#cue woman scored covered in blood

[jpriest85-blog]

Some more @gonzague-if art of the inevitable betrayal and death of Philippe de Nevers by my Prince Gonzague featuring a quote from the tragedy that is titled after Médée's name sake.

"Tell me, how does it feel with my teeth in your heart?" - Euripidies, Medea

Along with some flower symbolism, fitting considering I used the betrayal scene from Revolutionary Girl Utena as a pose reference.

Yellow carnations for rejection and disappointment. Daffodils can symbolize rebirth, chivalry, and unrequited love. Purple hyacinths for sorrow. Dark crimson roses for grief and mourning.

[how-to-do-it-better]

The Curse of Nonstop Orgasms

 Too much of a good thing. It appears she has persistent genital arousal disorder (P G A D)

By Brian Alexander. Listen to the Podcast at How To Sex.

The other day, a few media outlets in the New York region covered the story of a woman who can’t seem to stop having orgasms, which would seem joke-ready but can actually be a nightmare.

Doctor Brian Alexander files this assessment;

While the New Jersey woman’s condition has not been formally diagnosed, it appears she has persistent genital arousal disorder (P G A D), something we explored years ago. 

The syndrome usually manifests as a constant blood engorgement of the female genitals, mainly the clitoris. This creates a sensation of needing “relief.” Cue the jokes. But imagine constantly sensing the need for orgasm at work, on the bus, while visiting with friends, and then finding no relief, or only very temporary relief, if you masturbate. Genitals can become highly sensitive, and sore. Sufferers describe feelings of isolation and mental anguish.

Unfortunately, nobody is quite sure what causes it or how to treat it, but, according to Jim Pfaus, a researcher at Montreal’s Concordia University who studies the neuroscience of sexual response, and who is currently engaged in studying persistent genital arousal, there are enough clues to develop a working theory.

“The root cause,” he explained, “may be an irritation of the clitoral sensory nerves.” The brain interprets this sensation and sets off a cascade of events.

If you want to incur the rage of a woman in this condition, even the slightest suggestion comparing her to a nymphomaniac, could result in you likely getting beaten up and humiliated.

 She didn’t ask for this, and she detests its imposition almost as much as sexual assault. A woman wants to be a willing participant. Offer her whatever help she asks for, but it may be for you to get the hell out of here, especially if she usually has some attraction to you, and is now confused by her physically-aroused state.

A brain region called the pro-optic area responds to dopamine signaling by sending out instructions for the body to prepare for sex, as if a woman has been engaged in foreplay when, in fact, she’s not remotely in a sexual context. Blood flows to the genitals. “So we think that this blood flow is in a state of hyperarousal in women with P G A D,” Pfaus said. “They get engorgement quickly, reach orgasm quickly when they try to relieve themselves. It shares features with premature ejaculation and priapism” in men.

That’s consistent with observations others have made. For example, Barry Komisaruk at Rutgers University found that of a group of 18 women with P G A D, 12 had cysts on nerves in the sacral region of their spines. The cysts may be stimulating clitoral nerves.

A variety of drug therapies (there’s even one report of a physical therapy involving manipulation of muscles in the region) have shown to help. SSRIs, commonly used for depression, seem to provide some relief. But Pfaus believes the drug varenicline (Chantix, commonly used for smoking cessation) is most promising. It works by interrupting the signaling that leads to dopamine release. Blood stops flowing.

While the therapy has worked in scores of women, Pfaus said, the drug isn’t perfect. “Unfortunately it comes back when they go off it.” 

Brian Alexander

Moon Sprayed Eyes tells us about her condition, and the problems she still faces.

It Killed My Marriage

I haven't received any diagnosis yet, but I have experienced nearly all of these symptoms as far back as preschool.

I have been to so many doctors, Primary Care Managers, Obstitricians, Gynecologists,, and mental health professionals, due to how I describe the sensations of throbbing, tingles; that make me feel like I'm trapped in a constant state of arousal; that is debilitating, deviant-like, impositions.

For 25 out of my 40 years I've not heard anything closely related to P G A D.

However, I have received diagnoses of; hypersexuality, sexual addiction, masturbation addiction, PTSD, hypersensitivity, rejection sensitivity, childhood trauma, divorce anguish, adult trauma, shame, guilt, agoraphobia, Major Depressive Disorder, anxiety.

The fallout?  I was married 11 years. We tried individual and couples therapy 6-7 times and completed all sorts of “activities”, “homework” and received certificates.

It didn’t get better because my spouse husband couldn’t keep up what wasn’t natural to him.

We both had a hand in the demise of our marriage and we both deeply regret not being what the other person needed.

I really hope other marriages can fix or improve the parts that matter most;  because I don’t wish this pain on anyone.

My former husband and I have been grieving each other’s loss since 2021 and I don’t think we’ll ever get over the loss of each other to “move on.” Not because we haven’t tried, but It’s not as easy to start over as one would think, when nothing feels normal. I don’t have the answers but I don’t wish this fate on anyone either.

Well you get the idea. All that just to learn, I was describing Persistant Genital Arousal Disorder 100% accurately, the whole time.

Along with nerve pains, and restless leg, insomnia. but hey, its all in my head, right?. Anyways.

Everything I've read, talk about biases, and that it's considered to be rare; more medical gas-lighting. 🫢

I am very interested to see what else comes out, and I’ll find as many research studies to bring the printed reports to my next appointment, because I can already see him rolling his eyes, and calling the nurse to bring the straightjacket.

Amp It faced a short term crisis with this disorder. She summarizes her ordeal.

My Doctor Needs To Grow Up!

I had P G A D for about a week earlier this year. It was one of the worst things I have ever experienced. I was a hysterical mess after just a few days. I genuinely felt like I was losing my grip on my sanity. Orgasms didn’t even help—they actually made it worse. It hurt and the constant pressure in my pelvis was unbearable. There was a lot of ice packs and lidocaine and sobbing. I can’t imagine dealing with that BS long term. I don’t think I would even survive it. It was hell. Not even remotely sexy.

Since I had back surgery a few months ago my Gynecologist thought it could be something nerve related and wanted me to follow up with my neurosurgeon too. He did order an MRI for me, but the man would not stop cracking jokes at my husband about; “Ha ha ha, just don’t turn her on, am I right?”

No, sir. That was probably my grossest interaction with a doctor.

Glass Breather retells a grim story of her friend’s tortured life and premature death.

It’s Perpetual Rape.

I have a friend who has suffered from this for her whole life, since she was five. She said the only way she could describe it was like being raped by demons constantly. Constant engorgement of the genitals, anxiety and stress would also cause unwanted stimulation which could not be contained through masturbation. It only made it worse. Orgasms would also usually make it worse.

Many of the women who suffer from this end up committing suicide. She has managed through a rigorous daily routine of yoga and meditation.

There are some theories that it has something to do with the psoas muscle, near the tailbone; or some sort of impinged spinal nerve that sends a feedback loop to the brain.

It is so far from pleasurable. Torture is closer to the truth.

Love In The Sun gives us a clinical insight.

The desperation leads to bold behavior

I worked as a nurse in a big gynecology clinic. This was a teaching hospital in the US. We had a doctor who specialized in it.

Yes the suffering women would start masturbating in front of the doctor and would masturbate many many times a day, to the detriment of their lives.

She couldn’t hold a job, be a parent, or much of anything besides just being perpetually frustrated.

It was absolutely heartbreaking to hear their stories.

So no, this isn’t the same pleasurable experience most of us experience as an orgasm. It’s not pleasurable at all.

Widespread

The condition is profound and widespread, but most sufferers are terrified that they might become exposed to public embarrassment and mockery.

LOS Angeles concert-goers were enjoying a rendition of Tchaikovsky's fifth symphony last week, when the sound of someone having a 'loud and fully body orgasm' suddenly cut through the music.

The incident sparked lively debate between audience members about whether the moaning woman was in the throes of toe-curling pleasure, or if she jerked awake after nodding off and having a bad dream.

Spectator Molly Grant told the LA Times she thought the unknown woman had orgasmed; "because she was heavily breathing, and her partner was smiling and looking at her, like in an effort to not shame her."

But another attendee said they'd witnessed her fall asleep on her partner's lap and wake with a cry 'five seconds later'.

Nevertheless, her 'scream/moan', which the LA Philharmonic blithely continued playing over, lead some to wonder whether the woman was suffering from a rare condition which causes uncontainable genital arousal.

Known as persistent genital arousal disorder, sufferers can feel aroused without experiencing sexual desire and many can have multiple unprovoked orgasms over hours, days or weeks.

Researchers estimated it may affect one per cent of the population, although not everyone's symptoms can are as severe.

Being constantly aroused however, isn't as fun as it sounds.

Medical News Today reported that people with P G A D can have trouble getting on with their day-to-day lives and may experience anxiety, panic attacks and depression.

Christine Decker from Wisconsin, developed the ultra rare condition after slipping a disk in her back.

She suffered a terrifying 236 orgasms in hospital while paramedics watched in horror, and Christine later became completely housebound.

When she spoke up about experiencing more than 100 orgasms daily, she was met with merciless trolling rather than sympathy.

Christine said the hormone therapy which reduced her levels of testosterone also slashed the number of her daily orgasms to just eight.

For mum Cara Anaya-Carlis, having P G A D meant something as simple as the vibrations from a washing machine could send her spiraling into episodes that could last between four and six hours, where she'd experience orgasms every 30 seconds.

Cara began to 'feel too dirty' to be a part of her son's life and felt too embarrassed to work.

Lior Ofir Schwartz from Miami Beach, Florida; began feeling constantly aroused despite not having sexual desires in 2012.

She described the feeling as a 'painful' itch she could not scratch, which would usually come on before the orgasms, when she was stressed, or at night.

Lior's condition worsened to the point that she was unable to have sex with her now husband Jonathan, when she began dating him, due to the pain.

And a mum in England, who started suffering uncontrollable orgasms following an NHS checkup, was left devastated after being told her health board wouldn't fund the medicinal cannabis to help her.

The widow, from East Dunbartonshire, told the The Herald: “Why should I be paying the bill when I didn’t cause the problem? This was inflicted on me by the NHS, so the NHS should be paying for it.

"It’s been recommended by the very specialist they sent me to – that I had to fight to be sent to – and now they’re ignoring his advice.

"The condition has calmed down a lot. My own GP says she’s never seen me looking better in the past two years than I do now. They’re the only thing that’s worked. For me, it’s amazing not to have feeling down there."

Maria believes the condition was sparked during a routine check at Glasgow's Stobhill Hospital in September 2017, claiming a consultant "rammed" a speculum into her.

In the weeks after the examination, Maria said she started to notice distressing symptoms, which were eventually diagnosed as P G A D, caused by damage to her pudendal nerve.

And she said she was furious after it was a NHS consultant who recommended the treatment, with the board now not paying.

Thar She Blows

Lorna, who runs a food delivery service, drove over a speed bump in January 2019.

She said: “I felt a pounding and bulging sensation below.

“It was lucky I didn’t crash as I was losing control of my body.

“When I got to the house, I handed over the lunch with my legs crossed, ran to the car and quickly drove home.”

When it recurred, she saw her GP last July.

They offered an epilepsy treatment that eases nerve pain, and reduces the length of episodes.

Lorna, of Doncaster, South Yorks, turned down an ultrasound fearing it would send her into throes of orgasm, but never followed by a pleasant afterglow.

She added: “Once in a supermarket I had to grab shelves for support.

“People looked at me strangely. Another time my friend simply mentioned my boyfriend. I began panicking.

“I’d already started orgasming and so I ran inside a shop.”

She said of her love life: “Henry found it funny at first, but now we can’t kiss passionately as it sets me off. He counts down from three then says: ‘Thar she blows!’

Bewildered Doctors

Doctors have struggled to identify what exactly causes P G A D.

According to Medical News Today:

·         stress,

·         Tourette's syndrome,

·         epilepsy,

·         trauma to the central nervous system and

·         surgery to the lower back

could trigger the condition.

In a 2012 study, MRI results showed that 66.7 per cent of women who demonstrate P G A D symptoms also had a Tarlov cyst - abnormal sacs filled with spinal fluid in the base of the spine.

PERSISTENT genital arousal disorder (P G A D) is spontaneous, persistent and unwanted genital arousal without any sexual desire or satisfaction.

Multiple orgasms over hours, days or weeks can be agonising for sufferers, offering no relief.

Scientists do not know what causes the condition, but suspect neurological, vascular, pharmacological or psychological causes may play a role.

Symptoms can persist for long periods of time, and include:

pressure

pain

clitoral throbbing

tingling

vaginal congestion

vaginal contractions

spontaneous orgasms

The signs and symptoms can affect the vagina, labia, perineum and anus.

The condition can impact on a sufferer's work and home life, leaving many feeling embarrassed, and avoiding sexual relationships.

People who have P G A D can undergo cognitive behavioral therapy, to help identify what triggers the attacks, and to manage the ensuing anxiety.

Antidepressants and anti-seizure drugs have also been used as treatment, and - in the case of Tarlov cysts being presence, surgery could also work.

[souljoon]

Like a fool (pt.1)

pairing: teacher!jungkook x cafe owner!reader word count: 2k genre: fluff, smut, ex lovers au warnings: sexual content, slight dom!jungkook, sub!reader, unprotected sex (stay safe loves!)

synopsis: Everyone in the neighborhood knows you and Jungkook will inevitably end up in a wedlock despite the complicated status of your on-and-off relationship. While you want to keep a civil relationship with him, Jungkook learned not to care about labels long ago since the first time you two broke up. Whatever you’d say, he intends to keep his place in your heart taken for the rest of your life.

~~~

“Your beau is here,” Jimin prompted behind you.

Without turning in his direction, your attention to the carrot cake remaining glued to the carrot cake you were currently frosting about.

At this point, you wouldn’t even be surprised to see Jungkook on the opposite side of your bed in the morning. He seems to find it amusing to see you evidently pissed whenever he’s around. How couldn’t you? He not only takes over Jimin’s job but he often causes a scene with the customers in the cafe—which, to fuel more of your unspoken frustration, are students from the nearby community college.

You couldn’t admit how the attention he was getting from people of different gender identities still bothers you despite the mutual decision to call the engagement off. You understand your ex-fiance is a very attractive man. And his charisma could probably stir attraction from married women regardless of their age.

Over the course of six years of a complicated relationship with him, you two had already been in two break ups in college, citing his laid back self in college and your endless insecurities that urged you to try to get away from him, from the spell he had on you.

While you decided to pursue your dream to start your own cafe business post-graduation, Jungkook surprisingly landed on a teaching job in Jung-do High School which is also located in the same neighborhood two years ago. 

Footsteps are, again, back in the kitchen. “He just wore an apron. So I’m guessing he’s here until the shop closes.” It was Jimin, informing you yet again as if it was part of his job to report Jungkook’s every move to you.

This time, you sweep a brief glance behind. “Don’t let the counter vacant, Chim.” You say, cleaning up the cake board as a finishing touch to your masterpiece.

“He took over the counter, _____. How am I supposed to make him go away when he’s our own human advertisement. He’s attracting more customers!”

With a glare darted to his direction, you suggest, “Then I guess I should replace you with him, instead?”

Jimin visibly sulked, not really wanting to argue with you—his boss. “Fine!”

Six months. That’s how long you’ve been single since. Sure he had you wrapped around his fingers back then. But you wanted to prove to him and to yourself that you can live without him. However, it’s too impossible to keep up with it when he freely deems himself welcome wherever you are, maintaining his act of indifference toward the real score between you.

Intending to place the cake in the display, you finally went out of the kitchen-- ironically, just in time to run into him. Jungkook being the shameless ex-boyfriend that he is, took the cake in your hands.

He was wearing a gym class outfit— a pair of black adidas sweatpants, and a plain, white shirt over a black hoodie. If only you were not trying to stay as far as possible away from him, you’ll probably tease him about his own dress code. He doesn’t look like he just got out of his class as the teacher. He looked like he just went out of bed before he came here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home?” You ask from behind him.

“I’m bored,” he simply replied.

“What do you mean you’re bored? Haven’t you just got off work?”

He spun around, startling you when you came face to face with him. If you couldn’t properly see his entire face before, you do now much to your annoyance.

He sighs. “I did. Look, I’m just helping Jimin-hyung out here. I won’t bother you, I swear.”

“You don’t have to because you’re not my employee, Kook.”

“Well, I could use some part time if you’re hiring.” Jungkook shrugs.

Here we go, again.

Your eyes narrowed to which roused him to raise his hands up defensively.

“Jagiya—”

“Lovebirds,” Jimin suddenly interrupts.

“What?!” You both snapped back at Jimin’s direction.

“Whoa, tone it down— you two. Restroom is right there in case you need to release the sexual tension. It’s getting intense out here.” He jests, making a shooing motions with his hands.

Jungkook wasted no more time and took it as his cue to grab your wrist, dragging you with him as he navigated the way past the kitchen into the storage room.

A temporary relief washes through you when Jungkook brought you in this enclosed, rather safe space instead of the restroom. However, dread slowly consumes your whole being when you hear the familiar sound of the knob locking.

Jungkook pivoted back, facing you. “Let’s talk here.”

Your eyes lingered down where his hand maintained his grasp around your wrist. “Why? There’s nothing else to talk about.”

“For the umpteenth time, I saw the landlord across the street like he was waiting for someone,”

You look up, quirking up an eyebrow at his sudden shot of a subject relating to Seokjin. “What’s your point?”

“I don’t trust him.” He deduces, childishly.

“What do you want me to do, find another leasing property? This shouldn’t concern you in the first place. You never once heard anything from me about Joohyun.” You mentally cursed, unable to stop yourself from mentioning the name of the woman he was seen in a restaurant a week ago.

“What’s Joohyun got anything to do with this?”

You scoff. “You know what, I don’t need to answer that. We’re not together anymore so it’s none of my business.”

Jungkook seized your attempt to leave, latching onto your arm just in time. As he pulls you back, you were met with the subtle amusement plastered obnoxiously on his face.

“We’re not done here, baby. So... Joohyun, really? My colleague?” A laugh slips out of him, seemingly pleased. You, on the other hand, felt insulted on his take of your serious remark. Your blood started rising up. So the rumors aren’t true?

You jerked away. Well... tried to, because your hand stayed locked around his firm grip. “Let me go, I need to go back to the kitchen.”

You stepped back when he abruptly inched forward. You were puzzled for a second, but when your back touched the surface of the door, you knew you fell from his trap as he steadied himself with his palms pressed flat above your head. You turned your face away, avoiding his heated gaze. But the gesture only gave Jungkook a room to nestle his head on the exposed skin of your neck.

The moment you felt his warm lips touch your skin, you squeezed your eyes shut. “You’ve been pretty good at keeping a safe distance from me, baby. You have no idea how much  I fucking miss you, missed keeping you all to myself like this.” He expresses in a thick, sultry tone.

You shake your head, knowing full well what he meant. “We c-cant, Jimin is--”

“--not here.” He finishes, pressing his lower body against yours and teasing your sweet spot with a gentle suck. The bulge on his mid-region was enough to make your panties wet instantaneously and your body heats up too quickly.

“Jungkook,” his name slips out of your mouth.

“Please tell me you’re still in birth control.” He desperately murmurs against your skin on the curve of your neck.

You frantically bobbed your head, lost at the hot trail of kisses he’s leaving on your skin.

With an eager pull of the strings on his nape and back, he rids the apron off of his front followed by a swift pull of his sweatpants with his boxers, just enough to release his hard member.

Your mouth instantaneously watered at the sight of the maddeningly pink head and aroused length, thick and hard just the way you remembered it the last time Jungkook fucked you. It happened in his car three months ago. You were too intoxicated then to control yourself from jumping up into his lap as he drove you back to your apartment. To keep your pride intact, you tried to steer clear from repeating the same mistake again. Not when you’re not officially back together.

Right now, you’re too sexually neglected to care about anything.

“I want you in my mouth,” you beg, not believing you sounded incredibly hasty than you actually have estimated.

He swats your hand off when he sensed your hand extending towards his crotch, “I’d love to fuck your mouth baby, but we don’t have that much time. I need to be inside your pussy,” You felt his palms scooping you up through your butt, sandwiching you between his body and the door. Your legs automatically weaving around his hips to steady yourself.

Then pushes your underwear aside, “This is probably the only reason why I love you wearing skirts. Easy access—fuck baby, so tight.” He barely sank his cock in, yet you could already feel the sting of your walls as they stretch around him.

Your hand flew to the back of head, eager to bury your fingers beneath his curly locks.

Just as you part your mouth to speak to encourage more his entrance, he suddenly propels his hips forward, pushing his dick to the hilt which roused a cry from you.

“Fucking tight! I’m gonna break you so much you won’t ever forget about me. You understand, darling?”

“Yes, yes, please fuck me!” You cried out, reeling from both the sting of your muscles caused by his forceful entrance, and the familiar warmth filling you full.

Without bothering to warm you up, he began a breathtaking pace despite his overwhelming intrusion. You didn’t mind, though. In fact, his thrusts were making your moans irrepressible and your thighs tremble in delight.

Jungkook places his head between the valleys of your covered mounds, not missing his faint grunts, lost in his own pleasure.

“You like that, huh? You like the idea of being fucked outside, baby girl? I’ve had enough this bullshit,” He growls with a series of rough jerk of his hips, forcing a cry of his name out of you.

“That’s right, moan my name. Just wait until I get you all alone tonight, I’ll make sure you won’t ever think of breaking up with me. Do you hear me?” He warns darkly, emphasizing the severity of his threat with a shove of his dick so deep his tip was heavenly kissing your precious spot from your insides.

“Oh god,” you lamented, deliriously.

You could already feel the building up in your abdomen just as fast as he started rocking into you. You’ve known him long enough for you to easily sense it was the same for him too, concealing his moans with his mouth latched onto your prickly skin.

“That’s right. Come for me!” he grunted in between powerful thrusts.

His command did the trick, sending your body forward as you exploded, your walls tighten around him with each snap of his hips against your pelvis. Soon enough, he jerked off his load inside you with a growl rumbling on his chest.

Grimace creases on your expression as he cautiously pulls his cock out, following his load combined with your juices gushing out of your pussy down to the insides of your thighs.

Barely recovered from the earth shattering orgasm you had for the first time in three months, you heard a series of banging coming from the other side of the door.

“You done, lovebirds?” Your eyes clenched shut in realization, quietly plotting the assassination of some guy named Jimin.

“Thanks for ruining the moment,” Jungkook retorts back. “Not a problem. You guys seriously need to get the fuck out, I ran out of beans in the jar and try not fuck each other here next time, yeah?”

Amused with the scene unfolding, Jungkook casually pushes your underwear back to its place, smoothening your skirt down as if nothing inappropriate had occurred here. He kisses the tip of your nose, before turning the knob of the door.

Couldn’t this get any more embarrassing?

