, and kissed her as though for the first time in years. 

Once they broke, Caroline stared at him in bewilderment and Dwight exclaimed: “I was right! Caroline, I was right! Mrs Hoskings is alright, she will not be subjected to bedlam!” 

Caroline merely blinked at him. “Mrs Hosk- who? Bedlam? Dr Enys, the only person headed for bedlam is you. Have you taken leave of your senses? What in God’s name are you rambling about?” 

Dwight barked a laugh. “Mrs Hoskings,” he repeated, as though the woman were an aunt or such like; Caroline continued to stare at him blankly. “Surely, I told you? Hmm perhaps not, it has been a sore subject these past few weeks. I - shall we say - rescued her from the ‘care’ of Dr Behenna. She was struck with a powerful case of melancholy - fatalism, even - it happens sometimes in old age,” Dwight went on to explain. “Behenna thought her presence in Sawle a danger to us all - as though fatalism in oneself is akin to the murdering of others! - and sought to have her committed.” Caroline frowned slightly at this. “I argued that what the woman needed was patience, companionship and kindness. So Behenna and I came to an uneasy agreement that if I could not cure her within eight weeks then she would be sent to bedlam.” Dr Enys exhaled breathlessly before continuing, “Her son, Johnny, used to work in Ross’ mine about 17 years ago, he lives in Yorkshire now and - I discovered - is quite unreachable. But her granddaughter, Verity, lives in Plymouth. So, I wrote to her and asked her if she could spare some time to return home for a month or two and keep her grandmother company, as I have been doing most days whenever I am able; she is a kindly old woman, you’d like her, Caroline.” So that’s where he’s been! “Well, the familiar company and conversation has done wonders for her health! Just now I found a letter in my study from Behenna informing me he shall not be recommending that she be committed. Indeed, he was quite astonished to find her in the peak of health! My love, I feel like I’ve shed 10 years! I shall sleep soundly for the first time in months!” 

Caroline did not know whether to hit him for not unburdening his worries, laugh at him or kiss him, and so she did all three, in that order. “I suppose that is why you forgot our wedding anniversary?” she then taunted as she pulled back from the kiss, her arms hanging limply around his neck. 

Dwight shook his head and held up an index finger. “Ah, I did not forget,” he insisted, releasing her long enough to pounce on the box he had dropped on the mattress; he handed it to Caroline. “Open it, see how you like it.” Dwight chewed his lip anxiously. “I hope it is fashionable enough,” he scratched the back of his head in uncertainty, “If not, perhaps we could give it to Demelza for Christmas, I know that she would like the colours.” 

While Dr Enys was busy babbling, Caroline opened the velvet box to reveal a beautiful light gold necklace, covered in jewels of aquamarine and diamonds. She felt her breath leave her body. “Dwight, I...” 

“Do you not like it?” he fretted, his lips tipping into a disappointed frown, “As I said Demelza would likely-“ 

“Demelza shall not be within an inch of my necklace,” Caroline announced. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, lightly running her fingers over the jewels, a wide grin on her face. They were her favourite shade of blue, a fact which Dwight had obviously remembered or simply observed. “I love it! Thank you.” To her horror, she felt her eyes prick with foolish, sentimental tears; she blinked them away. 

“Oh, thank God!” Dwight breathed, his body deflating with relief. “It took an age to find such a necklace, too. I stole a glance at one of your magazines and saw that they were the latest indulgence.” He blushed lightly to confess it, but Caroline was impressed by his initiative. “Do you know that there are no aquamarine jewels to be found anywhere between London and Cornwall? Not even in Bath or Bristol! I had to send to Edinburgh for it. That’s why it took an age to arrive - six weeks ago I sent word for it! I felt so ashamed this morning when I hadn’t a thing to give you so I didn’t mention the day, truly I prayed over my porridge that you had forgotten...” 

Just as Caroline was about to open her mouth to insist she had not, and that she, too, had bought him a gift for the occasion, Dwight motioned to the necklace and gently wondered: “Why do you not try it on?” 

“I shall require some assistance, Dr Enys,” Caroline hinted coyly, simply wishing to feel his touch. 

“Gladly,” Dwight flirted in return, moving to stand behind her. 

Caroline delicately lifted the necklace from its velvet cushion and held either the fastenings as she brought them up to her jawline. 

Purposefully, Dwight slowly gathered and then brushed her loosened curls over her right shoulder before taking the necklace from his wife. 

Caroline shivered as she felt Dwight’s breath against the nape of her neck. The jewels were cool against her skin, as was the gold clasp as it snapped securely in place. 

The gold glistened in the candlelight, beckoning Dwight’s lips to its shine. Unable to resist the temptation, Dwight leaned forward and watched as goosebumps formed on the back of Caroline’s neck; he swiftly withdrew, however, not wishing to start something he was much too exhausted to finish at present. 

Nonetheless, Caroline felt his hands move and caress her shoulders, down the length of her arms before resting on the small of her waist. Warmth pooled in her abdomen at the feel of his touch; the warmth of his body pressed against her own.

Caroline peered at herself in the mirror, offering her reflection a satisfied smile as the jewels’ colours matched her eyes and skin tone to perfection. She watched their reflections gently sway together a moment longer. “Well?” Mrs Enys then asked her husband as she turned to face him. 

“Beautiful.” He was not referring to the necklace. 

A warm, happy smile spread across Caroline’s face. She leaned over and kissed her husband of ten years. Ten years of love and loss, grief and joy, teasing and laughter. To think not an hour ago she had feared all of this was lost, when now she stood with Dwight’s arms around her, that old, safe feeling of sure love enveloping them both. Caroline sighed happily. 

“I assume your dance card was full all evening as you were determined to convince me that you, too, had forgotten our anniversary?” Dwight asked, teasing mirthfulness in his eyes.

Caroline’s mouth swished from side-to-side in an attempt to control her smile; how well he knew her. “I’m surprised you noticed my dance card,” she taunted in return, “you seemed quite preoccupied with that pretty, young brunette all through dinner.” Caroline focused on the act of untying his neckcloth. 

Dwight chuckled. “You’re referring to Verity Thomas - Mrs Hoskings granddaughter? Her husband was seated at the other end of the table and she knew no one else in attendance, I supposed she could use a friend of sorts,” he explained.

When his wife looked at him again, he noted her eyes were dancing a waltz of teasing and genuine curiosity. “And what were you two giggling about at dinner?” Caroline demanded to know.

“Oh, I was being most unprofessional,” Dwight confessed with a light blush.

Caroline’s heart skipped a nervous beat. “In what regard?”

“I was talking of leeches.” 

“Leeches!”

“I - Verity and I - wondered if Dr Behenna might enjoy being subjected to their mercy, seeing as it is his only prescription these days - particularly where matters of the mind are concerned.” 

“I shall cover you with leeches,” Caroline threatened without heat. 

Dwight snaked his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Why?” 

“Such a day of torture I’ve had believing you were ready to leave me!” Caroline complained in a whine.

“Leave you?!” Dwight released her and spun her round to face him. “Caroline, how could you suppose such a thing?” There was hurt in his eyes. 

“Well, I thought you had forgotten our ten-year anniversary, you have scarce spoken to me all week, you have barely slept in our bed for two months, you paid me no notice all through dinner...,” Caroline explained delicately. 

The doctor’s eyes cast downward to the floor. “Yes... yes, I see why you might have thought such a thing.” Dwight took her hand in his and kissed it. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so absent of late, I know-“ 

“-for good reason, though, it turns out.” 

“All the same, I’m sorry - sorry to give you cause to doubt me. It seems to be the prevailing issue in our marriage - my absence - does it not? But it shall change, I promise you. You will see, the drunkard shall reform.” Dwight brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I thought we ought to go on a trip soon, just we two, perhaps next year? It has been an age since we had a moment alone together - truly alone. Perhaps we might have a second honeymoon of sorts? I shall leave the decision of a destination in your hands; I am most hopeless and you always know where is best.”

Caroline felt so happy in that instant she didn’t quite know what to do with herself, it almost paralysed her. “That sounds wonderful,” was all she managed to say. 

Grinning, Dwight leaned forwards and kissed her softly, his hands on either side of her face. Caroline nuzzled her nose against her husband’s, who smiled softly at the action, recognising it signalled her contentment. Dwight found her eyes. “Do you know,” he began thoughtfully, “I truly do not know what I would do without you.” 

“Live in a hovel? Discover medical marvels? Starve to death? Find some other heiress hereabouts and steal her heart and fortune?” Caroline suggested, playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

Dwight shot her a look. “Caroline.” The soft seriousness of his tone caught her interest. “Truly. I cannot imagine life without you - it’s impossible. To think of how... affronted... I was when some rich young woman demanded I tend on her dog. Little did I know how much I would owe to dear old Horace. I owe our old friend a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid in riches alone. There is - there can be - no unit of measurement for what we have - for what you mean to me,” Dwight proclaimed, his voice thick with emotion; sincerity poured from every word. After a moment, when Caroline had still said nothing, Dwight narrowed his eyes in suspicion at his wife. 

Caroline, noting the look he gave her, asked: “What?” 

“You are not going to tease me for my ‘sentimentality’?” Dwight taunted with raised eyebrows. 

A soft shake of the head came from Caroline. “No,” she answered, happy to bask in the affection of which she had recently felt depraved. Caroline then felt Dwight’s palm cup her forehead. “What are you doing?” she wondered.

A smirk formed on the doctor’s features. “Checking if you have a fever, you are behaving quite out of sorts.” 

With a soft eye-roll and a failed attempt to control an amused smile, Caroline gently removed his hand. “Dr Enys.”

“Mrs Enys.” 

“You make quite a pretty speech,” Caroline then informed him, her mouth curved into a wry smile. “Perhaps you ought to write a romance for one of my subscriptions. It would likely do well enough - and would no doubt fetch more than your patients pay you.” 