~~~

Thank you for reading and apologies for any spelling/ grammatical errors. I havent edited this yet.  Part 2 will most likely be posted on Monday or Tuesday :)

[nervousladytraveler]

Anonymous Said: Showing affections Prompt #44--Tummy Kisses

(from the Like Someone universe)

“Sit still,” Demelza ordered and put an ice pack to Ross’s eye. He winced from the cold but knew better than to argue. She’d been eerily calm this whole time, from the moment he showed up on their doorstep, his nose bloodied, his shirt torn, his right eye swollen. She still appeared calm, but moved about the bedroom with an urgency of mission.

Her light fingers unbuttoned his shirt and examined his bruised side. Even though her brow furrowed and her lips were pulled tight, her face was inscrutable. She was standing next to him, tending to his needs, yet she was far away.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled but gasped when touched.

“Is that so? You don’t look fine and you certainly don’t sound fine,” she huffed. Was that impatience and anger?

“Do you think you should see a doctor?” she asked. Now her tone seemed to betray worry.

“No!”

“Ross, what if your ribs are broken?” She took the ice pack from his eye and gently put it to his ribs.

“They’re not broken,” he managed to hiss between throbs of pain.

“And how would you know that?” she laughed. He was glad to see the change in her expression, even if it meant she thought him a complete idiot.

“I’ve broken a rib before,” he explained. “This doesn’t feel like that.”

He took a deep breath to show her, then covered her hand with his, hoping he could reach her. It seemed to work for when she next spoke, she couldn’t disguise the tenderness in her voice.

“Oh? In the army?” she asked cautiously. He never spoke of his experience in Cyprus just like she never talked about her childhood.

“No, I fell off a horse when I was sixteen.” It was a painful memory and thinking about it wasn’t helping him feel better now.

“Were you pissed or just showin’ off?”

“Both, as I recall.” He gave a weak smile, fairly certain a laugh would hurt too much.

Ross took the ice from her and moved it back to his eye, then considered putting it to his puffy lip. He hadn’t looked in the mirror but expected he was a ghastly sight. He still held his right hand aloft, as if the scraped knuckles were his biggest injury.

“Do you think George will file a complaint?” she asked.

Taking his cue, she took his hand in hers to examine it. When she dabbed the split skin with cotton wool soaked in surgical spirit, it stung horribly. Surely she knew that it would. Could it be that she enjoyed watching him flinch? She was rapidly cycling between moods again.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I doubt it. He might find it humiliating to admit he was…”

“Beat up? That is, can I assume it wasn’t Warleggan that threw the first punch?”

“You can--and you’d be correct.”

“And you still won’t tell me what George said that made you so enraged?” She held his chin and looked into his eyes for one agonizing moment, then perhaps sensing his discomfort, released him.

“No, no I won’t.” Ross was firm on that score. It was better she never know. George’s insult would be something she couldn't unhear or easily forget.

“You are so fuckin’ stubborn,” she mumbled and stepped back to give him another head to toe appraisal.

Trickles of blood from his nose had stained the front of her hoodie. He hated seeing that on her, hated himself for bringing that into their home.

“Of course George wouldn’t actually hit another grown man unless egged on.” She laughed but Ross thought he heard a note of tired resignation. “If he wanted to hurt someone or even ruin them, he’d use his snarky attitude or his money, not his fists. Seems like maybe he’s a wiser man.”

“Than me?” Ross sputtered. She couldn’t mean it.

“I don’t understand, Ross!” She ignored his question and plopped down on the bed next to him. Yes, it was tired resignation. “Why is George Warleggan such a menace to you all of a sudden?”

“It’s hardly sudden. He’s been after Carnmore for years, and now? Now, his shadow lurks over the Trenwith Poldarks too. He’s interfering with my family…”

“I thought we were your family. Us--here at Nampara?” she interrupted.

“Demelza,” he exhaled, frustrated that he couldn’t find the right words. “Of course, you are my family...”

“Yet it was a threat from George to Elizabeth that provoked you…” she began.

“Demelza…” he sighed.

Again she ignored him and after a quick eye roll, continued. “Sorry, a threat to Elizabeth and Uncle Charles made you hit him?”

“No, that wasn’t it.” It hurt to shake his head.

“Whatever. Okay Ross, take your shirt off entirely,” she ordered and rose to her feet again. “Trousers too.”

“What are you doing?” he asked. Without thinking he obeyed her command and began the valiant struggle to free himself from his clothes. It took longer than he expected and he was grateful when she removed his trousers for him so he didn't have to bend over.

“We need photos of your injuries. In case George does pursue charges, we’ll have a record of the damage he did to you.” She’d pulled her mobile from her pocket and began taking pictures of his nose, his mouth. She tilted his head to get a better angle of his eye, then she gave him a soft kiss on his temple.

She had no idea how much he needed that--or maybe she did.

“Okay, now your hand. Consider it evidence,” she went on.

“Evidence that I hit him,” Ross said, then taking a chance, he held his hand up and flashed his more imploring eyes. She took the bait and gave his knuckles a kiss.

“Now for your side, I need more light. Can you stand? Or maybe lie down? No, sit up but just turn this way…”

“Ugh!” he groaned, unable to hide the difficulty in even a slight twist of his torso.

“Ross! Fucking hell! If it hurts that much to turn...”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

Without touching him, she took a few snaps of his ribs, then sat down again. This time it sounded like a sigh and whimper collected in her throat.

“Ross,” she said, her head slipped into her hands.

He rubbed her back, aware that he was now soothing her. He’d prefer to take her in his arms but doubted he had the mobility to pull that off.

“Demelza? I know you’re angry at me…” he began.

“No, Ross. It isn’t that simple.”

“You think that I'm not listening to you…”

Intrigued, she looked up and raised one brow. She was clearly listening.

“I am--I mean, I do listen,” he said.

She put her hand on his thigh. It felt good, mostly because he welcomed her touch but also because his legs were among the only parts of his body not throbbing in pain.

“Yes, Ross,” she said softly.

His heart sank. It wasn't what she said, but what she didn’t say.

Of course.

She’d grown up in a household of unpredictable anger and physical brutality--a world she took great pains to leave behind when she came to Nampara. For Ross to cavalierly and unapologetically engage in that very same behavior, was not just a disappointment, but a betrayal of her trust. She had to know the man she loved wouldn’t ever bring violence into her life--even if he was capable of it.

He had to show her.

“Demelza, I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I won’t ever again...”

“Don't make promises Ross. Just try your best,” she said softly. “And just know that I can’t stand to see you hurt.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said and squeezed her hand.

“And George Warleggan certainly isn’t worth all this,” she snorted.

“No, he’s not,” he agreed then felt the need for some levity. “I’ll choose better enemies in future.”

“Oh?” It worked. She was amused.

“Like...an angry bear. What if I promise to only resort to violence again if I need to defend you from a bear?”

“Bears have been extinct on this isle for 1500 years,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Wolves?”

“No wolves--gone since the 16th century.” She smiled at yet another factual triumph.

“I’m always impressed with how much you know,” he laughed. “You really did pay attention in school, didn't you? Okay...only if I need to defend you from a madman…”

“Close, but still not quite good enough. It would have to be a madman with a knife,” she suggested. “Or of course a madwoman--with a knife.”

“That sounds fair,” he nodded and took her hand again, tracing her fingers with his thumb.

“Ross, love, lie down and I’ll get you some more ice.”

“I don't want ice. Just your kisses.” He suppressed a groan as he managed to stretch out on the bed.

“Oh?“ she laughed. “Kisses won’t bring down the swellin’ or ease the pain.”

“Yes, they most certainly will ease it. They’ll give me pleasure.” He pulled her down level with him.

“But I might hurt you!’ she cried and began to pull away.

“No you won’t. I’ll show you. Start here.” He pointed to a spot on the side that had managed to escape injury from left-handed George.

“Yes, Ross,” She gingerly kissed his external oblique then pulled away with a giggle.

“Now here.” A little lower. This time she lingered a little longer.

“And here…” Ross knew those lips and what they were capable of. He closed his eyes and struggled to let himself go.

Her open mouth on his skin moved him but he tried not to react too much to the exhilaration. Even small movements brought agony. Her hands were no longer tentative, and with inspired strokes, she traced along the noticeable groove his ligaments made connecting his middle to his groin.

Without waiting for his directive, she moved a few inches inward along his waistline and gave another kiss.

“Now my tummy.”

“Tummy?” She looked up at him, eyes bright, teeth gleaming in an uncontrollable smile.

He’d never used that word with her before to describe his abdomen. She seemed to see he was aiming for a laugh and was willing to play along.

She kissed his navel, careful to stay on the unbruised side of his body.

“Yes, tummy.” He pointed to the shadowy region that crept up from the top of his boxers.

“Um Ross? That’s not your tummy.”

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 3

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~5,400

Warnings: Blood

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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Lilah deliberately did not take any care in how she dressed. She wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, same as she always did. Tennis shoes. Ponytail. Chapstick. Foregoing a purse, she slipped some cash and her cell phone into her pocket, refusing to look at herself in the mirror hanging on the far wall of her bedroom.

The room, itself, was small, with an en suite bathroom, tucked into the back of the restaurant. It was one of the only occupied rooms on the main floor as Lilah was one of the few people living there full time who could have windows. Her queen sized bed was pushed up against the far wall, covered in blankets and pillows.  Lilah had spent a very long time living in motel rooms, jumping from team to team, job to job. When she finally got a place where she felt comfortable enough to settle down, she realized how much a creature of comfort she actually was.

With her cut of every job she went on, Lilah made a single purchase towards her little sanctuary. Her most recent score was a candle that she hid behind a stack of books on the nightstand next to her bed. Caramel Macchiato. She’d picked it up in the store, inhaled, and felt something inside snap so hard that she had to buy it immediately. Lilah didn’t have the courage to burn it, too afraid the others would somehow figure it out. So, she would occasionally slip the top from the glass and take a breath before replacing it carefully. Her own little guilty pleasure.

Thinking that she couldn’t stall anymore, Lilah flicked off the light and headed out into the bar proper, noting that she was the last to arrive.

“Is this how you want to take a meeting with our mortal enemy?” Seth said as he shrugged on his coat.

Lilah glared, “I don’t want to take this meeting at all.  Kate’s right, though. You need a voice of reason in that room.”

The woman, herself, wasn’t present. Lilah hadn’t pressed her for any further details of her time spent possessed by an immortal being. Kate hadn’t offered, either. But, Lilah noted that Kate did look at her just a little differently from time to time. Something softer in her gaze. Something secret. Lilah took those looks and hid them away from prying eyes. She only hoped that the others were too preoccupied with their own shit to notice.

“Hey,” Richie cut in, “I can be a voice of reason.”

“You’re just as likely as he is to go in guns blazing,” Lilah responded as she walked decidedly past them and out into the night.

The sleek black car Seth had washed every weekend by one of the bar staff was parked haphazardly in the mostly empty lot, the bulk of their usual crowd not due for a few hours.  She opened the driver’s side door and shoved the seat forward, sliding in to the back of the coupe. Seth slapped at the seat, and Lilah pulled back so that it didn’t hit her in the knees. He dropped down into it and shut the door, Richie not far behind.

In the few days since the letter had arrived, Lilah had done a remarkable amount of research. Brasa had set up a base of operations that looked more or less permanent. What surprised her was how close it was to them, two hours’ drive through the desert. Like Seth and Richie, he’d purchased a bar as a front and was operating some sort of company from it. Trucks came in on Tuesdays, delivering product that was packed in large metal boxes. She never got a clear look at it, though she was tempted to send one of the culebras that was loyal to the Geckos out there to get a peek. She noted that culebras visited throughout the week en masse, a startlingly large number, given that the bar wasn’t even close to the nearest town. Some of them looked to be transient, but there were others that looked like they had settled in the region.

The product never left, though, which was weird. It came in, like clockwork, but nothing ever left. Lilah had followed one of trucks to a gas station and had gotten close enough to lay down a GPS tracker, but the thing had failed. She still couldn’t figure out why.

They weren’t using the normal methods for money laundering, either. The bar could be considered a cash establishment, but their bank accounts looked solid, at least on the surface.  If Lilah could get a good look at their books, she might be able to figure out how Brasa was supporting a business that was serving the majority of the culebra population outside of the Gecko stronghold at Jed’s.

“You’re awfully quiet,” came Richie’s voice, a teasing note beneath the words.

Lilah snapped out of her thoughts, looking at the back of his head, “I’m just thinking about how we’re going to approach this.”

Seth lifted a hand, forefinger stabbing at the air, “We’re going to let him talk. He’s got a plan, we’ll hear it, and then decide if we want to be a part of it.”

So, the plan they’d had at the beginning was still the plan.  That, at least, was comforting.

“And if we don’t?” she edged quietly.

He shrugged, “We get the hell out of there.”

Easier said than done. They were going in virtually blind. No idea of how many were inside, no idea of the firepower they might have, and only one way in or out.

“And if its a trap?”

Richie held up a pistol she knew had been hand crafted with specialized bullets that would take down a culebra, if fired at the heart. His smile was self-satisfied in the way that told her he’d forgotten that she was still human and very killable.

“We got back up.”

Lilah’s jaw worked, “You’ve got back up. I’ve got zilch.”

This was true. Lilah didn’t much like guns, but she carried them whenever they went out to do a job. She never recovered the gun Brasa had taken from her, and every pistol she’d fired since then hadn’t felt right. Her thigh felt bare without the holster, her body exposed. The rush order she’d put in with their local arms dealer for the exact same gun hadn’t yet arrived and she was too stubborn to bring a gun that didn’t even fit in her hand right. Her aim, already questionable, would be shit, anyways.

Seth made a derisive sound, leaning over to dig into a bag on the floorboard by Richie’s feet.