The doctor barked a laugh, the delight reaching his eyes. “There it is!”

Caroline giggled in triumph and pecked his lips. 

Dwight suddenly yawned widely and it was only then did Caroline note - with some alarm - how truly exhausted he looked now that the boyish excitement had left him. “Come, let’s get you to bed, my love,” she insisted gently, taking his arm and sitting him down on the edge of their bed. She quickly removed Dwight’s boots and began plucking the buttons of his gold- embroidered, forest-green waistcoat - her current favourite. 

Dwight yawned again. “I love you so very much...,” he murmured, his eyelids becoming unbearably heavy; an average of twenty-eight hours of sleep per week for two months was quickly catching up with him now that the matter was closed. 

“Yes, yes,” acknowledged Caroline, focusing on ensuring that the overworked fool should finally get a decent night’s sleep in his own bed. A beat. “I love you, too,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth; even his lips were now limp with exhaustion. She helped his slack arms out of the waistcoat. 

“My darling, you can never know how much...” Dwight felt her hands gently guide his chest and shoulders down. 

Caroline smiled softly. “Nor you.” She pulled the silken linen over him. 

The pillow was impossibly soft and perfectly cool. “There could never be anyone... but you. You are... everything... my whole life...” Dr Enys was asleep and softly snoring almost before the words had left his lips. 

Poor exhausted Dwight! Patients might fall ill and babies might enter the world but none would be disturbing his rest tonight! The ancient front door may fall from its hinges from desperate knocking for all Caroline cared, Dwight would not be disturbed. 

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered, brushing a kiss to his forehead, careful not to wake him. 

Caroline was not very tired - she was too happy to sleep. She felt as she had exactly ten years ago when she entered the isolated church, dearest Demelza on her arm, Dwight standing there in his uniform, his handsome face lighting up as he saw her, her feet moving faster than her senses as she ran to him... and then they were wed. And still, they were wed. 

Smiling at the sound of Dwight’s regular breathing, Caroline began to quietly undress and spent a few minutes simply peacocking at her necklace in the mirror. She carefully took it off and placed it back in the box. 

Rising from her vanity seat, in the hope of receiving the attentions of her husband in the morning, Caroline brazenly discarded her shift and climbed under the blanket next to him. As she settled against her pillow, she felt Dwight’s arm instinctively snake around her naked waist. Sighing blissfully, Caroline snuggled against him for warmth and waited for sleep to claim her.

All was well with the world.

[webcricket]

Winter’s Eye

Pairing: AU!CastielXReader Word Count: 1803 (Ch. II) Summary: Season 13 canon tells you how AU!Castiel’s story ends, this is how it begins. The deranged and damaged iteration of Castiel we met in the apocalypse universe - an obedient soldier to Michael’s cause barely in control of his vessel’s frayed and erratically firing nerves whose inherent kindness toward humankind appeared entirely obliterated - wasn’t always an unfeeling angelic weapon of interrogation. Once, he sympathized with the plight of humans; one, he loved. A/N: Multi-chapter origin and love story. No happy ending here, folks; just a bittersweet illustration of an angel’s devotion and the sacrificial ends he pursues to protect the object of his affection. New chapters post on Mondays.

Series Masterlist

II.

Illumined by a flickering glow, frost curtains the corners of the cabin’s paned windows as sheets of snow continue to envelope the world without. A fire crackles in the wood stove; the cast iron door yawns to reveal a burning bedlam of deep orange and silvery embers forfeiting their fervor of warmth to temper the chill from the single room.

The fury of light silhouettes two figures stationed directly before it; the one, insensate with cold and settled on an overstuffed leather chair, houses a soul lately saved, the other, operating on righteous instinct, a being in a body borrowed.

The latter leans in constant worried motion over his unconscious ward. He loosens the layers of damp clothing, consigning a coat no longer equipped in its damp state to insulate to the floor beside already discarded boots; the melt of caked-snow clinging to the laces and heels coalesces into a shimmering pool on the broad pine planks.

Still dissatisfied by the sluggish return of consciousness, he rubs and rearranges the lax limbs repeatedly to restore circulation. His unrelenting efforts find rapid reward in a spasm of shuttered eyelid and the initiation of a bodily shiver suggesting the brain of the afflicted has thawed enough to rejoin the struggle for survival.

Tapping a finger to the rewarmed temple, his irises refract an internally rising radiance of blue; the otherwise unseen glory gifted him by heaven hurries to confirm the signs of recovery. Evidently pacified with the direction of progress given the small sigh of relief passing his lips, he ceases fussing to slide the chair in closer proximity to the blaze; stoking and feeding the fire, he steps back, content for the moment to watch the unfolding symptoms of revival.

The breath of both flame and rekindling life further thicken the frosty condensation on the window’s glass from within as he waits.

Castiel’s concerned blues occasion, after some minutes observing the sameness of your state, to lift from you in order to sweep over the shadow-obscured stacked log walls; in them and, too, a roof sound enough to keep out the blasting wind, he notes something of greater consequence than he felt hereto before when tarrying there - something consoling; a something verging on comfort.

The only variable altered is that of his not being alone – an amendment to his exile he finds not at all unpleasant; and one which - as regards comfort at least - watery sheen of blues dipping again to you, he wonders whether you will feel equal easement in upon waking.

In the firelight your features flush as blood steadily surges to sooth ice-nipped skin; he is struck once again by the delicacy of peace predominant in your expression despite the subtleties of pain weathering pale pink lips and stamping a sallowness into the hollows beneath your lowered lashes. The natural advantage of beauty he appreciates as affecting your particular aspect, much like those wonders of his Father’s creation once resplendent in a now desolated world for which he held the highest esteem allowed an angelic creature supposedly steeped in inherent apathy, appears no less diminished given what you must have endured before stumbling into these woods.

A series of restless moans murmuring on your lips, you squirm in shallow slumber in search of some unknown solace which seems to elude you.

Trance broken, giving you space, instinctively he shifts backward and stills to stone. He hasn’t yet considered what he’ll say – hasn’t fully fathomed how to handle the consequence of confusion sure to follow fast upon your rousing, nor how to allay the fear certain to be aroused in the requisite explanations offered of how you came to be here and what he is.

A compassionate heart guided by an innate sense for what is right, and the selfish potential - in the soldierly sense, of course, of once more having order and purpose to the passage of time - for the immediate improvement of his own dejected condition to be provided by your company, fix him to the spot.

A moment passes; then another. You do not wake.

A spark of cinder bursts forth, bounces, and sputters in the drips of wet gathered round your socked feet; his notice veers from you to follow the extinguishing complaints of the slag until it is no more than a fleck of gray ash and a withering of smoke.

“Hi.” Your throat, raw from long exposure to cold air, cracks out the faintest of greetings.

Blues flick to meet your blearily blinking gaze. Caught off guard, he states the obvious. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m Y/N.” Woozy, weak, and uncertain of where you are or who he is, you default to wit such that you might start by assembling the strewn vestiges of it now returning to you.

His gaze narrows; after a second of deeply furrowed contemplation of your curious response to his observation, the crease of his brow eases in realization of the verbal play. “Ah, I’m Castiel.”

Stranger with a strange name, you think, and, a stranger accent.

Straightening from a slouch to obtain a better vantage on your whereabouts, half-expecting some indication to present itself you’ve been transported to Europe, you chance a cursory glance at the surroundings; your best guess: You’ve simply been deposited in a hunting cabin replete with a requisite decapitated White-tailed deer – a vacantly staring specimen sans four legs and anything else below the neck - mounted on a plaque to one wall. Despite the deer’s dead stare, it’s better than the last place you remember being which is riverside freezing to death under the similarly impassive survey of an oak.

In your periphery, a well-aimed lurch of two, maybe two and half feet from the cozy confines of the chair, your eyes glint on a brass fire poker laid against the stove. You have no idea who this guy is; not that you aren’t grateful, but you’re keeping your options open.

“Castiel,” you repeat, regard roaming over his distinctly regimental attire and the squared stance ingrained by association as that of a soldier standing at attention. “I think I owe you a thank you.”

Dropping his gaze in a gallant gesture of humility suggesting saving you was a mere trifle, he bows his head.

The civility of his manner instantly eases your wariness. In its place, you feel the overwhelming urge to fill the silence and elucidate how you came to be in the predicament of wanting rescue. “Damned stupid to dare that river crossing in a storm. I could hear the ice cracking, but I also heard a squad of angels coming in close behind me. Not much of a choice, you know?”

His eyes rise to yours – you discern the tranquility of their color markedly disturbed by the mention of angels. This reaction fortifies your impression of him as friend, not foe. Slightly relaxing caution, you lean forward to fold your palms together before stove.

The strong line of his jaw sets, stalling in choice of just the right words to answer to your story without creating alarm. Coughing to clear the gravel from the lower register of his voice, he calmly utters them a second or two before you become aware of the delay. “There are no angels on that side of the river.” In review, it occurs to him it would’ve been wiser not to stress any one part of the statement above another.

“Oh.” You swallow the syllable; embarrassment blossoms on your cheeks as the enormity of the damned stupid sinks in and the reality of the damned lucky surfaces.

You duck your chin and redirect, hoping perhaps along with his knowledge of where angels aren’t, he also knows something of the refugee encampment you were looking for. “Are you with the resistance?”

The disquiet unsettling his blues and agitating the minute musculature of his jawline wends down his spine to work inflexible mischief into his shoulders. He’s glad you failed to latch onto the ill-spoken that, less glad the interview persists in being directed upon himself.

Unpracticed talking to people – skills of conversing rusty as a result of many months of isolation – he grapples inwardly to determine how to change the subject; outwardly, he clasps his hands behind his back to preserve composure.

Evading causing you discomfiture by further delay in speaking, he replies, “In a manner of speaking.”