“You know, I could get that for you,” Richie drawled. Lilah knew that tone, a soft needling that he sometimes resorted to when he wanted to get a rise out of his brother. It was an attempt to lighten the mood. An attempt that did not work.

“I got it,” Seth grunted as he righted himself, frowning.

Through the seats, he handed Lilah a knife tucked into a sheath, “Take that. At least its something.”

Lilah ran her hand over it, the handle was intricate silver, the leather worn but still in good condition. There were little straps that she could affix to her forearm so that she could hide the weapon with her sleeve.

Carefully, she buckled the knife in place, pulling her sleeve down over it and holding her arm aloft to ensure it was as concealed as it could be. Lilah wasn’t much good in a fight, but she knew one or both of them would cover her while she ran.  It was a testament to how fucked they thought this might go that they’d even brought her along. She was a good talker, far better than either of them. If they were actually going to broker peace, she’d need to work as a lead.

When they arrived, Lilah stared at it. The parking garage was the only way in or out. The entrance was wide enough that trucks could back right up to drop doors, unload, and then drive right back out again. Seth pulled in, spun the car around, and backed into a parking spot with a clear view of the exit. At least he was being careful. This boded well for whatever happened next. She glanced at the back of his head. He was sober, too, which also gave them a leg up in this mess. Drunk or high, Seth couldn’t be controlled. Sober, at least she had a chance.

Lilah waited for Seth to step out of the car, taking his hand as helped her up. He pulled her close, leveling a serious look at her.

“First sign of trouble, you run. Richie and I can handle ourselves, but you run. Got it?”

He’d said the same thing on their first job, robbing a minor drug dealer to get some extra cash for inventory at the bar. Lilah smiled and said the same thing that she’d said to him all those months ago.

“Duly noted, boss.”

He looked at her another moment longer, then nodded and let her go, shutting the car door and joining his brother near the front end.

“Lilah, entrance?”

She nodded towards an elevator, “Only way in is through there.  No stairs down, I checked.”

On cue, the doors opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The suit was immaculately tailored, a soft baby blue that was accented by the purple of his button up and tie. Lilah scanned him—Rolex, Italian leather shoes, what looked like a real diamond in the tie clip.  The whole outfit screamed money in a way that was just this side of ostentatious. She caught the pinky ring—the other side of ostentatious, then.

“Mr. Gecko, Mr. Gecko,” he looked at Lilah, “Ms. McNamara.”

Well, shit.

She knew she’d only given Brasa her first name, but here this guy was, calling her by her last. Lilah frowned at him. She wasn’t the only one who had done her research.

“Who the fuck are you?”

She almost made a sound of censure at the bite in Seth’s tone, but they were already moving. The brothers stepped in front of her, working as a unit. Richie put his hands in his pockets, and she knew he was casting the man a hard look. Seth’s arms were at his sides, but his coat was unbuttoned so that he could get at his firearm faster.

“You gonna answer?”

The man, shorter than both brothers, shorter than Lilah (even though she was tall for a woman), was effortlessly cool, “I am Javier. Lord Brasa has asked that I bring you to the conference room.”

Lord Brasa, Lilah scoffed to herself. Fucking pretentious fucks.

“Well,” Seth prompted with a flicking gesture of his hand, “Lead the way.”

Javier smiled, fingers touching the button of his jacket nearest to the lapel, “Of course. If you please.”

The elevator doors were still open, the carriage looming in front of them. Lilah resisted the urge to touch the knife strapped to her forearm as she followed all three men inside. The floors were marble, the fixtures glinting with gold. More money screaming at her. Where did it come from? How were they running their scheme?

There was a ding and the door opened to a dimly lit bar. The tables, the bar top, the stage, everything was cast in red glow. It muted the dark of the wood, softened every edge in a way that made the room blur in a dreamy way. Lilah kept close to her friends, moving through the room to the back, where Javier opened a door.

The hallway was just as dark as the room behind them. Neither of the two men in front of her hesitated, so Lilah continued following, flinching when the door closed behind her. Javier led them through a few turned to a nondescript door, which he opened, gesturing for them to enter.

Catching the way Javier looked closely at her as she passed, Lilah breathed deeply, barely containing the growing disdain for the man. He smiled serenely.  She got the distinct feeling he knew way more than she wanted him to know, and that unsettled her. They were already on an uneven playing field. Every second she spent in his presence made her feel more unbalanced.

Brasa was already sitting at a long rectangular table when they arrived.  He stood as they approached, one hand remaining on the wood. Lilah noted that he wasn’t wearing his coat, though the gloves remained. He was, as seemed his habit, dressed in all black.

“Welcome,” he said amiably, though he didn’t smile.

Seth’s gait slowed to a swagger, and Lilah very nearly rolled her eyes as he slid a chair out and sat, Richie taking his place beside him. She pulled out the chair on the other side of Seth, sitting carefully. Brasa waited a beat, then sat as well.

“What do you want?” Seth asked.

Brasa leaned forward on his forearms, hands folded, “I can tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want another endless war. I don’t want to see my people hunted. I don’t want any more killing between us.”

Lilah watched his face as he talked. His voice was calm, even in a way that told her he wasn’t attempting to dissemble. His body language was guarded, but that was to be expected.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Seth replied, jaw set.

Brasa looked at him, unblinking, “I want peace. I have people to care for. My attention needs to be on them, not on fighting off every attempt to kill us.”

Seth smirked, “I wouldn’t say ‘attempt’. We’ve been pretty successful.”

Richie nodded, “Very successful, in some cases.”

Lilah felt her mouth thin at the boast. Telling Brasa that they had been killing off his people wasn’t conducive. She wondered if they intended to talk peace at all, or if this was a very dangerous scheme to irk their enemy. Her fingers itched to touch her knife. She resisted, barely.

“That’s right, Richie. Got a whole nest, what, six months ago?” Seth’s tone was conversational, bordering on jovial.

“We did, indeed.”

Jesus, she thought. We’re all going to die down here.

Brasa’s eyes closed briefly, and Lilah could tell he was annoyed, though he telegraphed nothing with his body.

“The point is,” he asserted, his fingers flexing with the third word, “I’m offering to stop the fight. A complete cease fire, if you will.”

“Why?”

Oh, God, why are you talking?

Brasa’s eyes flicked to her, his mouth twitching. Lilah sensed his amusement, felt it brush against her mind as clearly as any physical touch. Beneath the table, she lifted her toes, the urge to haul ass out of the room riding her hard.

“My kind were made for war,” he explained, “Bred for it, bound to it. We had no choice in the matter. Now, I can make that choice. I can stop the cycle, at least in this dimension.”

Lilah very carefully avoided the fact that he had just confirmed there were other dimensions. Though she had gotten a little background information on Xibalba, she hadn’t yet put it together that it was co-existing somewhere that wasn’t Earth. That put a lot of her reading into a very strange and very mind bending context. Focus.

“That’s it?”

His head cocked to the side, “Does there need to be more?”

“There’s always more with you people,” Seth interrupted blithely. “We just don’t know what it is yet.”

Brasa smiled a very small smile, “Perhaps. But, at this time, this is all that is on the table.” He tapped the wood with a knuckle.

“So,” Richie prompted, pulling a pack of cigs out of his jacket pocket. He tapped one out along with a Zippo lighter. “What are your terms?”

Leaning back a little in his seat, Brasa lifted a shoulder, “As I said. Complete cease fire on both sides. We’ll outline our territories and keep to our sides.”

Richie took a drag, considering. Lilah watched him mull over the words, his keen intellect working his way through the problem.

Seth sneered, “You gonna keep killing humans, while you’re at it.”

Brasa shook his head, “No need. We have our own supply.”

The trucks. That’s what he’d been bringing in on Tuesdays. A blood supply, but from where? The shipments were massive, would feed far more than she’d seen coming in through the garage. Unless, there was another entrance, something underground, perhaps? She hadn’t seen anything, not even in the blueprints she’d managed to snag from the city.

Seth looked unconvinced, “You say you’ve got people. How many? How are you going to feed them all?”

“That is my concern,” Brasa answered levelly. “Your concern is that your people adhere to the terms of our agreement.”

Richie flicked ash, saying, “I’ve got some terms to add.”

Brasa’s brows lifted, a silent urge for the other man to continue.

“I want no interference with bondmates. None whatsoever.”

Lilah had no control over the way her heart thudded, and she knew two of the three males in the room were hearing it. Though he didn’t look her way, she felt Brasa’s attention shift over to her, felt heat rolling towards her from where he was sitting.

His lips parted, “How do you mean?”

Richie stubbed his cigarette out on the wooden table, “We both know I’ve completed my bond with Kate. I don’t want her to be a target for retribution.”

Ah, there it is. Lilah wondered if Richie would bring Kate into this. She was the silent voice in the room, a key player in absentia. With what she knew about their interaction, it made sense that Brasa might want a little vengeance.

“Kate,” Brasa began, curtly, “Is not Amaru. And, neither am I.” He drew in a breath, “But, I agree that bondmates must be left out of any disagreement, no matter how fierce. They are too precious to be used as bargaining chips.”

Richie stared hard, his mouth thin, nostrils flared. After several long seconds, he gave a nod, indicating his satisfaction.

“Are there other terms you want to discuss?” Brasa asked.

Seth gave a little sound of thought, “I’m sure we’ll think of something along the way.”

Here, Brasa’s eyes lit up, “I agree. I would like to implement the use of an ambassador during the drafting of our treaty. I will send one of mine to you, and you will send one of yours to me.”

At this, Lilah felt Javier step up to the table, though he didn’t say anything. Seth glanced at the man, tongue touching the back of his teeth. Lilah could feel how they’d been boxed in, though she doubted either of them knew just how it had happened. Or, why.

“Why would we need to do that?” This came from Richie, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

For the first time since they’d entered the room, Brasa relaxed. Lilah felt a little jolt of fear go through her. Relaxed was not going to go well for them.

“I have either brokered or been present during the brokering of many, many peace treaties.”

“And, how many of them have you broken?” Seth bit out.

Lilah felt her throat work around a noise she’d been holding back for a while. A short, guttural sound that meant ‘shut the fuck up’. They were almost through this, and if he could keep from pissing Brasa off, they could maybe end out with a good deal.

Ignoring the comment, Brasa continued, “In my experience, the first draft is rarely accepted as the final. It will go through several revisions before we add our signatures. The use of ambassadors is standard practice.”

Seth took a moment, staring Brasa down, “Who do you suggest?”

Brasa lifted a hand, indicating the man beside him, “Javier will suffice for us. He knows my expectations. And for yourself?”

“Richie’ll do it.”

The man in question scoffed, leaning over to talk lowly with his brother, “I’m supposed to be running point on our other projects. How would I have time to draft a peace treaty?”

“You don’t sleep, Richard.”

“I do, too, sleep.”

“Like two hours a day.”

“That’s still sleep, you asshole.”

Lilah touched her temple, knowing that they’d come to an agreement eventually.  She’d just have to listen to them bitching about it for a bit first. Across the table, Brasa hid his smile behind his hand, dark eyes glancing at her. She avoided his gaze.

“This project will likely take several months, and extensive ongoing meetings,” Brasa said eventually, leaning his chin on his hand casually, “Can you spare your brother for that long?”

Seth paused in his bickering, his brain working around the problem. Lilah watched his expression carefully, waiting. The furrow between his brows relaxed and she knew he had it. He looked at her and she knew she was going to hate what came out of his mouth next.

“McNamara,” he muttered. She was already shaking her head, “You do this all the time.”

“I negotiate our cut when we pull jobs, Seth. Its not the same thing.”

“Close enough,” he responded quickly, turning in his chair to look at her head on. “You know what we’ll accept, anything else you can run past us.”

Lilah stared at him, though her attention was straying to the heat creeping up the side of her neck to her cheek. It took effort to keep from shifting away from it, the unfamiliar weight disconcerting. She felt her resolve crumbling under the pressure.

“Seth,” she breathed, “Richie’s right. You’re an asshole.”

Then, she turned in her chair and faced Brasa, “I’ll do it.”

She sensed more than saw his satisfaction. They had just given him something he wanted. Lilah was unsure how she felt about that.

“Good,” Brasa announced, rising.  “I have an initial draft in my office. I also have a separate office for your ambassador. I will show her both, and then you may be on your way.”

“Hold up,” Seth said, rising, “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lilah grumbled, already circling around the table. “Besides, he’s got a lot to lose, if he kills me.”

No one needed to know just how much Brasa stood to lose with Lilah’s death. She let the implication stand in the deadened air, though. With more confidence than she felt, Lilah stood before him, waiting for him to lead the way.

After casting her another assessing look, Brasa turned and moved towards the back of the room. Another set of doors, another hallway, and she was stepping to a massive room that looked like it was carved right out of the earthen stone.  She was entering it from the side, about ten feet of rock separating the front of the room from a pool of water that was bisected by a walkway.  Cast once more in a red glow, the walkway led to singular desk with two plush chairs.

“Good work out there, by the way,” she commented, uncomfortable with the extended silence.

He looked back at her and smiled. Lilah had to swallow back the shock of how young he looked when he smiled like that. She knew he was ancient, knew that he’d seen things she couldn’t even fathom, and yet...his boyish pleasure at the compliment was so evident that it washed all of that away.

“That wasn’t work,” he replied, moving towards the desk, his hands slipping into his pockets, “That was a negotiation.”

Her eyes narrowed, “For the treaty?”

“For you,” he answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Lilah bristled, “I thought bondmates weren’t going to be used as bargaining chips.”

Brasa huffed a short breath, turning and leaning against the desk, “Its been weeks, Lilah. Forgive me if the separation has made me brash.”

What he’d done wasn’t brash. It was cool, calculated, efficient. He’d maneuvered not only the peace he sought, but a guarantee of her nearness within ten minutes. She was in over her head. She was in way, way over her head.

Licking her lips, Lilah approached him with all the wariness that she would give a wild animal, “What do you want from me?”

He looked at her a moment, “Time.”

“Time?”

“Yes,” he confirmed with a dip of his chin, “Just time.”

She thought about it, “Then, I need something from you.”

Lifting from the desk, he stood up straight, “Name it.”

“Discretion. I know those men out there. I know what they are capable of. If you really want peace between our people, they cannot know how you and I are...connected.”

He considered it, and she could tell that he was on the verge of refusing. This was a proud male that she was dealing with, someone who’d fought a long time to get where he was. The little bit that she knew about bondmates made the request seeming somehow unreasonable.

“You ask too much,” he murmured, taking a step towards her. “I have already given you more than I should.”

She was bewildered, “A few weeks? Is that more than you should? This is my life we are talking about.”

Heat blew at her, his anger a physical thing, “This is my nature we are talking about.”

His words were lowly spoken, but filled with such an undertone of severity that Lilah couldn’t bring herself to reply.

“I am Xibalban,” his hand cut across the air, “It is my right to claim my bondmate when I find her, no matter the circumstances.”

“And, what about my rights?” Lilah sneered, arms crossing.

Brasa took a deep breath, centering himself. Then, he took another breath, his eyes focused and she could tell he’d already formed another deal to make, “I’ll need something from you, to keep this secret.”

Ice moved glacially down her spine, a cold kind of fear. Her skin pricked with awareness. She jerked her head to the side, indicated for him to continue.

“Blood,” he stated, “Blood and bond.”

There was a soft lilt in the way he said it, a hint of ritual. Lilah’s jaw clenched as she waited for more information.

“I need to assured of your safety, of your strength, when you are not with me. I have many enemies, and if they discover you are human—if I haven’t fortified you properly—they will kill you. We will have a blood exchange when we meet, every time. That is what I want from you.”

Blood. Time. Discretion.

Lilah nodded, “Done.”

He was satisfied, but he was not pleased. Lilah could read it in the shift of his body, the ash in his scent.  She waited, unsure of how happy she was with the arrangement.

“We will begin now,” he announced, a blade already in his hand.

Lilah closed her eyes, working to keep her instinctive reaction at bay. An angry Xibalban with a knife was not to be taken lightly. Before she could react, he appeared in front of her, taking her arm—the arm with the knife strapped to it. Lilah didn’t have the ability to pull back as he lifted the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She did have the ability to glare at him as he laughed.

“What were you going to do with this?”

“Well,” she deadpanned, “Shooting you didn’t quite work out last time. I figured another method might be more effective.”

He flashed his teeth at her, “I applaud the effort.”

“Thanks.”

Letting go of one arm, he took up the other, peeking underneath the fabric. Satisfied that she wasn’t harboring any other weapons, Brasa pushed it to her elbow, glancing at her for her readiness. Lilah gave a nod, hissing when the blade went through her skin.  This cut was deeper than the last, though just as precise. He brought the wound to his mouth, sucking gently.

Lilah didn’t know how to feel about the way her body reacted to watching him drink from her. There was an alien revulsion to the act, itself. Mentally, her brain screamed that she was in danger, that she had to get away. The primal part of her brain, the thing that was deeper and stronger than any other, ensured that she stayed right where she was.

He groaned against her skin, and she felt the vibration of it go right through her, rolling along her arm and over her chest. His body was so close, the scent of coffee and caramel all she could sense. Lilah kept trying to breathe, kept trying to remain upright. When she wavered, his arm went around her waist, pulling her into a broad chest. Her free hand gripped his shirt for balance.

Too late, and too soon, he pulled away, his tongue lingering over the cut a moment longer. Lilah swallowed, eyes wide, when he looked at her. The black had taken over the whites of his eyes again, and though his lips weren’t pulled back over them, she knew his fangs had dropped. She held her breath.

Without a word, Brasa slipped the button at the cuff of his shirt through the buttonhole and rolled it up, blade slicing through his forearm. She almost said no. She almost shoved him away and ran full sprint back to Seth and Richie. His eyes stopped her.

Brasa’s eyes, black as they were, were so wide and beguiled that Lilah had to stop and stare. He was looking at her with such unrestained awe, such grateful affection that she made no move to resist as he guided her to his own skin.

Lilah wished it had been a fluke. She wished that her memory of how good he tasted was so distorted by adrenaline and fear that it couldn’t even come close to reality. He was...exquisite. Honey thick, and twice as sweet.

She had to stop this. She had to get control. Turning her head, Lilah tried to get away. His hand slipped to the back of her neck below her ponytail, a firm grasp.

“More than a mouthful, this time,” he murmured against her temple, “More, Lilah.”

God help her, but she took it. Swallow after swallow, her eyes squeezed shut, words of praise sounding her ear. When he finally allowed her to lift her chin, she struggled to breathe. She didn’t know how long she’d been at it, only that his taste remained, coating every inch of her mouth.

His arms held her steady, “You did so good. So good.”

Lilah felt her body overheat, sweat forming on her temples. His face swam in her vision, so close she could feel the vibration of every word he said. Though her sight was blurred by the intensity of what she was feeling, Lilah could absolutely tell that he was still wearing that expression of awe, that he was looking at her as if she were the entire world. And that scared her.

Drawing on years of experience with unstable and dangerous situations, Lilah righted herself, rasping, “I need to get back. They won’t wait for long.”

Brasa ran his hands down her arms, the action serving to compose his demeanor. Assured that she could stand on her own, he stepped away towards his desk where he picked up a thick file.

Handing it to her, he explained, “This is the first draft. Take a look at it and we’ll discuss edits.”

Javier was standing near the door as they walked out. He handed Lilah a Gatorade with a smile. Lilah’s eyes cut at him as she took it, thumb and forefinger already twisting off the cap. She’d have to get more details on that man as soon as possible. He was definitely more than he seemed.

It wasn’t until they were almost home that Richie finally turned around in the front seat and cast her a curious gaze, “What happened in there? You haven’t said anything.”

Lilah caught Seth looking at her in the rearview.  

She shrugged, “He showed me an office and handed me the file. He wants to see our edits as soon as we have them ready. I’m going to look at this tomorrow and let you read what I come up with.”

He wasn’t satisfied with her answer. Lilah could tell by the way he sucked his teeth. She didn’t care. She had much, much bigger things to worry about.

[moodysnowflake]

Hello there!

Warning guys, nasty SPOILERS ahead, both of FFVII (+ Remake) and FFVII Crisis Core.

The severity of spoilers is arguable, it depends on the level of involvement you have or you got in the series, so please be aware that what you're stepping onto might be a wildflower lawn as much as a war minefield.

I saw, read and heard a lot of people complaining about Cloud's dancing scene/minigame, grumbling about how:

1. Stupid it was;

2. Degrading it has been;

3. Zack would have been disappointed.

Let's take it in strides, shall we?

1. Stupid? I'd rather say silly, more than stupid. Stupid means doing something that you've no idea how/why you're doing. FFVII never made that a mystery: there was a goofy vibe in the original too, and that was on purpose. You couldn't handle the story otherwise, it would just have been a mess of violence, death, tears and blood. Light moods are needed for you to recuperate, recharge batteries and balance. Otherwise, we all would've ended up like Sephiroth.

Character perspective wise, Cloud might not have understood from the beginning (as much as I love him to the bottom of my essence, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer - that's also why Sephiroth can do what the fluff he wants) what the hell Aerith roped him into, but when he gets the idea he accepts it (in his very Cloud way) and faces it with one of the most determined look he has ever sported. He's willing to let himself be dragged on and about the stage by Andrea, because he knows this is for Tifa, so it doesn't matter if he has to shake is ass in front of a bunch of strangers. He never really cared about his reputation since Crisis Core; he doesn't care about what people think, he's doing it for the woman he loves (shut your trap, he loves her as much as she loves him, he just needs time to untangle himself from his nightmares - and someone smacking him on the head really hard).

Secondly, player perspective wise, is it really such a stupid section? How many did manage to get a perfect score on the very first try? Camera speed, moves and angles pulled some interesting stunts, didn't they? Tricking your depth perception, together with the lights going bananas. Even if they weren't; everything has been coordinated and perfectly synced with the music. If you'd refrained for two seconds from blabbering insults you would have noticed that you could've actually used lights as another cue to help you sync, with the music and Cloud's movements. It's called peripheral vision, you need to expand your focus as much as you can and split it both on the background and the forefront. That gives your brain the capacity to better throw information at you so you can react faster, 'cause you're actively trying to remain perceptive of your surroundings too. Just like in battles.

If that shooting dynamic would have been present during battle, nobody would have survived, not even a doomrat.

2. Talking about degrading. Did Cloud strip naked? Did he have to put on a honeybee outfit? As much as he was very uncomfortable, Andrea (a.k.a. the game) pushed him only up to the limit that still felt secure enough and over which it could have been really perceived as abusive. Andrea could have done that and Cloud would still have obliged (because Tifa) but his objective was not humiliating him. He wanted to play with the dangerous SOLDIER, over which he, paradoxically, even for a tiny bit, had the power and control. Still, he didn't overdo nor overuse it (that is some good representation of a BDSM Dom, btw).

Moreover... I mean... Did you really look at him? Those were not exactly noobs moves, he nailed that too (but that's something I'll talk about next).

About the dresses: are you seriously complaining about them? I admit that the black/white one is not exactly the best (but it's your fault for ditching all Wall Market's quest... you had it coming), and I prefer the blue corset one over the lilac/black silk.

Point is: you have to sneak a guy who's built like a fucking BRICK WALL into Corneo's audition. How in the ever-loving hell are you supposed to do it? The only things playing in Cloud's favor are his facial features and his height: he's the smoothest skin I've ever seen, light jaws and is compact enough not to stand out too much among average-height girls, but that's it. He has shoulders and muscles for days. You have to cover him as much as you can, and how would you do that, if not with a broad gown, puff-sleeves, and a corset? If you're wondering about the chocker/high neck+thick necklace: it covers the Adam's apple, genius... And all the frilly, shiny laces of the lilac dress and the extensions are needed to divert the attention from his neck, clavicles and forearms, otherwise, you'll notice the buff.

That's why he had to look like a Victorian maiden.

Putting him in a catsuit, with latex or leather stretching over every inch of skin, or a sundress, with arms and legs on display... That would have been a bad idea.

Andrea is talking about not being afraid, and that's an awesome message: if you feel comfortable and beautiful, why not doing it? If you're happy, do it. It's not your problem if other people are insecure about themselves and try to pick on you because they're afraid and, most of all, jealous of your confidence, identity, and fortitude. They're just disrespectful and sad, and you should avoid them like the plague.

And again, Cloud doesn't seem that much fazed about it. I think he's more annoyed than anything; having to move in that huge-ass skirt, squeezed in a corset which is not letting you breathe and turn around would make everyone who's not used to it lose their shit. Women or men, regardless, it's a pain either way, especially if you're a fighter and need to move freely. Also, if you notice, the heels he's put in are not that much higher than his combat boots... Sure, they're thinner, but that's why he's not wobbling like a newborn calf. Did you see him swaying through the streets? That was some awesome heel-walking.

What ended me was how he was moving after he woke up. Have you seen how completely ungraceful he is, and at the same time fluidly stands to check on Aerith and doesn't trip over his own feet? In a dress like that, being that agile is shamefully amazing. Then, he swings like he's in the SOLDIER uniform, spine blocked because of the corset, moving his center of gravity too much because of too broad steps, awkwardly bobbing, switching too much weight from feet to feet, getting his stance rigid. That's precious. And hilarious af.

He has to held still as much as he can to try and convey the feeling of being scared, but we know he's just trying really hard not to wreak havoc in the audition room and slaughter everyone.

(Despise lighting, which being warm oriented would have mingled with the blue of his irises and shift them to green, I still believe that in that scene his eyes were going mako. In some millisecond-split moments, they seem to really flash out. That's hella relatable: you're using all your self-control not to cut open the scumbag who's lusting and sniffing and drooling and being awful to your friends. Plus, you're being groped and talked down too? The only thing you can do is look, and boy does he Glare™

(Cloud is not afraid/disgusted of other men touching him, but people seem to forget it. He just doesn't want Corneo to touch him. He doesn't move when Andrea touches his lips nor react when he swings him around in the dress, he doesn't move when Biggs pats him on the head on the pillar (I bet he would give everything to have Zack do that again, just one more time...dammit [I know what happens in the final cutscene of the Remake, but the post below this one explains why I think this]), he doesn't pull away when he grabs his hands, and not only he grabs it back, but grasps with the other one too. [Captain Levi vibes, anyone?])

He didn't have control over his eyes and I firmly think he didn't even intend to; he let them glow on purpose, just because that was the only thing he could unleash and nobody would have noticed.)

Cloud dancing is not stupid, nor offensive. Cloud is a loyal, caring friend, who doesn't have prejudices and is comfortable (as much as he can be) with his sexuality and identity that he's not questioning it nor getting scared (and violent) at the situation.

Do I have to dance and dress like a woman to help my girl? If it's the best way, so be it. She needs my help, I'm not gonna let her down. Gonna be a pain in the ass to fight, but I'll manage. I'm not that insecure of myself that a dress is going to make me have an existential crisis.

If you're a man or a male, and your friend/lover/person you cherish would ever be in a life-threatening situation (and this is, 'cause if they were on their own, they would have died), and the only option would be for you to dance and put on a dress to save them, but you refuse because you have to dance and it's a dress... Just a fucking dress... Well... You're not that decent of a friend, nor human being...

3. So. About Zack. If you think he would've been disappointed/disgusted... Are we talking about the same character? 'Cause I think we're not.

Zack Fair, SOLDIER 1st class (previously 2nd), 6 foot and a ladder, black hair, blue eyes, scar on his left jaw. Droll af?

Just because he's a legend, a powerful, passionate and strong-willed person, doesn't mean he couldn't be a quirky dumbass.

The first line said to him in Crisis Core is "Get serious" by Angeal... Angeal who described him to his mother as a PUPPY.

The same guy who jostled his mentor, a fucking SOLDIER 1st class, in front of their boss, when he knew he recommended him.

The same guy who tried to get Aerith on a date after 5 minutes.

The one who grabs a parasol to fight troopers without breaking a sweat.

The one who faked defeat by sixth-grade-Yuffie in Wutai.

The one who dances with the Cactua he summons?

When Angeal discusses the plan and tells him to charge the front gate of Wutai on the first game mission, he's jumping like an over-excited dog.

And, most importantly, the only living being who actually managed to:

- Make Sephiroth care (after Hollander with implanted Jenova cells escapes, he tells Zack Genesis’ copies had been seen in the slums... And with that frigging Knowing™ look, and a smirk, he tells him "Permission to return... Granted", Seph's gentlemanly way to say 'I know you have a girlfriend down there, you should go check on her':

Then Sephiroth says goodbye first

And fucking smiles (Zack wasn’t able to see it ‘cause he was already walking away)

- Yell at him over the phone and live;

- Pull a GENUINE laugh out of him. When they're trying to locate Angeal and Genesis, Sephiroth calls him. The conversation goes as:

S:"You and I are gonna find them [Gen & Angie] before they [Shinra] do, and..."

Z:'And WHAT?!?!' *angry bark, to which Sephirot pulls the phone away*

S:"...Fail to eliminate them"

Z:'For real?!'

S:"[AMUSED HUFF] Yes, for real" *playful mocking of Zack's words*

Okay, that was a huff, BUT STILL... Not even Sephiroth (when he was still a human being...because yes, he was, and a pretty decent one too) was immune to his Puppy Dog Energy. Look. At. That. Smile.

So this is what I think.

The only thing Zack would be disappointed about would've been Cloud not dancing enough.

Heck, he would've jumped on the stage as soon as given the signal and dragged Cloud along, yelling in his face to be heard over the music "This is gonna be great! Let's show them what a SOLDIER can do! We're gonna put all these cute bees to shame!" ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

Then again... If Zack would've been there...if we think about it, a part of Zack was there.

During his childhood and infantry training, I seriously doubt Cloud had any occasion to dance or learn how to do it.

Plus, he couldn't have done it during his 4-years mako-comatose state.

This doesn't leave that many options.

It is very likely that, like his fighting ability, his dancing moves were coming from Zack's memories too.

In a way, we can say that Zack, in the end, was there on stage with him.

Gosh, I'm gonna cry so much... ಥ_ಥ

[adamwatchesmovies]

Conan the Barbarian (1982)

Though 1982's Conan the Barbarian never quite becomes the quintessential sword and sorcery adventure many claims it is, you can see the appeal.

Young Conan witnesses the murder of his entire village, is forced into slavery, trained in the ways of war through gladiatorial combat, and once freed, seeks revenge. With the aid of a brigand named Valeria (Sandahl Bergman) and the archer Subotai (Gerry Lopez) Conan (played as an adult by Arnold Schwarzenegger) searches for Thulsa Doom (James Earl Jones), the leader of a cult who worships snakes.

What is Conan the Barbarian like? The promotional art tells you everything you need to know. A hulking muscle-bound hero raising a sword into the air. A sword. Not a gun or a crossbow, but a weapon used to violently cleave the life out of one’s enemies while they can see the rage in your eyes. No armor is necessary for this warrior. No shield either. He is the embodiment of manliness and by his stern expression, you can tell that he means business. At his feet, a beautiful, scantily clad woman with a sword. It's the embodiment of every red-blooded teenager's fantasy: consistently violent, gritty, and gory with many attractive actors/actresses, plenty of nudity and of course, sex.

The look is perfect. Dusty, cob-web covered skeleton in armor, huge snake adorned temples, ancient ziggurats, shady-looking marketplaces, brutal torture chambers, and seedy gladiator rings are the cornerstones of Conan's world. The casting is spot-on. Schwarzenegger is perfect as a hero that is unshakably stoic and single-minded. James Earl Jones has that unearthly quality in his voice that makes him simultaneously charismatic and sinister. Special effects-wise, it's quite good for the time and budget. Knowing that when Arnold was spearing Thulsa Doom’s pet, he was in an actual dusty, stone-covered pit, actually wrestling with a scaly puppet filled with fake blood and guts makes you all giddy inside in a way no CG creation could.

“What is good in life?” Conan is asked. He replies, “To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of their women”. It’s barbaric but I love it. This is just one of several memorable bits of dialogue. The score is also excellent. Just thinking about it gets me revved up for some bloody adventures.

All those qualities are needed to outweigh the weak performances. Schwarzenegger has charisma but he sounds like an actual barbarian trying to read Shakespeare. He manages a lot better than Sandahl Bergman as his lover/partner in arms whose acting is non-existent. She looks the part, but yeesh! You may also find yourself wondering where things are going more than once due to the uneven pacing. With the ending comes a big surprise, but I wish director John Milius had taken a cue from the Ray Harryhausen adventures and given us a big monster battle to really wow the audience instead..

Though some would say it's too violent and R-Rated for teens, Conan is perfect as that movie you watch with your friends late at night when the adults have gone to bed. You’ll be so excited to see Conan bedding all of these amazon women and triumphing over murderous tyrants you won’t notice the bad acting. Its rough edges might be what makes Conan the Barbarian a cult-favorite. There's plenty to genuine like about it too. (On Blu-ray, July 2, 2015)

[disregardcanon]

tangled jesus christ superstar au: cass as judas

note: i might actually write a cassunzel fic called “it was beautiful but now it’s sour” after the line in too much heaven on their minds.

cassandra thinks that she’s finally found something worthwhile when she meets rapunzel and her friends. they’re working towards a greater goal, trying to help people, and maybe… just maybe. get a liiiitttllleee bit of glory. just a little bit. as a treat

but then, rapunzel starts taking in lots of former felons. an absolutely notorious pair of thieves, eugene (mary magdelene) and lance (comes with eugene so) join the crew, lots of people are not thinking about Doing the Right Thing but just being a part of rapunzel’s posse, and of course. people are claiming that rapunzel is the daughter of god, so. that’s not great for cassandra’s pride.

cue “heaven on their minds” with more resentment, and rapunzel’s like “hey these are my friends too and i have to help everyone” and cass is like. screeching.

things keep getting louder and more dangerous, with less helping people and more causing scenes like assaulting people at the market for desecrating “my father’s temple” and cass is like. i swear to GOD if you keep saying you’re the daughter of god i’m going to lose it. say it one more time, and rapunzel who is jesus is like grinning and saying “if you say so” and cass is going to lOSE IT

they’re not properly helping people, they’re getting loud and causing attention, and cassandra feels Not Listened To and Unimportant and Jealous, so. she’s a little vulnerable.

high priest zhan tiri (caiphas) is like. hey so. i talked to god the other day and he says you have a very important destiny. and cass is like. yeah. you talked to god. and zhan tiri, very determined to get rapunzel out of the way because she’s making waves and also in the know on prophecy is like yeah! of course! that’s what high priests do! and cassandra’s not sold on it, but she tells zhan tiri she’ll think about it.

then. palm fucking sunday. people fanning and worshiping and the authorities are coming for them, and rapunzel won’t LISTEN TO HER! and cass is like. okay. okay. destiny. let’s look into that

zhan tiri offers her a chance to have rapunzel brought in and questioned, and to have her talked out of this daughter of god nonsense, if cass will only identify her with a kiss on the mountain. it is written that you have to talk the pretender down and then she’ll just do Good Things again and you’ll be a hero for quelling a revolution and getting her to be nice again.

cass goes to the last supper, where rapunzel is very passive aggressive and obvious about the fact that she knows that cassandra is going to betray her. cass is like okay then just FIGHT ME. and rapunzel smiles tightly, “this is going to happen no matter how i react. i just have to accept it. you’re going to betray me”

cassandra says, “FINE MESSIAH! I WILL!” and stomps off to alert the authorities that rapunzel’s going to be on the mountain tonight. after rapunzel is off singing gethsemane, cass and the guards climb their way up the mountain to meet rapunzel when she comes down.

cass comes up to rapunzel, and her eyes are wet with tears.

“is this what it takes to get a kiss?” rapunzel asks, voice strained. cassandra comes up, and kisses her with more passion than is really required. she feels a little breathless when she breaks away.

“it was my destiny, raps,” cass tells her. rapunzel smiles sadly at her, and then one of the guards grabs her and drags her away.

“i know, cass. and i still loved you” then rapunzel gets dragged away. and then, cassandra finds out that she’s going before PILOT, not simple questioning. she forces her way through crowds shouting “CRUCIFY HER! CRUCIFY HER!” and sees scores of guards and it suddenly dawns on her what really happened.

she stomps through the crowd and finds zhan tiri, shoving the woman against the wall.

“you lied to me,” cassandra hisses, and zhan tiri just laughs.

“this was your destiny, cassandra,” she says, “to bring the savior to her undoing. you’ll be known as the greatest traitor in history, and i will get everything that i wanted.” cassandra is dragged off of her by a pair of guards, and zhan tiri grabs a bag of coins.