Although superficially affirmative, the awkward avoidance of an explicatory answer should excite your alertness; it doesn’t. The strangely alluring accent he’s in possession of implies he’s a visitor from foreign lands; wherever he’s from, perhaps the resistance is called something entirely different, like, for example, the opposition.

The cohesive framework of international news, or news of any shape beyond word of mouth and unfounded rumor (which, strictly speaking, is not so different from when international news stood strong), ceased to exist the day angels dive-bombed the planet. Whomever he’s with, his answer signifies a sympathetic attachment to the resistance, and that’s good enough for you.

“You’re military then?” you ask, utterly naïve in your progress toward the horrifying truth.

“Yes.”

If angels prayed, he’d pray - for your sake - you end your inquiry there. You were willing to risk hypothermia or worse to escape angels you only imagined were trailing you; there’s no guessing what you’ll do when you discover yourself occupying a room with one.

Short of hastily vacating the cabin without any clear rationalization of why he is running out into a squall, he’s at a total loss as to how to stop you; he ignores the gust of wind just then temptingly rattling the door.

Surrendering to the security represented in his confirmed status as a soldier – whereby, in so far as you understand, a soldier universally being a shield to defend against wrong, thus makes him worthy of your confidence – and suddenly aware of a recommenced shivering as the strength of the fire wanes, you stretch your fingers toward a blanket draped out of reach on a footstool.

Casually – fatally, to your carelessly formed faith in his goodness given the little you know - you prod further. “So … what army?”

He stoops to retrieve the blanket for you and encounters, in a separation of only inches, your unsuspecting and thankful look as you offer him a diminutive but delightful smile in exchange for the chivalrously proffered fringed edge of fabric.

You peer expectantly into his blues, ready to learn which leg of European power has crossed the sea to help stand humanity’s ground here in the states; peering back at you, veracity gleams brightly beneath a widened ledge of lashes begging pardon for what he is about to say.

Your rapt attention diverts to his lips moving in articulation of an answer that steals your breath and stops your heart.

“God’s army.”

Next Chapter: III

[bedlamsbard]

It is absolutely WILD to me that Star Wars Resistance is ending this weekend and there’s been next to no promo for the series finale.

(a little bit about representation beneath the cut)

Resistance is very near and dear to my heart because the main character is very clearly designed to be mixed-race Japanese, and the actor is mixed-race Japanese-American, which is what I am; I get a little frustrated sometimes when we talk about Asian representation because it all gets collapsed down into “well, there are Asians (Kelly Marie Tran, Tiya Sircar, Janina Gavankar) in Star Wars now,” without real discussion of the fact that all Asians are not the same kind of Asian.  I never expected Star Wars to give me not only a Japanese actor, but a mixed-race Japanese-American actor; getting that really specific kind of representation was not something I ever thought I’d get and never really thought I cared deeply about until it actually happened.  Because it really is that specific.  Tiya and Kelly Marie and Janina are all amazing and their characters are incredible, but it doesn’t mean that they’re my same flavor of Asian (Asian-American) in the same way that Christopher Sean is, Japanese mother, white American father, born in the same state as me, even.  And to have him as the lead character in my specific little sub-corner of Star Wars has meant a lot; I know some people think animated representation is less important because it’s animated, but that’s where I live, you know? 

[boarix]

Wraith in the Ruins: Meanwhile, Back in Goodneighbor III

The Straw

A look back-in-time, before Wraith woke up.

Trigger warnings: canon language/drug & alcohol use. Attempted suicide

Game Spoilers!

Please enjoy!

 “Checkmate!” Fahrenheit’s triumphant yell startled Harold, the Neighborhood Watch sanding guard at the door. He had been drifting off and her jubilation had made him spaz comically. Hancock pretended not to notice as he reached forward with dramatic slowness and resigned his king.

“You got me. Good match Fahr… hey… where…?”

As soon as the crown touched the board Fahrenheit had walked briskly around to Hancock’s private bar. Helping herself to a tumbler and what she knew for a fact was his best whiskey, she proceed to pour herself a very generous portion.

“Careful with that! That’s way more…”

Downing it like a shot, she was immediately overcome by a gasping, coughing fit, “Whasser! Hag erk!”

Laughing at her, Hancock provided an unnecessarily exuberant pat on the back before passing her a container of water, “Heh. Tried to warn ya. That there is a ‘sipping whiskey’. A deal is a deal I suppose, but I feel you’re a little young to be drinkn’ the hard shit.”

“I’m eighteen, Hancock.”

“Are you really? Christ am I getting old!” He felt a small pain in his heart; she was all grown up. “So when you movin’ out?”

Rolling her eyes, she smiled at him before pouring a more sensible portion, “Oh no! No way. You would get into way too much shit without me here.”

They heard footsteps coming up the stairs before Harold stuck his head in the door, “There’s a courier for you Mayor Hancock.”