“here. your fee,” she says, smirk covering her face, “this was part of your destiny, after all. pretty good wages for one little kiss.” cassandra hurls the bag of coins straight at her face. zhan tiri dodges them, and she laughs and laughs.

“this is your destiny, cassandra,” she says, “it always has been.”

here’s my favorite snippets from this song that are Very Cass (Christ has been substituted for raps)

Raps! I know you can’t hear meBut I only did what you wanted me toRaps! I’d sell out the nationFor I have been saddled with the murder of youI have been spattered with innocent bloodI shall be dragged through the slime and the mudI have been spattered with innocent bloodI shall be dragged through the slime and the slime and the slime and the mud!

My mind is in darkness now - my God, I am sick! I’ve been used!And you knew all the time!God! I’ll never ever know why you chose me for your crimeYour foul, bloody crime!You have murdered me! You have murdered me!

cue some hanging, and then cassandra just. discoing it up and demanding that god tell her Why The Fuck He Did The Jesus Thing In A Way That Made No Sense And Also Fucked Both She And Rapunzel Over. but that’s it, there’s no explanation! there’s just rapunzel christ, superstar where everyone gets fucked over except zhan tiri. surprise!

[marvelandimagine]

In My Home

Series summary: After Wakanda opens its borders, you begin working in Shuri’s lab as part of an all-women STEM program, and you meet a certain White Wolf. What starts out as mutual bonding over science turns into much more than you ever could have anticipated.

Pairing: Bucky x scientist reader

Word Count: 3,400

Warnings: Language, PTSD

A/N: I think this is the longest first chapter I’ve written in my life oops guess that’s what happens when you’re gone for two years!! I regret nothing. Bucky POV coming in part 2! Loosely inspired by “In My Home” by Young the Giant.

“Please, you powerful little receptor, I am BEGGING you to bind with this epinephrine, BEGGING YOU.”

You cross your fingers and peer into the microscope, only to be met with what feels like the 100th disappointment this week. No positive binding. No responsiveness. Nothing.

Your foot connects with the side of your lab table, increasingly faster with every syllable you yell, causing Francesca, the new program recruit from Spain, to quickly inch her chair away from your adjacent work station.

“GOD DAMMIT YOU MOTHERFU—“

“Good results?”

You halt mid kick and turn to face Shuri, her eyes lit up in amusement as she surveys you over the rim of her Starbucks frappucino with a loud slurp––they’ve been her new obsession ever since Wakanda opened the borders and built one two blocks from her lab. As much as you’ve grown to bond with her in the time since she invited you to work in Wakanda as part of her new all-women biotech research program, in this moment, you have to truly fight back the urge to slap the drink out of her hand.

You collapse into a desk chair, trying your best to joke as usual with your new friend but find your words coming out gritted anyways:

“What, no coffee for me?”

As if on cue, three handmaidens appear holding recyclable trays of various caffeinated beverages for the team, who cheer and abandon their current projects for a moment to collect their drinks in a flurry of movement.

One of the handmaiden approaches and you sheepishly accept your cold brew, grimacing at Shuri in a way that you hope reads, “Sorry, I’m an asshole.”

Shuri snorts and rolls her eyes, but her tone is light:

“Colonizers. Always so impatient.”

She nods over to your desk.

“And not just with Starbucks orders.”

You let out a frustrated exhale.

“Shuri, I’ve been here for two months. I have the most advanced resources and tech on the planet at my fingertips, and yet I still have nothing concrete to show for it––nothing to show you for it.”

Your tone gets quieter but maintains its intensity.

“Look, you brought me here because I know you know that, if I can get this, we can change lives everywhere––and not just soldiers, but anyone trying to work through PTSD or severe trauma. Being able to de-intensify the physiological response to triggers to shorten dissociative periods or even get rid of them so we can get a stronger sense of normalcy back, to lessen that fear and strain even a little -- that’s worth the long haul, I know it’s a long haul, one that’s worth the setbacks and sleep deprivation and madness because that’s science and I love it, but, I don’t know.”

You sigh before taking a sip of your coffee.

“I just thought I’d be farther along, that’s all.”

Shuri grabs a chair and wheels it to face you.

“Do you know how many trials it took before I got the nanotech working seamlessly in brother’s suit?”

“Knowing you, probably three.”

“Four, actually.”

You groan and cover your eyes but Shuri drags your hands away from your face, clasping them in her own.

“Let me finish! Do you know how many trials it took for me to get the remote access functioning in the Kimoyo Beads?”

“More than four?”

“759 to be exact, and they still have much room to improve. My point, Y/N is to not be discouraged.”

She looks at you seriously.

“I would not have brought you here if your body of work was not excellent. The work we’re all doing” — she turns and gestures around the room of women who have all returned to their respective stations, coffees in hand and intently focused on various glowing blue projections of statistics and diagrams hanging in the air, the sound of rapid keystrokes and odd hisses and bangs echoing around the room. “we can only know so much until we know more, yes?”

As if on cue, you feel a rush of heat move past you as Francesca hurls the flaming, mangled remains of what looks like a helmet into the sink, flinging on the spray faucet and wiping her brow as her ruined demo piece hisses with smoking finality.

You turn back to face Shuri.

“Point taken.”

You rest your chin on one hand, shaking your head slightly.

“Why are you so wise?? You’re 13 years younger than I am and dropping some real life truths.”

“The real life truth is that I think you need a break.”

You laugh and take another sip of your coffee.

“I can’t say I disagree with you.”

Shuri grins, her eyes lighting up with mischief.

“You know who else needs some fun in their life?”

“Who?”

“Bucky!”

You swear internally as your heartbeat immediately quickens at the sound of his name, averting your eyes as you spin your chair away from Shuri, but she scoots herself closer.

“I’m sure he would loooove to spend a whole day with his favorite scientist.” Her grin widens. “And I’m sure you would loooove to spend a whole day with your White Wolf.”

You roll your eyes, trying to stop yourself from smiling and failing miserably, which only seems to delight Shuri more as you shake your head with a half-assed:

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re friends.”

“More than friends!” Shuri yells, poking your shoulder in quick succession. “You do not look at friends the way you look at each other! I took that broken white boy all over the city, show him my lab, and he says maybe three sentences—to me, the girl who saved his brain —but for some reason, he has no problem asking the American a million questions about science and tech and how her work is coming.”

You feign as much nonchalance as you can in your response, but you can’t help how light your chest feels at her acknowledging Bucky’s supposed eagerness to talk to you.

“You said it, we’re both American, maybe he just feels more comfortable--”

“Comfortable enough to spend hours sitting with you while you work, hmm? And you, letting him, you, the same woman whose shouting made W’Kapi look like an antelope in headlights when he came for my tech upgrade and got too close to your samples!

“Hey, I apologized, but I was not about to redraw 10 vials of my blood that got contaminated all because some border security chief decided -”

Shuri presses on.

“The first time I saw Bucky smile was when he was with you, and you two go on walks and eat lunch together,” Shuri crosses her arms with a broad grin as she delivers her final piece of what she evidently deems as damning evidence, “and I know you are the only person besides me and brother who has gone out to see him.”

You open your mouth and close it, your brain firing on all cylinders to come up with some kind of argument, any kind of argument, to deflect away from your relationship with Bucky. Because thinking about it, talking about it, made the way you felt whenever you were together that much harder to try to ignore.

But you’ve got nothing because, while you can’t speak for him, you know Shuri’s right. You don’t just like him as a friend. You like him way more than that, want him way more than that. But you aren’t sure you’re ready to deal with all of that.

You didn’t anticipate catching feelings -- you didn’t even anticipate meeting this quiet, attractive stranger. It was a few months earlier, only a few weeks into your stay in Wakanda. The combination of excitement and anxiety and the time change had meant you weren’t sleeping much, so you went into the lab early to get some work done. You were in the zone — with the lab all to yourself, you were able to comfortably spread out your work across tables and even onto the floor, blaring your “productive playlist” at full volume as you ran through your latest brain scan videos and blood samples.

Your phone pinged and you checked it to find a message from Shuri:

“Gonna be in late -- Bucky is supposed to be in at 6:30 for his scan, so just tell him I’m behind.”

Shuri had briefly explained the situation with Bucky to you last week, and while you found yourself being fascinated by the logistics of how Shuri deprogrammed decades worth of conditioning, you also felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and empathy for what he had been through. When Shuri suggested bringing him as a data sample and to see if he’d consent to participate when your clinical trial took off, your head instinctively agreed, but your heart won out, telling her that you still weren’t close to a full-fledged medication, and, besides, you thought the guy had been treated as an experiment for so long—you didn’t want to add to that, not when, based on what Shuri said, he was finally in a semi-stable place to heal.

You were still definitely curious to meet him, though, so you texted back an “ok” but found it odd that she didn’t just tell him herself. The thought faded, though, as you quickly became absorbed back into your work.

You didn’t even realize the time that had passed until you heard the gentle woosh of the lab doors sliding open, barely audible over the growling, fast-riffed Rise Against track that was currently playing:

“Do you still believe in all the things that you stood by before?

Are you out there on the front lines or at home keeping score?”

Would you care to be the layer of the bricks that seal your fate,

or would you rather be the architect of what we might create?”

Bucky didn’t see you at first, but you saw him. Even just from his side profile — his hair, his beard, the muscle clearly prominent even underneath his dark clothes — you thought he was gorgeous.

You did your best to keep your cool, though, as you walked out from behind your lab table in the back corner, turning off the music with two taps of your fingers in the air.

“Hi, Bucky?”

He whips around to face you, and your initial impression attraction to him was only heightened as you were met with a pair of brilliant blue eyes, but you were also thrown by the panic you see in them, how fast his posture shifts to defensive.

You held up your hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you — I work here.” You gestured to the back corner of the lab, his eyes following.

“I’m Y/N, Shuri’s latest recruit. She told me to tell you she’s gonna be late for your scan.” You smiled, hoping it would ease his tension, and it seemed to work because he unclenched his fist. “You can hang out wherever, and don’t worry about bothering me— as you can tell by the sound from when you walked in, I thrive in chaos.”

He just stared blankly at you, seemingly uncertain of how to respond.

Uncomfortable in the silence, you turned away to go back to your corner, but stopped as he asked quietly, but with genuine curiosity:

“What are you working on?”

You looked back and he actually gave you a small smile, and you were surprised to find your cheeks warming up.

Your panic about feeling all kinds of things over a solitary smile must have read on your face, but Bucky misinterpreted it as reluctance, and so he quickly backtracked:

“You probably get asked that all the time, I’m sorry, I don’t want to distract you.” He averted his eyes and your brain finally caught back up to speed.

“What? No, it’s totally fine!” You sat down at your desk, wheeling over another chair. “C’mere. I’ll show you.”

And that’s how it started. For whatever reason, as you went on and on in excitement about your project, about how you collected 500 data samples back home, about how you were now working with binary augmented retro framing, Bucky got more and more relaxed around you, asking questions and laughing at some of your jokes. And you felt more and more relaxed with him, falling into a rhythm that felt both comfortable and utterly exhilarating. You were pleasantly surprised by his sense of dry humor that matched his own, and any man who openly admired your work got an automatic extra few points in your book.

And when Bucky paused and asked why you were doing all this work on PTSD, you still felt somehow just as comfortable as you were joking around with him as you were then candidly sharing about some of the things that happened to you. You were normally pretty open about the trauma in your story, but you were usually pretty brief, even in the support group you went to. But here, with him, captivated by this newfound connection you felt, it was easy to not just share, but to truly open up, and not just about what happened, but what you had been doing to try to heal and move forward. And you were floored when he reciprocated—Shuri told you he was pretty shy, but here he was, telling you some of things that kept him up at night, about how he felt like, even with Shuri’s work, what he had been through still felt like it was always pressing on him, like it would always be engraved into his bones.

You hadn’t even realized that an hour had passed by the time Shuri came into the lab, apologizing for being late but saying she was glad you two had finally been introduced.

“So am I,” Bucky had murmured quietly to you, and you smiled in a daze and nodded in agreement, trying to still maintain your composure because what in the fuck was happening here between you two already, this felt like it could be something, even though you had no intention of looking for something when he walked into the lab. It was dizzying and overwhelming but it lit you up from the inside out, beaming back at him as he asked if he could come back to see you—see your work, as he adjusted quickly, and so you gave him your number and said he was welcome to come up anytime.

And he did. And you weren’t an idiot, you had a pretty good sense of when a man was interested in you, and it certainly felt like that as you kept spending more and more time together -- the way he looked at you sometimes made you feel like passing out and grabbing his face to make out at the same time. But still, there was that hesitation, the uncertainty and anxiety -- what if you were wrong? What if he genuinely just appreciated your company, liked having someone who had been through similar shit to talk to? What if that was it and nothing more?

All of this runs through your head as you sit there, and you realize there’s it’s pointless to try to refute a fact backed by evidence. You liked him. You really, really liked him. And if there was a chance he felt the same, if an objective third party like Shuri even sensed something romantic between you two—maybe it was time to stop hiding behind your fear.

“I --” You run your hands down your face, knowing you’re going to feel both defeated and liberated by your admission, “fuck it, yeah, ok you win. I like Bucky.” You sigh, the words rolling off your tongue seeming to solidify how you felt inside, making it even more irrefutable. “Goddammit.”

Shuri throws her fist in the air.

“HA! You admit it, more than friends!”

“Shhh, Jesus, I can’t speak for him, but yeah, maybe, I don’t know, just keep your voice down!” you hiss, pushing your palms toward the floor as you crane your neck to see if anyone is paying attention, but they’re all too absorbed in their own work.

“Not maybe, definitely!” Shuri grins, resting her chin on her hands. “So, take the day off, go spend it with him. I’m sure one of you will crack and finally break the sexual tension.”

You groan and cover your eyes, shaking your head. “Oh my god, we’re not having this conversation.”

You look up, your anxiety getting the best of you.

“But I don’t even know what we should do for the rest of the day.”

“Ah, but I do! You should go to echibi elikhulu -- the great lake. Baba used to take mother all the time when they were younger.”

You frown, confused.

“Where is there a lake in Wakanda?”

Shuri chuckles.

“Well, technically, there isn’t one -- not on any map, anyways. Just because we opened the borders doesn’t mean we gave away all of our hidden treasures to the rest of the world.” She smiles, clasping your hands, “But I will certainly tell you about it in the name of true love! Only if, and I mean, if, you tell me EVERYTHING that happens.”

You laugh and shake her hands emphatically, touched by her willingness to share this piece of her home with you, with Bucky.

“Deal.”

You still feel nervous, but it’s mostly excitement now as you think about not only getting to enjoy the beach, but to be able to stop dancing around your feelings for Bucky -- if you had the courage to finally admit it to him, and he reciprocated, it would absolutely be worth the time away in the lab.

Shuri jumps up from her chair. “Then no time to waste! You can take my Jeep, I’ll program the GPS to get you there and back.” Her tone changes suddenly to businesslike. “You go home, shower, change, and get your things ready, and I’ll meet you outside in 45 minutes.”

You tilt your head to the side slightly, trying to work out the final aspectt hat’s puzzling you.

“Why do you care so much about us getting together?” You pause, quickly adding,” And I don’t mean that to sound shitty, I’m just curious.”

“Y/N, when I know something can be improved, I want to help. You both have suffered, and you each seem to find peace in each other -- you’re good for each other. I think you’d be happier together and could even heal better together then just as ‘friends.’” She smiles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And, also, then I could say I set up the cutest colonizer couple in the country.”

You smile back. “I appreciate it.” Your tone softens. “Really, I do. Thanks for the push.”

“You’re most welcome. Now go! I’ll see you in a bit.”

You quickly grab your backpack from your lab table, shoving in notebooks and folders before you swipe your coffee of the counter, give Shuri a wave, and power walk out the door.

You laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, how agitated you were this morning compared to how you were nearly bouncing down the street in anticipation now, the prospect of exploring a new and beautiful place with Bucky and finally telling him how you felt buoying in your chest.

You felt determined, you felt like you might throw up, but above every emotion and thought racing around inside you, you felt hope.

[rookieinbflat]

Stowaways

AN: I feel much better about this short fic than my last one, so I hope you guys like it too!

Ethan x MC (Levin Stern)

WC: ~2000

Levin is asleep in the front seat of Ethan’s Jaguar, she’s not been sleeping well since the start of the second trimester of her pregnancy, often complaining of headaches, nausea and back pain. All very common for a woman of her age, height and weight carrying twins but nonetheless, Ethan feels completely and utterly helpless to do anything to ease her pain. He tries to ease the uncomfort as much as he can but there’s only so much raspberry sorbet and shoulder massages can do. Levin is grateful never the less, she knows how far out of his way he goes to please her, like going to the linen store to get a soft blanket and cushion to keep in his car for drives like this. The older doctor doesn’t mind it when she falls asleep in the car, he loves driving, it's cathartic for him. He would drive across the country if he could. He plays Clouds by Debussy on the car's speakers and though he is yet to find enough scientific journals to confirm the long term neural effects of classical prenatal music exposure, he’s sure it can't hurt.

They’re going to spend the weekend with Levin’s family in Fairhaven, she gets very homesick when she’s feeling ill and this week has been riddled with headaches and cramps. So he took the weekend off to spend it with her, even though she’s fully capable of driving and it’s still very safe, Ethan feels much more at ease when he accompanies her on trips like this. Her parents live on a small block of land only a few minutes drive out of Fairhaven, the land is lush and green and whenever they’re there, Levin and Ethan feel immensely at peace. The stress and weight of the hospital are not on their shoulders, they spend their days on the farm soaking up the sun or horseback riding, though Levin might have to wait a bit longer before she can get back in the saddle. Ethan loves it here, the smell of fresh cut grass is his favourite but it’s not something you smell often in Boston. Levin’s older siblings are spread across the world, so it’s only the four youngsters occupying the house but Isa has made sure that Levin’s room remains untouched, awaiting her next visit patiently. Ethan loves Levin’s teenage room, the decor is green and lush like a forest with stunning photos she’s taken from her global living adorning the walls, lit up by strings of fairy lights. He’d never imagined he’d love the look of a room like hers but that’s what it is: hers. Ethan feels like he’s taken a step inside her mind, the serene part of her brain, that dreams in the sound of crashing waves and foggy mornings, dew on the long grass and rain hitting the roof.

Ethan loves Levin the most when they’re here.

The drive to Fairhaven is without trouble or excitement when they arrive at the small hobby farm just outside of town, Ethan shakes Levin’s shoulder gently, surprised she wasn’t awoken by the bumpy trip down the dirt drive. Levin rubs her eyes and pulls on her scarf before stepping out of the car and as if on cue, the front door to the farmhouse blasts open and Isa and Edda run up to greet the pair. They’re about to attack Levin with affection until they stop just a couple of metres short, remembering the two extra guests, stowed away beneath layers of skin and cashmere.

“Woah, your belly is really big,” Isa has a look of awe across her face and Ethan chuckles, moving to tousle her hair. She has obviously dressed herself today as she sports a bright silver skirt with farm boots and a Batman shirt.

“Our little stowaways are getting pretty big aren’t they?” Isa wraps her hand in Ethan’s as he leads the Stern women back inside the house, where Levin’s mother is now standing by the door, holding the dogs from escaping out into the yard.

“It’s rude to call out someone’s weight you big dork,” Levin retorts to the ten-year-old who laughs softly watching Levin navigate the stairs going up to the porch with a careful pace, leaning back into her steps.

Edda pipes up beside her, she had the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes and anyone who’s ever seen them says so, “I think you look gorgeous Levy,” Edda is beautiful inside and out, she’s a soft, empathetic soul and a bit of a sad sack at times, but she levels out the craziness of the Stern clan. Levin squeezes her hand as she makes her way over to the door, her mum enveloping her in a warm hug, she smells like Christmas morning - cinnamon and nutmeg. She must be making cinnamon rolls.

“Oh my lord, Levin, look at you!” Kina exclaims and holds her daughter at arm's length, Levin will be the first of her children to give birth to twins, “How many weeks now?” She asks as she leads Levin into the warmth of the farmhouse.

“Twenty-six weeks, not long to go now,” Levin replies as she walks towards the kitchen, on the hunt for something - anything to eat. The pregnancy cravings have got her eating more now than when she stress ate her way through the medical entrance exams and the final season of True Blood. Levin plants herself on one of the cushioned stools surrounding the kitchen bench, pulling a banana from the fruit basket less Ethan throw a fit over her not meeting prenatal nutritional needs. “Actually, I was hoping you could come up to the city next weekend, Ethan is going away for a medical conference and I’ll need help setting up everything in the new house,” Levin asks Kina as she brews a pot of tea, Edda has disappeared but Isa remains faithfully and loyally attached to her sisters side.

“Can I come? I promise I’ll be the biggest help!” She looks up at Levin with puppy dog eyes.

Levin has already demolished the banana by now, “Gotta ask mum dorkface, she’s the one that’s got to deal with you,” She hands the banana peel to Isa who dutifully disposes of the scrap in the compost bin.

Ethan is leaning against the kitchen counter chucking to himself, Levin has Isa completely entranced, ready to go to war for her fearless older sister, no task is too big or small for Isa to show her unending adoration. He knows that Isa has the same effect on his Rookie, who just last week, cried when she heard that Isa had the flu and she couldn’t go and take care of her little sister.

“I’m sure we could find something for you to do at the new house, maybe you could help set up the nursery?” Kina replies and Isa squeals with excitement, scaring the dogs and every human within a five-mile radius.

Ethan helps Kina make lunch, roast chicken with all the accompaniments and they take it out to the dining room to serve everyone. Marti, who is sixteen now has come out of her room to socialise, she’s studying hard to get into sports medicine and the ACTs are coming up soon. Jos, Isa’s twin brother, only speaks in four-word sentences and doesn’t sit still for long, he’s got pretty intense ADHD and keeping his attention for more than five minutes is more challenging than anything Ethan has encountered in his medical career. They sit around the table and debate on what to do for the rest of the afternoon - Isa wants to play board games, Edda wants to play lawn bowls outside, Kina thinks they should all sit in the sunroom and paint. Levin’s mother is an amazing artist, using art as her therapy on a daily basis, more often since she quit smoking cigarettes last year.

They decide on board games on the porch, so that Edda and Jos can run around as much as they please when they finish up with lunch, Levin forgoes boardgames to nap on the hammock, its the comfiest she’s felt in days. Isa and Ethan set up a game of Scrabble and as the game progresses, he’s sure this kid will run the world one day. How the hell does she know the word ‘liaison’?

“Are you excited for the babies?”

Ethan puts down his next tiles then looks up towards Isa, “I’m extremely excited but I’m also a little nervous,” he tells her truthfully, “I didn’t grow up in a large family like you and Levin, I haven’t had much experience with babies,” it almost feels like he’s talking to Levin when they have conversations like this, it’s like she has managed to clone herself into a pocket-sized version of Levin, though this version is almost more sassy than the original.

“I think you’ll be a good dad and me and Edda and Marti will help you, we know all about babies,” she nods with strong assurance, “plus you’re a doctor so you’re super smart so you can be good with babies,” Ethan chuckles at this as he tallies up the new score.

“I know a lot of babies in theory but the practice is a new field for me, Isa, I can tell you how many fingers and toes they have right now, but I don’t know how to stop them from crying when they come out,”

A look of wonder crosses Isa’s soft brown eyes, “You know what they look like right now?” Ethan can tell she’s completely forgotten about the board game as she leans across the table, “You have to tell me.”

Ethan leans across the table now too, resting his weight on his elbows, “Well,” he begins, “they have a thin layer of hair over them called lanugo which keeps them warm and they can hear things fairly clearly now - they know how to cover their ears if there’s a loud sound out here in the environment. They also open their eyes soon and they’ve fingerprints now as well,” the more he goes through the specifics of the babies life in utero, the more Isa’s face lights up, Ethan can see the cogs in her brain turning, trying to figure out what they look like and what it all means.

By the time they begin to finish their conversation, it’s well into the afternoon and almost time for the kids to wash up before dinner, the Scrabble game is long forgotten. Levin wakes from her slumber on the hammock and makes her way over to where Ethan is sitting, gently perching herself on his lap.

“You know we still haven’t thought about baby names,” Levin muses, interrupting Ethan from the trail of kisses he’s laying along her soft shoulders and neck. They haven’t asked the obstetrician about the sex of the twins, they want it to be a surprise.

“Hm, I guess you’re right, I haven’t been thinking about the names I do like so much as the ones I don’t,” he tells her, pulling her long hair back so he can kiss more of her décolletage, “but for what it’s worth, I like the name, Allegra,” Levin ponders this.

“I love that, I think its a gorgeous name, I like the name Laurence for a boy, Laurie for short,” she is hoping for two boys but she knows a girl would please Isa the most.

“Like Little Women,” Ethan points out, one of Levin’s favourite childhood books, she still keeps a copy given to her by her great aunt on the bookshelf, its pages yellow with age. Ethan would be happy with any combination of boys or girls, he just can't wait for the next and possibly most challenging chapter of his life to start. They sit out on the deck for hours, talking until Levin is almost falling asleep again. He takes her into the bedroom, turns on the strings of fairy lights and tucks a sleeping Levin into bed before sliding in next to her, the room is calm and peaceful with the soft, white glow of the lights as he places a kiss on her hair, “I love you, Rookie,” he murmurs into her hair, she smells like peaches and vanilla, “and our little stowaways.”

[sp4c3-0ddity]

burial rites

Summary

When the mission proves to be a huge waste of time, Pidge suffers.

//or, Pidge and Lance are assassins that get separated when they can't locate their target

Word count:  9325 (one-shot, complete)

A/N

uh yes this starts with whump/torture then goes into some comfort. modes of whump are waterboarding (a bit at the very beginning) and a character (almost) getting buried alive. if you’re uncomfortable with any of that, you may want to give this a pass OR skip to the second scene (just ctrl+f “***”)

my thanks to @rueitae for beta reading and @cgf-kat for validating the whump!! and to both of them for catching my inconsistencies

Read below or here on ao3:

Pidge gasps for breath as water drips down her face and soaks into her hair. Her throat and nostrils burn, so she coughs, searching for relief that can't be found with a drenched rag covering her face.

She tries to shake her head to knock the rag off, but rough hands still force her back so all she gets for her trouble is water up her nose.

Pidge's bare toes uselessly scrape the floor, seeking purchase, her arms wrenched high over her head with a chain looped through the thick rope binding her wrists. She grits her teeth against the nausea and dizziness and spits, "I already told you, I don't know where Lotor is! If I did, why the hell would I have come here?"

She's pleased with the steadiness in her voice even as her whole body trembles, with the cold of the water sliding down her back and the fear gripping her with each second that passes and she still can't assess her surroundings.

She'd guess they're in an unfinished basement, the same one she ventured into against her own - and Lance's - better judgment. And either they found and stole her earpiece - her one link to her partner outside the dilapidated art studio - after she hit her head and blacked out or the water damaged it.

(The last thing she heard through the earpiece was Lance shouting her name.)

"We've heard good things about your firm," her assailant with the higher voice simpers behind her. She lets go, Pidge gasping in shock at the release of pressure on the back of her head, but then thin, strong fingers grasp her chin and turn her face in a direction she still can't see through the rag over her eyes. "The agents have a reputation for doing their research, so if anyone knows where he really is, it would be one of you."

"Your logic...isn't logical," Pidge says, her breath too short. "You just used a cheap trap."

"It worked, didn't it?" the other, gruffer one says. "But we were expecting a hornet, not a mosquito."

It doesn't hurt; it's easy to underestimate her and she learned to use it to her advantage, so Pidge smirks under the rag. "Mosquitoes carry diseases."

"It doesn't matter if we don't let them bite." A blow falls against her face, making her gasp and whipping her head back so forcefully stars dance inside her eyelids. But it dislodges the rag from her face even as Pidge furiously blinks tears out of her smarting eye.

A quick scan of the room ascertains it is a dingy, unfinished basement with a dirt floor and flimsy walls with the boards only partially filled.

"Look what you did, Zethrid," the shorter of the two women chides, gesturing towards the rag. "Now she's seen our faces."

The bulkier woman raises her fist and sneers. "Like she'll be able to tell anyone about us after we're done with her, Ezor.”

A shiver of fear runs down Pidge's spine. Is this how it ends? She's been at this job less than a year, and this was her first real lead...

But no, Lance will be looking for her.

But how long will it take? Pidge doesn't know how extensive the network of tunnels is, not when she dangles from the ceiling of a room she didn't see during her brief survey. How far did they take her from the place at the base of the stairs where they found her?

Ezor steps towards her, a teasing grin on her lips as she trails the handle of her whip down Pidge's cheek. "So if you don't know where Lotor is, maybe there's something else you can tell us."

"Like what?" Pidge demands, her eyes narrowing.

"Oh, Zethrid, who was that one operative that escaped the boss?"

"He was a hacker, wasn't he?" Zethrid says. She crosses her muscular arms, shrugging. "Scrawny guy; wasn't much fun to wrestle."

"Right, that guy!" Ezor says. She claps her hands together, smiling gleefully. "But he was cute, at least, right?" When Zethrid just rolls her eyes and snorts, she turns back to Pidge. "Kind of looked like you, actually..."

Pidge's breath catches, her legs thrashing uselessly, but the chains hold her fast, and she's quickly gasping for air all over again.

"Look at that, Zethrid," Ezor says, resting a hand on her hip and appraising Pidge. "She does know something. What was his name?"

Pidge knows Ezor addresses Zethrid, but she can't stop herself from blurting, "Matt."

Ezor smirks. "Oh, yeah! Want to tell us something about him?"

"Eat shit!" Pidge hisses.

"Wrong answer," Ezor scolds her before her whip whistles through the air and strikes her cheek.

A scream tears out of her throat, more from the shock of rough wire thrashing across her face than the pain. But the fire in her skin comes a heartbeat later, when hot blood oozes down her face.

Ezor leans towards Pidge, her eyes narrowed almost thoughtfully, and observes, "Now they really do look alike."

Does that mean...did Matt receive the same treatment from these assholes? The thought makes Pidge's chest squeeze with fear for him...and anger.

But wait. "You said...you said he escaped," Pidge says. "W-when? From who?"

"Ah, ah, this is an interrogation, not a job interview." Ezor frowns, shaking her head as if she's disappointed. "We had such high hopes for you, didn't we, Zethrid?"

Zethrid just grunts and comments, "So...she's a dud. She doesn't even know where her own damn brother is."

Pidge's heart beats at the back of her head, painfully fast. She breathes shallowly, but refuses to look cowed, glaring up at Ezor. "Worried you wasted your time?" she hisses.

(Because she's worried she wasted hers.)

"Oh, torture is never a waste of time," Ezor says with a cheerful click of her tongue, "but in this case..." She glances over her shoulder at Zethrid. "I'd love to smack her around a bit more, but her partner will be on his way."

And that's Pidge's cue. She sucks as much air as she can into her aching lungs and screams.

Ezor clues in on what she's doing quickly, eschewing her whip and smacking a hand over her mouth. Pidge tries to bite her, tries to kick and headbutt, but she nimbly replaces her hand with the same sodden rag knocked off her face, only now she forces it between her teeth and ties it at the back of her head.

The gag is just one more thing on Pidge's lengthening list of hurts, so she rolls her eyes and glares - wishing looks could kill - at Ezor as she steps back to admire her handiwork.

"What should we do with her?" Zethrid asks. "You think boss lady would be interested in a pint-sized assassin? She can hold her against her brother."

"True," Ezor says with a thoughtful tap to her chin, "but I don't think we can get away fast enough, so ransoming her to her boss lady is out too." She hums, scanning the unfinished room for ideas before her gaze lifts to the dusty light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Pidge's heart thumps painfully while they decide her fate, her stomach tied into a heavy knot of dread. She just dangles from the ceiling, both saliva and blood soaking into the rag that was just lying on the dirt floor, her arms sore as blood drains from them.

Well, at least she's not as dizzy anymore.

"We should just get it over with and kill her," Zethrid says.

It's not surprising, not really. Pidge expected them to kill her from the instant she opened her eyes and they started waterboarding her. But her chest tightens, regret making her heart heavy as she thinks of all the things she never got to do: reunite with Matt, design the perfect surveillance drone, finish Doctor Who with her mother, learn to ride a motorcycle, beat Lance's high score in Pinball...

God, she'll never tell Lance how grateful she is he agreed to their partnership, how she feels about him and his stupid flirty face and his stupid butt.

"Great idea, babe!" Ezor exclaims. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder and adds, "Why waste a perfectly good hole begging to be filled?"

Before Pidge can process the implication in her words, Zethrid smirks and unchains her from the ceiling. She gasps around her gag at the sudden loosening of her stiff muscles, held in one position for too long, but she has no time for any relief when her wrists are still bound together and Zethrid picks her up.

Pidge thrashes against her hold, jerking her fists towards Zethrid's face to no avail. She's beefy and indomitable, barely batting an eye on her muffled shrieks before she dumps her through a hole in the plaster wall.

Pidge tumbles to the ground, her elbows hitting and sending a shock through her arms. She stumbles upright to her cuffed hands and knees, heart racing in her throat and a stupid, pained whimper escaping her. "N-n-n—" she tries to say around the gag.

Dirt flies through the hole and scatters against the wall's other side and the floor. Pidge blinks a few particles from her eyes right as another cloud of dust joins the first.

She inhales some, sputtering through the gag. She presses against the wall as more and more dirt flies in, trying to push herself to her feet. But the hole in the wall is too high for her to even peer through, much less grab with bound hands and heave herself out.

Ezor chatters away on the other side. "You think her partner would know something about Lotor if we ask nicely?"

Pidge shrieks around the gag, pounding her fists against the wall even as the soil and plaster rise higher. Her blood boils with an almost alien rage; if they hurt Lance...

"Doubt it," Zethrid replies with a snort. "He's not a hacker like this one, so he'll be even more useless."

"Then the least we can do is bury him with her," Ezor says. "Wouldn't you like that, tiny assassin?"

Pidge would scream and shout curses at them if she could, but now it takes all her effort to raise her hands over her head, not when the dirt rises to her chest and the gag makes it so hard to simply cough and loosen the particles caught in her throat. She doubts there's a single orifice in her body clear of soil.

Her head throbs and spins again, her stomach turning, her whole body weighed down by the dirt. It's all heavier than she expected even after spending every spring - against her will - helping her mother lug bags of potting soil into the greenhouses.

Pidge uselessly tries to push dirt away from her. She swallows her rising panic, swallows all the pointless sobs that threaten to escape her. She has to live, has to find Matt and return home and—

An unmistakable gunshot rings out, and glass shatters before the room plunges into absolute darkness. And no more dirt rains on Pidge's head.

"Oh, welcome!" Ezor greets. "We were wondering when you would show up, but I wonder...how are you planning on shooting us if you can't see us?"

"Like this," Lance growls before he fires another shot.

***

Lance has killed more people than he can count since he joined the firm. He aimed and pulled the trigger with someone within sight of his scope, muttering under his breath all the crimes they committed without consequence until Allura sent him into the field to end them.

But no kill ever felt like these.

His heart races, blood burning with rage as he fires each shot. The darkness doesn't bother him - his other senses are good, and he can predict their next moves - but it clearly does them, so it gives him an edge.

Air whistles as the big one (he thinks) swings her shovel towards him. Lance steps back, raising the handgun and firing a single shot, a pained groan his reward. Usually he might smirk in triumph, but with his body pumped full of adrenaline and Pidge still out of reach, he can't celebrate.

A whip winds around his left arm, jerking at him, but Lance tugs back. The captor at the other end gasps in surprise, but before he can shoot in that direction, the whip goes slack and the room silent.

Lance stills, holding his breath and body poised to strike. His fingers tighten around the handgun, ears peeled for the slightest hint of sound.

The cocking of a gun greets him before cool metal presses to his temple. "You think you're the only one who gets angry when their partner's hurt?" the same chick that spoke to him demands, her voice harsher.

Lance grits his teeth. "Maybe you should've thought of that before you tried to kill mine," he sneers.

"Oh, honey, there's no tried about it," she retorts.

It's her final mistake.

The next gunshot is his and drops her instantly, but he doesn't bother checking if it did the job since a different frenzy grips him.