“Ah, that would be a letter from Morningstar.” Hancock had recently been in correspondence with a huge player in the Capital Wasteland: Nyx Morningstar owned a majority share in the trade caravans that moved in and around the ruins to the south and Hancock wanted Goodneighbor to be part of her expansion north. Apparently, in addition to moving a vast array of goods, she also moved “packages” for the Railroad. Deacon had been pivotal in establishing the link, which was something that severely nettled Hancock.

Taking the proffered envelope, he tipped the courier before tearing it open, “Oh… It’s from Nick…” Color drained from Hancock’s face almost as soon as he began reading. Stumbling backward toward his desk, he missed his chair completely and fell heavily to the floor.

“Hancock!” Rushing to his side, Fahrenheit took the letter from his outstretched hand and began reading:

John,

It is with deep regret that I must inform you on the death of your parents.

I took the liberty of looking into their passing and could find no evidence of foul play. As you may know Patrick had fallen ill recently and as will sometimes happen, Martha followed him shortly to her rest.

Mayor McDonough had their remains cremated as is the custom.

If you need anything from me, or would like me to follow up, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Your friend,

Nick Valentine

Fahrenheit placed a hand on his shoulder, “John…”

Flinching at the contact Hancock’s voice was husky, “I need… I need you to go…”

Trying her best to be understanding, she left him in his office, shutting the door behind her. She told Harold to direct all future concerns to her and that the mayor was “Not to be disturbed!”

She expected him to go on a bender. She expected him to have a bedroom full of men and women at all hours of the night and day. Fahrenheit expected Bedlam. What she got was… nothing. Within 24 hours Hancock was apparently back to his normal self and it terrified her. When she finally worked up the nerve to ask him about it he had smiled and said, “These things happen.”

The letter from Morningstar came 3 days after Valentine’s. In it Nyx informed Hancock that she herself would be making the journey to Goodneighbor to finalize the trade agreement. Jumping into the preparations with almost hyper-like enthusiasm, Fahrenheit had a suspicion that Hancock was keeping himself together just to make sure the deal went through.

 As soon as Nyx stepped through the gate Fahrenheit could tell that this was a woman in power: confidence and strength emanated from her like rays of light from the sun. She was tall, built like a brick house and with blue-black hair and golden eyes she was strikingly beautiful. As if she wasn’t impressive enough on her own, she was accompanied by her personal bodyguard Charon, an absolute mountain of a ghoul.

If Hancock was intimidated he didn’t show it in the least. Emanating his own aura of confidence and charisma he greeted his guests with arms open wide, “Welcome to Goodneighbor my friends. May you find whatever it was you are looking for, even if you didn’t know you were looking. I trust your trip in was pleasantly uneventful?”

Shaking his offered hand, Nyx unleashed a devastating smile and the two fell into an easy banter as if they had been close friends for years. Hancock introduced Fahrenheit as his second and Nyx turned her smile on her like it was a weapon. The strong handshake and eye contact left Fahrenheit fighting flushed cheeks.

Fahrenheit decided she really didn’t care for Nyx Morningstar.

Over the next few days Hancock kept Fahrenheit with him as he danced the political dance; making sure she had a chance to observe a master at work. He welcomed any questions she had, even during actual haggling sessions. She felt pride in the level of trust he was showing her.

She was taken down a peg however when she realized the trade agreement wasn’t the only deal Nyx had going down in the Commonwealth. There were several meetings with key Railroad members, some of which Hancock was party to that Fahrenheit was not.

Fahrenheit decided she really didn’t care for Nyx Morningstar.

 She found the first broken mirror 2 days after the Morningstar caravan left. When she asked Hancock about how his bathroom mirror had been cracked he laughed it off, “Heh. These things happen.”

He was sleeping alone. Hancock almost always had a bedfellow.

The glass was broken on the portrait of the original John Hancock that the mayor kept in his office. The day after she had asked about it the picture vanished along with all the glass from the display cases throughout the State House.

He was destroying his reflection whenever and wherever he saw it and had taken to wearing gloves to hide his bloody and bandaged knuckles.

Fahrenheit wanted so badly to help him, but she couldn’t get him to talk to her. All the lessons he taught her on history and music as well as combat and arms in no way supplied her with the tools to help someone who was clearly on an emotional downward spiral. She even went to Daisy; one of the people that she knew for a fact actually cared about the mayor as a person.

“He won’t talk to me either, honey. Lord knows he’s hurting… maybe just give him some more time.”

Hancock made sure his internal struggle was invisible to the rest of the people of Goodneighbor by going about his mayoral duties as if nothing was wrong. The Morningstar caravan from Underworld to Goodneighbor was a huge success and goods and Railroad packages moved smoothly between the two cities.  In fact, to an outside observer, Goodneighbor had achieved a renaissance and Hancock was its da Vinci.

As if she wasn’t worried enough as it was, Fahrenheit’s anxiety got a major boost the day Hancock officially made her Captain of the Neighborhood Watch. He even had a small ceremony, (much to her embarrassment) followed by a large party at the Third Rail (where she was even more embarrassed).

A week later she couldn’t find him.

Keeping it quiet wasn’t easy. She didn’t ask around, she just patrolled in more specific areas of town where one might find a wayward mayor. Finally giving up she went back to his office. She found the note pinned to his coat on the seat of his desk chair.

She couldn’t even open it. Fahrenheit stared at the envelope as if it were a monster. If she turned away it may devour her, but if she continued to look at it there was no denying its existence.

“Where would he go…? He wouldn’t do it here.” She knew the note wouldn’t tell her. Hancock didn’t want to be stopped. This wasn’t a cry for help; he was looking for an end. “The ocean museum!” It hit her like a thunder-bolt. Grabbing his coat she sprinted out of the State House and ignoring the calls from her subordinates, she flew out of the gate and into the ruins.  

 It was dark by the time she entered the dry-dock warehouse just south of the Nahant Oceanological Society building. Hancock loved being close to the ocean and would often “threaten” Fahrenheit with potential fishing trips. She knew he would be there. Somewhere…

“…people who own little businesses of their own, the safer… the people who have a stake in their country and in their community are its best citizens…” She could hear Hancock’s voice, but it sounded odd; coarser than normal. Fahrenheit recognized he was repeating some of his favorite John Hancock quotes. “We must be unanimous; there must be no pulling different ways; we must hang together!”

When she finally saw him her heart froze and she dropped to her knees: he was standing naked in the center of a room wreathed in an iridescent green flame. Even as she watched he seemed to diminish, almost melt, before her eyes. His once shining mane of blond curls had all but fallen to the ground and his proud Roman nose was hanging by a shriveled piece of skin. He had stopped speaking for a moment and was watching the flames run up and down his arms as if entranced.

“John… no…”

He was beyond hearing her; lost in the high of whatever chem he had taken to cause his transformation. And transforming he was; Fahrenheit had grown up around ghouls and knew, without a doubt in her mind, what his end shape would be.

“John… why?”

“Resistance to tyranny…Harrrk” Choking on his own blood, he crouched into a fetal position as he coughed, “AAAGGHHHOO HAGGkkkk. Oh! IT HURTS! IT HURTS!” Fahrenheit flinched and stood up when he suddenly jumped back to a standing position. Throwing his hands out wide, he continued his rambling quotations, “There! I guess King George can now read my name without his spectacles, and he can double the reward on my head!”  

“Please John… Can you even hear me? Don’t you see me here? JOHN!”

Turning to her he took a few steps toward her extending his right hand as if pleading for help. But as he was still burning, she shied and backed away from his touch. Dropping his arm he stared at her with his now coal-black eyes, “I see you Fahr. Look! Now I’m as ugly on the outside as I’ve been on the inside all along. Along. Along… Inside is the outside as is the inside-out!” He turned away and continued his speech to an assembly only he could see, “I am a friend to righteous government, to a government founded upon the principles of reason and justice; but I glory in publicly avowing my eternal enmity to tyranny.”

“Please stop! Please don’t… you can’t do this to me. YOU FUCKING CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!” She was crying now, openly sobbing, “You selfish fucking coward! Why did you do this? You can’t kill yourself!”

“I killed them all Fahr. They are all dead because of me.” The flames were beginning to dwindle as he walked back to stand in front of her.  He was now fully a ghoul and completely unrecognizable, “And you’re right Fahr; apparently I can’t even kill myself. That government is best which governs the least, because its people discipline themselves.”

“That’s wrong. That wasn’t John Hancock... that one was Jefferson.” She brought his coat up and buried her face in it, “Why would you try? Don’t you know what your death would have done to Goodneighbor?”

“You are all better off without me. Why th’ fuck did you come here? Why’d you bring that thing?” He pointed at the frock coat with obvious irritation, “I never earned the right to wear it anyway.” His eyes narrowed and he ran at her growling terribly, “HAAARRRRGGGGGGGAHHH!”

Rather than draw her side arm, she faced him down. Standing her ground, she called his bluff. His scarred face inches from hers, he continued to roar at her until he suddenly became fascinated by a boat in the corner. Running over to it, he climbed in and standing on the seat like it was a stage, started to hum Orange Colored Sky. Fahrenheit’s favorite song.

“I remember when you showed up with this,” She was looking down at the frock coat and had tenderness in her voice, “you looked so silly because it didn’t fit you, even as skinny as you are, but you still had your arms in it… all backwards… I was mad because you had cut yourself. I can still see you and Daisy sitting back-to-back, I sewed your hands back together while she let the coat out. You were making faces… trying to get me to laugh… oh John…” Crying bitterly she dropped to a crouch with the coat held to her face.  

“I’m sorry Fahr. I… I fucked up again. I thought that I could atone this way… I hurt you instead. I don’t ever want to hurt you. I knew there was a chance that I could survive, but end up as a ghoul. I thought I didn’t care which way it went.” He had come to sit next to her, legs crossed and hands in his lap he had made an effort to cover his nudity, “but maybe this will have to count for something.”

“Does it hurt? I have Med-X with me.”