Lance flicks on his flashlight and shines it around the small, dirty room, heart pounding in his throat with each sweep that doesn't land on Pidge. A glint of metal chain links dangling from the ceiling fills him with anger all over again, at least until he spots the hole in the wall.

Lance runs towards it, towards a muffled whimper and wheeze that gets louder the closer he draws. "Pidge!" he shouts, reaching through before he even thunders to a stop.

Pidge's dirt-crusted, tear-streaked face stares up at him. He half-clambers through the hole, desperately shoving dirt aside towards the wall, enough that he can free her arms and wrap his around her body to heave her out with him.

They crumple to the floor, Pidge a shaking, coughing mess when he tugs the dirty gag away from her mouth. He wipes dirt off her face with the hem of his shirt, and though she's sitting here with him, her body blessedly warm and alive, his heart refuses to slow.

"Y-you're gonna be okay," he promises her, cupping her cheeks and kissing her dusty forehead.

Pidge nods, but not without a shudder ripping through her. Her fingers latch onto his shirt, and that's when Lance notices her wrists are bound with thick rope.

He fights the fresh wave of anger, instead finding his pocket knife and sawing through them. Pidge gasps when her wrists are freed, rubbing the raw, bruised skin before glancing around the dark room with wide eyes. "W-where did they—"

Lance reassures her, "They're not hurting you again."

Pidge meets his gaze, hers steelier than he expects to his relief. "G-good, but..." She trails off, frowning with something obviously on her mind.

"But what?" Lance demands. "Pidge, they—"

She shakes her head, and Lance decides against pressing, despite his frustration.

"W-we should do something about the bodies before we leave," Pidge suggests in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Y-yeah," he agrees, scanning the room till his eyes land on them, hatred filling him at the sight. "I think I know how."

***

Lance carries Pidge away from the scene, all the way through the dark, labyrinthine basement and up the stairs and out of the abandoned art studio. Outside it's later than when they arrived, at least an hour past sunset, but streetlights flood the area between the studio and their van.

Pidge weakly protested him picking her up at first, citing that he was probably tired after taking care of the bastards who tortured and tried to kill her, but when he held her anyway, she settled against his chest without complaint.

Lance wishes the first time he carried her like this was under better circumstances.

The streetlights throw Pidge's grimy, bloody, disheveled appearance into sharp relief. A grimace twists his lips, hot anger filling him all over again. A deep cut that oozes blood stands out against her cheek, one of her eyes is almost swollen shut, and her other eye is bloodshot. Dirt crusts her lips and skin, flecks of white plaster standing out in her hair, and when he makes the mistake of trying to dust some off, she winces when his fingers brush the back of her head. She looks small and vulnerable - more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her - bundled up in his jacket, and it hurts.

He could've prevented this if he tried harder to dissuade her from venturing into the basement, if he'd been faster to pursue, if he never agreed to the partnership she and Allura proposed, if—

Pidge coughs wetly, jerking him from his thoughts, and leans over to spit dirt-specked saliva onto the sidewalk. She groans, her arms flung loosely around his neck, and complains, "My mouth tastes disgusting."

Lance raises an eyebrow. "That was the grossest thing I've ever seen you do."

Pidge rolls her eyes. "You still laugh at fart jokes."

Heat fills his cheeks as he averts his eyes and mumbles, "They can be funny..."

She snorts but doesn't contradict them.

The van chirps when he unlocks it, and he carefully maneuvers Pidge in his arms to open the passenger door. He deposits her in the seat before his gaze roves over her face, taking in every bit - every speck of dirt or dried blood, every freckle, every eyelash - and not a little worried about letting her out of his sight.

Pidge stares back with wide eyes, color filling her cheeks. "Lance?"

"Uh..." He clears his throat and forces a smile he doesn't quite feel onto his face. "Seat belt?"

"Fine, Mom," Pidge grumbles, tugging it on with a click - but not without his jacket sleeves sliding down and flashing the bruises staining her wrists.

Lance shuts her door and quickly rounds the car, releasing a sigh of relief when he sits in the driver's seat beside her. But the silence that fills the car then is stifling, and he hesitates to turn the key in the ignition.

"What do you want to do now?" he wonders carefully.

"Take a long, hot shower," she says immediately.

"Maybe we...see Coran first," Lance suggests, peering at her from the corner of his eye. When Pidge shakes her head, her gaze fixed on her hands folded in her lap, he insists, "Pidge, you're hurt."

"Obviously."

Lance tries not to take her grumpiness personally. "But—"

"I'm not ready—I don't want to answer his questions yet," she tells him in a low voice.

"Then—"

"Take me home to clean up first, Lance," Pidge says, her eyes finally flicking back to him. "Then maybe we can...go to Hunk's. I would kill for one of his peanut butter-filled cupcakes."

Lance meets her eyes; in them he sees a plea for...normalcy, he thinks. Never mind the nasty cut on her cheek or her black eye or any of the other invisible hurts - physical or not - littering her body.

But he smiles and agrees, "Okay, we'll go with your plan."

***

Pidge can't find a rational excuse for Lance to sit in the bathroom with her while she showers. She walked just fine on her own power from the van up to her second floor apartment and has no problem undressing - reluctantly putting his jacket aside to launder and return to him later - aside from some soreness in her legs and arms.

Except for the stinging cut on her cheek, the swollen eye, the throbbing at the back of her head, and the burn in her throat and nostrils, she might be almost...normal.

But being alone right now fills her with an unreasonable fear.

She forces herself to bear it anyway; it's just a shower! Hot water washes away the dirt still caked on her skin and trapped in her hair, the heat easing the tension in her muscles, but when it comes time to rinse the blood off her cheek, it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. She draws back from the water, her heart stuttering in her chest, and washes the blood off with wet hands instead.

(What is wrong with her that she can barely clean herself without her air getting trapped in her lungs and her heart jumping into her throat?)

She concentrates on breathing, on the even pattering of water drops on the tub floor, and refuses to get lost in a spiral of thoughts. She scrubs and scrubs all the dust and blood and grime away until her fingertips are wrinkled and her skin pink and raw, before she turns off the water and nearly trips over the tub in her hurry to get out and towel off.

Lance sits at her kitchen table - cluttered with surveillance equipment prototypes she “borrowed” from the firm - when she emerges from the bathroom, cleaning his handgun with the same care she pays her tech. But he looks up at the sound of her footsteps, a smile lighting up his face...though worry colors it.

"How're you feeling?" he wonders.

"Better," she says, wiggling her toes and stretching her shoulders. Her heart finally slows and steadies, relieved to be done and refreshed despite her anxiety. She tugs the towel wrapping her hair off and drops it over the back of a chair. "You ready to go?"

"Are you sure you—"

"Yes," Pidge insists. She slips a sweater on over her tank top and shoves her bare feet into a pair of sandals.

She just wants to do something normal, and their post-mission ritual of coffee and cake at Hunk's bakery is normal.

(She also wants Lance to stop looking at her as if she'll break, but she doubts that'll happen after the day's fiasco.)

But then Lance points to his cheek and says, "You're bleeding again."

Pidge reaches up, eyes widening when her fingertips touch a damp, warm liquid. "Oh."

"Told you we should've—" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "Do you have first-aid supplies?"

"Yeah," she says, "in the bathroom." She turns to retrieve them, but Lance beats her to it, pushing his chair back and stepping past her with a few long strides.

He returns with a box of Band-Aids and tube of Neosporin before nudging her shoulder. Pidge takes it for a silent instruction and perches in a chair beside his.

Even though she's perfectly capable of doing something so simple herself, she lets Lance wipe the fresh blood away with a tissue and smear ointment - probably too generously - onto the cut. His fingers are gentle, his breath warm where it brushes her skin, and every sensation sends little shivers up her spine.

Which is a rather...useless reaction to have to someone - even Lance - patching her up, in her opinion. So she holds her breath and avoids his gaze as he sticks three bandages over the cut.

"Coran could've done a better job," he grumbles.

"Probably," Pidge agrees with a shrug, "but this is good enough."

"You'll probably end up with a scar, Pidge," Lance points out.

She tries a smirk on for size, though it feels...fragile and forced. "I'll look cool and edgy," she jokes. "No one will mess with me anymore." When Lance barely cracks a smile, she desperately adds, "I guess the unfortunate side effect is that my good looks suffer."

Now they really do look alike!

Lance's warm chuckle tears her from the depths of recollection. "Not so easy to do that," he says.

Pidge bites her lip, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. She stands and throws away the bandage wrappers, saying, "We going or not?"

Lance holds the door open for her, but before she passes through his hand finds hers. The stupid gesture makes her heart stutter, and she's momentarily breathless when she looks up at him.

"What?" she says, quirking an eyebrow.

Lance frowns, reaching up with his other hand to smooth down one of the bandages on her face. "Nothing! Just..."

When he still hesitates - this is so not like him, and it has her chest tightening in worry - she squeezes his hand and says, "Then come on; Hunk won't be open all night."

***

Lance struggles to drive straight and not veer out of his lane. He can't take his eyes off Pidge - and not for the usual reasons.

He almost lost her to two psychos that tried to bury her alive, so he's not planning on letting her out of his sight anytime soon if he can help it. Waiting for her to finish showering had been hard enough, even when he found something to do with his hands, but a whole night?

At least he's guaranteed to see her in the morning - and make sure she survived the night - when they have to report to Allura for their botched mission debriefing, but now...

Pidge is too quiet, stuck in her own head while she gazes out the window. Lance searches for something - anything - to say that’ll draw her out, distract her, but for once he’s at a loss for words.

Several cleared throats and false starts later, Lance parks the van on the street in front of Hunk’s bakery. He steps out and feeds a few quarters to the meter, grumbling that maybe this time he should put this on his mission expense report - surely coffee and cake is a form of therapy? - before spinning around at the sound of the van’s door opening.

But it’s just Pidge, sliding out till her feet touch the ground. “So…” She shoves her hands into her sweatshirt pockets and nods towards the cheerfully lit bakery. “Who’s buying this time?”

“Me, if I have my way,” Lance says immediately, easily. The familiarity of the question sets him at ease, and it slips them into a routine.

Hit taken, mission complete, unwinding over sugar and caffeine while they chat nonsensically and decide what to leave out of their report to Allura until Hunk chides them for “keeping secrets”…

Lance doubts there will be much of that debate this time.

“You paid last time,” Pidge retorts. She leads the way to the door, and the bell overhead greets them with a cheery ring.

The heavenly intermingling scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, coffee, and chocolate saturate the air inside, almost suffocating in their strength. He inhales and smiles before raising an eyebrow at Pidge and wondering, “Did you even bring your wallet?”

Pidge rolls her eyes but mutters, “No…”

He smirks, already triumphant, and saunters up to the display.

Hunk stands with his back turned, working at the espresso machine. It hisses as it foams the milk before he pours it into a waiting pastel yellow mug. He slides it and its matching saucer across the counter, winking at Pidge. “I was wondering when you guys would finally show your faces,” he says before busying himself at the dessert display.

Pidge stares into the latte. “Is it flavored?” she asks, picking up the mug and staring suspiciously into it.

“Extra caramel, just for you,” Hunk promises.

Lance peers over her shoulder and muffles a snort at the art in the milk: a small face with a zigzagging grin and a pair of obnoxious glasses.

Just like Pidge’s little avatar.

“It’s a good likeness,” Lance compliments. When Pidge shoots him an unimpressed glance, he smiles apologetically…at least until Hunk hands him his own drink.

“What is…this?” Lance turns the mug around, but the squashed heart in his mug only manages to look like an upside down squashed heart.

Pidge laughs and nudges him in the side. “I think Hunk put more effort into my latte than into yours.”

“But…” Lance frowns before glancing up at Hunk and his cheerful smirk. “I thought we were friends!”

Hunk raises his hands defensively. “We are, but it’s late, so next time you want more impressive latte art you come earlier in the day.”

“But Pidge’s—”

“Pidge has a black eye, Lance,” Hunk says. “Of course I’m going to do something nicer for her.”

Lance rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. Instead he looks to Pidge, wary that she might react to Hunk’s observation, but she just snickers and sets her mug on the counter before leaning over and saying, “I’ll have my usual, please, Hunk.”

“Peanut butter-filled cupcake?”

“You got it.”

While Hunk sets Pidge’s cupcake and a chocolate cake donut - Lance’s, per his request that Hunk always “surprise” him - on a tray, Lance extracts his wallet from his back pocket only for Hunk himself to say, “It’s on me tonight.” His eyes drift towards Pidge, gingerly perching at the edge of a chair in the corner with her latte in front of her; he leans across the counter towards Lance and mutters, “She looks like she needs sleep more than caffeine though.”

Lance represses a sigh and instead smiles; it’s not too hard, not when Pidge is safe and with him. “Well, you know our Pidge,” he says. “She’ll drink it and pass out an hour later if she has nothing else to do.”

“Right, well, make sure she doesn’t find something else to keep her awake,” Hunk advises. “I’ll come talk to you guys after I clean up.” Hunk claps Lance on the shoulder before grabbing a washcloth and wiping down the counter.

Lance takes the tray - because who is he to turn down a free dessert? - and takes the chair beside Pidge. He pushes her cupcake towards her.

“It kind of looks like a cardioid too,” Pidge says, tilting her head to look into his mug.

“A what now?” Lance leans over the mug, his head close to hers.

“It’s a trig function that resembles a squished heart when you graph it,” Pidge explains before raising her own mug to her lips.

Lance can’t remember a thing from high school trig, but he grins, a stupid fondness filling his chest when she meets his eyes. “You know, you’re cute when you talk nerdy.”

Pidge sputters into her latte, spraying coffee and milk onto the table. She sets the mug down, coughing, her face turning red. “Th-thanks, Lance,” she stutters.

Lance, startled by her reaction, grabs a napkin and hands it to her. “Oh, shoot, sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Pidge coughs as she accepts the napkin. “Y-yeah, just…how many times am I going to choke in one day?”

Lance’s eyes widen, his stomach turning with guilt because…well, good going, him.

“But, uh, really…” She smiles slightly as she peels the paper wrapper off her cupcake. “Thanks for bringing me here and not to the firm.”

He returns her smile, her gratitude setting him at ease, as they both turn to their desserts. His donut is as good as a donut can be thanks to Hunk’s handiwork, and Pidge obviously relishes her cupcake judging by the speck of peanut butter icing that sticks to her nose.

Lance laughs and points it out for her to wipe away, then wonders why he didn’t just do it for her. Her feet brush his under the table, and the normalcy of the atmosphere unwinds some of the tension in his body. Warmth fills his chest, warmth and an immeasurable gratitude that they can even share sweets and coffee.

Until his shirtsleeve slides down his arm.

Pidge’s eyes widen when they land on the purple strip winding around his skin. Before he can cover it, her hand shoots out, fingers gently grasping his wrist and pushing the sleeve up further. “Lance, when—”

“Must’ve been during the scuffle,” Lance supplies hurriedly. “I can’t remember when.”

Pidge touches the bandages on her cheek with an absent look in her eye. Lance swallows, because he knows where her mind drifted, but before he can bring her back, she asks, “Is there anything—”

“Nope,” he cuts her off, smiling in what he hopes is a disarming manner. He was lucky to get away from that fight mostly unscathed, so he’ll be damned if Pidge fixates on his hurts when hers could’ve been so much worse. “It’s just a bruise, Pidge.”

“So is my black eye,” she points out with a pout that might be cute in any other circumstances.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even notice this until you pointed it out,” Lance says…which is true. He was - and still is - too concerned about her state to care much about a bruise that isn’t even bothering him, so he extracts his arm from her warm grip and tugs his sleeve down to his wrist.

Pidge opens her mouth - possibly to call him out on what’s not a lie - but before she utters a word Hunk slides into the third chair at their table, batting his eyes at Lance. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nope,” Lance says at the same time that Pidge grumbles, “Yes.”

Hunk stares between them before saying, “You two are the reason I only work part-time at the firm.”

Lance gasps, indignant, and presses an offended hand to his chest. “Us? What the hell did we do?”

“Everything,” Hunk complains. “The bickering, the flirting—”

“The what now?”

“—the pranks.” He jerks a finger at Lance. “You were bad enough on your own, but it was all downhill when Pidge quit dispatch and joined you in the field.”

Lance glances at Pidge and wonders, “Are you just going to take this from him?”

Pidge, to his shock, snickers. “Yes, because if he hadn’t retired, we wouldn’t be blessed with his peanut butter-filled cupcakes.”

Lance eyes the distinct lack of crumbs on Pidge’s plate. “I can see how that benefits you, Pidge,” he says, “but the world is missing out on Hunk’s expertise.” He gestures towards his friend - some friend - and sighs. “Why, Hunk, why.”

“I had a higher calling than cutting brake lines and arranging accidents,” Hunk explains simply. His fingers, not often caught still, fold a napkin into a crane. “Baking is better for my nerves too, and if I really want a thrill, I just ask you guys or Keith about your missions.” He slides the finished crane towards Pidge before resting his elbow on the table and smiling. “So…how was today’s?”

Pidge tenses, but Hunk doesn’t seem to notice as he continues, “It must’ve been pretty epic if you wound up with a black eye.”

Lance crosses his arms, irritation crawling under his skin, and retorts, “Not how I would call it.”

“So you showed them?” Hunk grins and pats Pidge on the shoulder…

…or tries to. She shoves his hand aside, pushes her chair back, and announces, “I’m gonna use the restroom. Do you guys want anything?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow, obviously confused. “From the restroom?”

Lance half-stands and asks, “Do you want me to come—”

“Quit coddling me, Lance,” Pidge snaps before spinning around and stalking towards the back of the bakery.

Lance stares after her retreating figure, his heart heavy as he wonders if he should follow anyway. Should Pidge be alone right now? But her parting words sting and he doesn’t want to overstep, so he turns to Hunk and smacks him upside the head.

Hunk glares at him. “What was that for?” he demands.

“Are you freaking blind?” Lance exclaims, gesturing towards where Pidge went. “Can’t you tell she just had her worst mission ever?”

(And the worst it will remain if he has anything to say about it.)

“No!” Hunk says, raising his hands defensively. “I’ve seen you guys with worse injuries; you”—he prods Lance’s chest—“once sauntered in here with a broken arm and boasted that the other guy looked worse!”

A prickle of shame hits him, so he mutters, “Because I got the job done that time.”

“Then…” When Lance shakes his head, Hunk sucks in a breath. “What happened?”