“It hurts like a mother fucker! But… I deserve every second of this pain. I’m a Goddamn fool. I can’t ask ya to forgive me for this. I wouldn’t deserve it.”

“I… I’m really mad at you right now and I’ll be mad at you for the foreseeable future, but you know I love you so… Now what?”

“Now… I’m not sure.” Running a hand across his head, he realized perhaps for the first time, that his hair was gone.

“If you need some time to… heal? I can look after Goodneighbor for a bit, but I think the town needs you John.”

“Ya don’t think the people will have a few questions as to why their mayor is missing his nose?”

“I’m not sure most of them would be lucid enough to notice. The ones that do… they’ll know it’s you.”

“Who’s ‘you’? Who am I supposed to be now Fahr?”

She stood up and draped his coat around his shoulders, “John McDonough is officially dead. You killed him today.” Smiling sadly down at him she offered him her hand, “Your John Hancock of course.”

  Thank you for reading! Like what you read? Looking for more? Please see my Wraith in the Ruins master-link in my bio. =^..^=

[silverdxrk]

Tag list: @undocumented-terriaki @ask-barkiplier-rp @supersepticsteph @penpaulkon6 @are-you-here-posts @markifucker-fischfuck @virge-of-death @anomalous-duck @risiskifi @squishy-anon @margarita-is-the-answer @hemooryctolagus @my-analogical-romance @nightmarejasmine 

“This is all my-”

“No.” Silver cuts across Bim before the sentence has a chance to fully leave his mouth.

“But I was the reason Bin-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.” He’s firm and unwavering and honestly willing to keep this going as long as he has to. “No matter what you say, it won’t make this your fault.”

“But-!”

“No!”

Frustrated, Bim turns, fingers fidgeting, small purple sparks flickering between them as he thinks. Mind caught in a vicious cycle of self-blame. Silver watches him and honestly can’t help but to smirk as he folds his own arms across his chest

“I can hear you blaming yourself.” the hero snarks.

Bim shoots an annoyed look at Silver as his own words are used against him. A line he frequently uses when the Silver superhero blames himself for things that are out of his control.

“That’s not funny.”

Silver gives a half-shrug, “I don’t know, I think it’s pretty hilarious.”

A harsh buzz interrupts them, and Bim pulls out his phone, only giving it a brief glance before sighing and putting it away again.

“Matthias?”

“It’s nothing.” Bim waves a hand dismissively. There’s been several calls, and numerous texts over the last 24 hours, all of which have gone ignored. “He can wait.”

“You probably shouldn’t ignore him.”

“I’ve got bigger things to deal with right now.”

Silver glances around the room.

The Googles are off in their corner, the Jims, Marvin, and Wilford all talking with Dark who’s yet to even sit up, let alone stand. Anti is bothering Ed, since he’s run out of other people to annoy, King has stormed off into a corner where he’s pacing back and forth, angrily muttering to himself, and the Host is sat on the farthest end of the warehouse, legs crossed, silent and unmoving.

Everyone is a mess and if they want to avoid complete bedlam, Bim and Silver are going to have to step up to fill the void in leadership. They may be no Dark and Wilford but they are the most level-headed of these idiots,  good at working together, and able to balance out when things get overwhelming. No doubt together they can keep an eye on this mess, build a plan of action, stop anyone else from wandering off.

Reaching up, Silver gently guides Bim to turn away from them, the TV show host having turned to look.

“Call Matthias.”

“Tobi-”

“The madness isn’t going to go anywhere for a few hours. Go and see someone who doesn’t need you to do everything for them. Have a drink, have a laugh.”

Bim seems unsure, glancing over his shoulder at the wounded again. This is worse than anything they’ve ever dealt with before, and he should be here. But at the same time it hasn’t stopped, and the thought of getting away from it for a bit is tempting.

“I am feeling kind of hungry….” Bim muses.

“Exactly.” Silver throws his arm around Bim’s shoulders, reaching to pull his best friend’s phone from his jacket pocket and pushing it into Bim’s hands. “Call your boyfriend. Make him treat you to a nice meal, and leave these monsters to me for a few hours.”

He watches the last of Bim’s resistance to the idea crumble, and Trimmer gives that smile that could probably make a cloudy day run for the hills as he takes his phone from Silver’s fingers.

“You’re right.” he comments, dialing the number and holding the phone to his ear as he walks off for a little privacy.

Once Bim’s far enough away, Silver’s smile just drops, his mouth becoming a firm line. Bim deserves a little bit of normal, he tells himself, a little bit of nothing to do with any of them.

There’s a crackle and the air splits as Anti appears beside Silver. Anti, who’s been inside Silver’s head, who’s seen every corner of the hero’s heart and soul and knows better than anyone how he feels about Bim, and knows just how much it must kill to send Trimmer to spend time with the asshole that is his boyfriend.

“You’re an idiot,” Anti leans across to Silver, voice glitching slightly as he fights the urge to giggle at the hero’s stupidity.

Silver just glares, not even deigning to look at the glitch, “Shut up.”