Lance sighs, fresh anger spent, and buries his face in his hands. “It was a trap,” he says. “We spent almost two weeks surveying that art studio, checking for any funny business before going in, but our target wasn’t there. Instead we found two assholes that chained up and tortured Pidge, and they would’ve killed her”—by burying her alive—”if I hadn’t gotten there in time.” His fingers close around a napkin - the crane Hunk folded - and crumple it into a wrinkly ball. “I still haven’t found the nerve to ask her if they wanted information or were just plain sadistic.” He’s sick to his stomach just thinking about it and furious all over again.

Shooting those bastards and burying them dead was too kind a fate.

“God,” Hunk breathes. “How is she walking around after all that?”

“I don’t know, Hunk,” Lance admits. “She’s stronger than that though.” The restroom doorway draws his eye, but there’s no sign of Pidge. “We still have to report to Allura, and Pidge will have to talk about it.”

Because Allura will want to know everything; she’s nothing if not thorough, and if someone is luring the assassins working at her firm into traps, she’ll find ways to make them pay.

“I’m sorry I smacked you,” Lance says. He pats Hunk on the shoulder. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Hunk smiles. “I get it,” he says. “I’d be the same - all jumpy and angry - if someone tried hurting Romelle.”

“Your…fiancee Romelle?” Lance wonders with an eyebrow quirked.

“Do you know any other Romelles?”

With Hunk almost smirking at him, the implication sticks the landing. Heat rushes to Lance’s cheeks, so he does what any self-respecting assassin head-over-heels for his partner would do and buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “It is…not the same thing,” he grumbles into his sleeve.

“Of course not,” Hunk says sardonically, “because Romelle would know that I’m smothering her out of concern because I love her and that she can lean on me, while Pidge might not get that.”

Lance dares to peek at him. “What’s your point, Hunk?”

“She’ll be too shy to ask you for certain…kinds of help if she doesn’t know how deep your feelings go.”

“Are you saying I should tell her?” Lance wonders. “Now?”

“No, not now,” Hunk says, “but you really should soon. I’m just saying that…well, you’ll know what she needs from you better than I will.”

“What if…what if she doesn’t want whatever that is from me?” Lance asks, the very idea making his heart sink. He already feels impotent in the face of whatever trauma Pidge carries - he should’ve gotten there sooner - so what if she doesn’t want anything from him?

Hunk pats him on the shoulder and explains, “The least you can do is offer; if she doesn’t accept, then that’s okay too.”

“Right, I—” he cuts himself off abruptly when a motion in the corner catches his eye.

Pidge finally emerges from the restroom, the door swinging shut behind her, and returns to them. Her gaze shifts from the floor to his face, but the frown on her lips fills him with an odd dread.

“Pidge!” Hunk greets her. “I was beginning to think you fell in.”

She laughs, though it sounds half-hearted and fragile. “Not this time.”

Hunk then stands and wraps his arms around her, engulfing her in a hug without saying a word.

Pidge’s eyes widen in surprise, but she returns his embrace with her eyes pinched shut.

Lance isn’t jealous of Hunk, no, not at all…and Pidge looks so small and almost frightened in his arms that his chest tightens with fresh worry.

At last Pidge steps away from Hunk and turns to Lance, pushing hair away from her face - away from her swollen eye and the bandages standing out on her cheek - and clearing her throat. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Lance.”

Lance blinks, surprised, and rubs the back of his neck, feeling more awkward around his partner than he has since…well, since ever. “Uh, it’s okay, Pidge.”

“It’s not,” she counters. She crosses her arms, her shoulders hunched, and adds, “You’re just trying to help.”

“Do you…want me to take you home?”

Pidge toys with the hem of her sweatshirt as she quietly admits, “I kinda don’t want to be alone at my apartment tonight.”

“You can spend the night in my spare bedroom,” Hunk offers.

Pidge sags and turns to him with a grateful smile. “Do I get carbs in the morning too?”

Hunk grins. “Only the very best carbs,” he promises.

Pidge laughs, a little more strongly this time, but then she looks to Lance and… “Then I’ll…see you in the morning at the firm when we have to face Allura?”

An almost alien panic grips Lance; they have to part so soon? But he forces a smile onto his face and says, “There’s no one I’d rather have at my side.”

Pidge’s smile falters, and for a second she looks like she wants to say something else.

But Lance remembers Hunk’s advice and blurts, “Unless you want me to stay with you.”

His heart pounds while he waits for her to either agree or deny, her face unreadable until a relieved grin stretches across her face. “Yes, I-I”—she clears her throat—”yes.”

Lance grins, but before he can even sag in relief, Hunk rests his hands on his hips and says, “You do realize there’s only one bed, right? You’ll have to share.”

Why the hell does he sound so damn cheerful about that? Lance for his part suddenly feels way too warm. “Uh, well—”

“Perfect,” Pidge says. Her fingers close around his wrist, and she bids Hunk goodnight before dragging Lance towards the stairs.

***

Pidge can scarcely believe there was once a time when she preferred solitude to Lance’s company. When she worked dispatch and had to call him to send him on a hit, he spoke too familiarly though they were near-strangers. Keith would simply grunt, and Hunk would be friendly but impersonal (at least until they got to know each other). But Lance…

Somehow, through chatting and teasing over the phone and a year-long partnership after she quit dispatch to better devote herself to finding Matt, she endured Lance…and he grew on her.

It’s an understatement of epic proportions when she can’t bear the thought of parting from him now, not after the day’s trials and his timely rescue. She expected to be more galled that this mission turned her into a literal damsel-in-distress, but now she’s just grateful the air she breathes is clean.

(Well, as clean as it can be in a city with too-lax regulations on carbon and particle emissions.)

She tries not to think too much about the possible implications behind her and Lance sharing a bed; after all, she wants him here, so she’ll have to live with it.

She strips down to her tank top in lieu of actual pajamas, watching Lance clutching his belt buckle and staring down at his dirty jeans. “You can take them off,” she tells him, shrugging as she jumps onto the full-sized bed. “It’s not like they’re hiding something I’ve never seen before.”

Lance looks vaguely constipated - it’s amusing though not an expression that suits him - but follows her suggestion, unbuckling his belt and shucking off his jeans till he stands in his t-shirt and boxer shorts.

(Pidge tactfully avoids eying his butt since the shorts are rather flattering.)

They slip under the covers. Lance’s body is a warm presence beside her, but she resists its pull on her. She’s already asked too much of him to just keep her company and spend the night with her.

(Never mind that she just kind of wants him to hold her.)

She faces the wall beside the bed with her back to him and tugs the blankets up to her chin.

She regrets it immediately when the sensation of something nearly covering her face has her gasping and her heart racing. She pushes the blanket down to her waist and sags, staring sullenly at the wall while she catches her breath.

“Pidge?” Lance says, the bedsprings creaking as he shifts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she lies. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure…” When she doesn’t respond, he murmurs, “Good night, Pidge.”

Pidge bites her lip before replying, “‘Night, Lance.”

Sleep waits beyond her grasp, her mind buzzing with nothing but the day’s events to occupy it. She pinches her eyes shut and tries to force her recollection away from Ezor’s simper and Zethrid’s glower, tries not to think of dirt filling her eyes and ears and nose, tries not to recall how damn helpless she was, and how maybe it all could’ve been avoided if she wasn’t in such a hurry and surveyed the property a little longer, and how Lance could’ve been killed as easily as he rescued her, and how she almost died after finding out her brother escaped and—

“Pidge,” Lance’s voice, deep and husky in a way that might fill her with heat in any other circumstance, cuts into her thoughts, “you’re thinking too loud.”

Pidge freezes and exhales till there's no air left in her lungs (sort of). With her heart in her throat, she rolls over...and finds Lance already facing her, his eyes shining in the dark.

She reaches for him at the same time as he does her, her arms winding around his waist while his come around her back and pull her close till she can bury her face in his chest. She breathes shakily, careful not to press her nose too far, but she can still smell the faint but distinct scent of his spicy body wash.

His arms holding her firmly, his chest rising and falling so steadily, are the perfect comfort, so the dam she's built up all day bursts when the first broken sob escapes her.

***

Lance clutches Pidge as she cries, his shirt muffling her voice. His heart weighs heavily, useless as he ever was, but he runs a hand down her back and his fingers through her hair, careful not to touch the goose egg at the back of her head.

Her fingers grasp at the back of his t-shirt while tears and probably snot soak into the front. Lance doesn't care about the mess; he just wants Pidge to get better.

But better how? How does he erase what happened, turn back time so he can find her quicker or warn her that they'll find nothing in that damn art studio?

He almost lost Pidge - before she could even reunite with her missing brother! - and for nothing.

Lance reins in his rapidly rising anger and focuses on his partner sobbing in his arms. She needs to calm down - she's started hyperventilating, heaving great gasps of air, he realizes with alarm - so he urges her to sit up.

But he doesn't let her go; instead he pulls her halfway into his lap and starts talking.

"You're safe now, Pidge," he murmurs into her ear. "You'll rest, and you'll heal, and if you still want to go on missions"—the very thought of them separating on one again fills him with a heart-stopping fear—"I won't let anything like this happen to you again."

"Th-they were going t-to—they would've kill—b-buried me alive," Pidge whimpers, each word rising and lowering in pitch with her hysteria.

"I-I know," Lance tells her as a lump sticks in his own throat. He swallows around it, licking his lips before brushing them against her temple. "I-it was your worst mission, and we all have bad ones but never—never that bad."

Pidge sniffles. "W-when was y-your worst?" she wonders.

This one, is Lance's immediate thought, never mind that the only injury he sustained is an ugly bruise that'll heal within a week, but Pidge won't want to hear that. So he rubs her arm and sighs before admitting, "It was my first one."

Pidge's breathing is steadier now, so he lies down and drags her with him. She snuggles into his chest - he pretends not to notice her pushing the blankets away from her face - and says, "O-oh? W-what happened?"

"Really?" Lance pulls away slightly to look at her tear-streaked face. "You don't know? You mean you didn't read about my history before Allura pretty much strong-armed me into partnering with you?"

To his immense satisfaction, Pidge snorts. "I did, but it's not like the reports are the same as your recollection."

Lance, unsure he wants to know the answer, wonders, "What does the report for it say?"

"That you...rushed to take the shot without Shiro's approval," Pidge explains haltingly yet almost clinically. "The target got away, and in the pursuit he was injured. Allura recommended you be taken out of the field and train for dispatch instead, but Shiro fought for you to be given another chance."

That old, familiar shame drops into his gut, but Lance chuckles and says, "That's pretty accurate."

"Anything you wanted to add then?" Pidge asks.

"Yeah, I do." This time when he runs a hand down her back, he's not sure if it's to soothe her or brace himself. "I was doing my field training with Shiro, and even before I met him the guy was practically my hero."

"Understandable," Pidge says with a note of amusement.

"But I also knew I wasn't as good as Keith," Lance continues. "He'd already been on a few missions with Shiro, and I wanted to prove that I was better than him, so I ignored one of Shiro's orders and he ended up paying for it. We were just lucky we didn't get caught."

"So you think it was your fault Shiro got hurt and your target escaped?"

"Pidge, I know it was my fault," Lance insists with a sigh. "You said it's even in the official report."

"I guess I can't argue with that," she concedes, "but"—she pulls back, her fingers tangling in his hair as she tugs his head down to look him in the eye—"you know what happened to me was definitely not your fault, right?" Her gaze is startling in its intensity, and from this close he can see every shadowed curve and edge on her face.

Lance's breath catches; it's an awfully inappropriate time to be thinking of kissing her, but Pidge's reassurance means everything to him.

Though it does little to dispel his fears.

"Pidge..." He cups her cheeks, smoothing one of the bandages and wiping away the last of her tears. "I can think of a thousand and one ways I could've kept that from happening to you."

"Oh, well, I can think of maybe five or six," Pidge scoffs, "and I'm a genius, so you're wrong."

"Five or six are still too—"

"Lance," Pidge cuts him off with her hand resting on his jaw, "did you tie me up?"

"No, but—"

"Did you waterboard me?"

Shock grips him, his eyes flying wide. "Wait, they—"

"Did you crack a whip or pick up a shovel?"

"No." Lance grits his teeth and blinks away tears before burying his face - hiding it - in Pidge's hair, loose strands tickling his nose. "You have no idea how scared I was when I couldn't hear you anymore, Pidge." He fights to keep his breathing steady. "It was even worse than when I heard you scream."

"God, Lance..." Pidge's fingers trail through his hair, her breath warm and uneven against his neck. "You just—you have no idea how relieved I was to see you. You were okay, and you dug me out, and you haven't left me since, a-and—" Her voice wavers as she sighs. "I chose you over any other hitman at the firm, so stop blaming yourself, you—you foolish, beautiful goofball."

Lance's eyes widen, and when he leans his head back, Pidge avoids his gaze. "Did you just call me—"

"Shut up."

"—a goofball?"

Pidge snorts before she outright giggles, muffling the sound in the crook of her arm. And Lance, desperate to commit it all to memory, smiles while a heat fills his chest.

"Wait," he says, something Pidge mentioned sticking in his mind, "didn't you say that Allura assigned you to me?"

Pidge's eyes shoot open, and if Lance had to guess she must not have meant to let that slip. "I, well, that's technically true, but I...made my own recommendation."

"And you chose me over a veteran like Shiro or a standout like Keith?"

"Shiro was on the brink of retirement," Pidge explains, "and he's always treated me like a kid, so he was the last guy I'd want with me in the field while I'm learning and looking for Matt. And Keith has impressive stats, but he works better without a partner or trainee to keep track of." She tucks her hands into his chest, staring at her open palms. "You've been...more patient with me than I sometimes deserve, you taught me how to shoot straight—"

"Your aim was pretty bad when you started out."

"—you're fun to be around between missions and during long ones, and even when I was still a dispatcher I...tolerated you."

"Only tolerated?" Lance scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he's amused despite her word choice, happy to soak in her praise. "After all we've been through together?"

Pidge laughs. "Lance, that was over a year ago," she says. "I feel a little more strongly about you than just toleration now."

He's not sure why - not when she damns him with faint praise - but something in her tone sends warmth rushing to his face. He rests his forehead against hers and clutches her hands to his chest, saying, "Well, I'm flattered you thought so highly of me."

One of Pidge's hands escapes his grasp to caress his cheek, forcing him to repress a shiver. "Maybe someone else could've saved me as well as you did today," she murmurs, her gaze capturing his, "but you're the one I needed with me tonight."

"I'll be with you whenever you need me, Pidge," Lance swears, "and even when you don't, so long as you want me there." His heart pounds away against his ribs with the solemnity of his promise, and he wonders if Pidge can feel its strength under her hand.

"I'm with you too," she says.

Pidge surprises him when she slides closer and brushes his lips with hers, a kiss soft and tender as a whisper. "Thank you, Lance," she breathes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

A smile pushes at his lips, and he can even feel the curve of her own against them. "Probably outmatch Keith."

Pidge hums. "I...understand the sentiment, but I think today proved that's not it."

"Then next time you save my life, and we'll call it even. Deal?"

"Deal," Pidge says with a soft laugh. "I forbid you from dying before you meet my brother anyway."

Warmth floods him, and he feels oh so ridiculously fond. "Oh, really?" Lance raises an eyebrow. "Would you fight an angel of death for me?"

"In a heartbeat," Pidge admits without hesitation and without shame, her tone fierce...though the yawn stretching her face ruins the effect.

Lance chuckles, though the exhaustion of the day tugs at him, urging him to sleep, too. "You ready to sleep for real?" he wonders. "And at a reasonable time?"

Pidge snorts then says, "I think so." She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest right over his heart. "Just don't let me go."

"Never," Lance promises, because the least he can do tonight is keep Pidge secure in sleep. So his arms tighten around her, holding her close with one hand clutching her shoulder and the other carding through her hair.

(In the morning they'll worry about reporting to Allura and Pidge's invisible, long-term injuries, but for now they'll dream with the knowledge that someone who loves them and wants them safe sleeps in their arms.)

*** End ***

[thecomicsnexus]

Chapter One

THE WILDSTORM #1 APRIL 2017 BY WARREN ELLIS, JON DAVIS-HUNT AND IVAN PLASCENCIA

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC FANDOM)

In Manhattan, at the scene of a brutal interrogation/fight, Lucy Blaze aka Zealot radios in to The Division and reports in. Apparently, her quarry which she had to kill was involved in some illegal activity involving gene-editing. After calling in a Division cleaning crew she goes for coffee. Pris Kitaen aka Voodoo, an entertainer, is planning a launch party with some colleagues, for her new album at a city junction. One which is covered with HALO advertisements featuring their energy saving products (Jacob Marlowe's face is seen on a video billboard). Pris relays some odd bits of local lore to her people, 1) that there was a UFO abduction here and 2) a man changed into a bat in 1939.

As they chat, Pris and company walk by a table that's in front of a street cafe. At this table sits Miles Craven and his significant other, Julian. They chat a little about Voodoo and an incident at a Clinton fundraiser when they are approached by Angela Spica. Angela works for Craven as some sort of researcher/engineer/inventor. She asks Craven for more resources for her current project in order to really make a difference in people's lives and surpass the achievements of Jacob Marlowe. Her interaction with Craven is erratic and she seems agitated and twitchy as if she drank too much coffee or has been taking drugs. She even implies that she has started using herself as a subject, and almost on cue, blood appears on the front of her t-shirt.

Angela leaves Miles's table and continues to talk if only to herself. While walking down the street she notices someone looking up at a HALO high-rise. The pedestrian mentions he saw a flash and a second later a body is thrown out a top flight window. Angie, though seemingly in a lot of pain, activates nanomachines in her body and transforms herself into a metal suit complete with leg rockets. She ignites them, flies up, catches and then deposits both herself and the falling person into an office room in the same building. She has just rescued the CEO of HALO, Jacob Marlowe. Before Jacob could properly thank her, she flies off. Marlowe then calls Adrianna on his cell and tells her that Michael Cray from International Operations (IO) just tried to kill him.

In a series of television interviews, Jacob Marlowe gives a cover statement as to how he was launched through the window but that he wishes his rescuer the best. Back at IO, Miles Craven debriefs Michael Cray. It seems IO and Cray (part of their Wetworks division) want Marlow dead and to stop the launch of his new energy saving battery. Cray was supposed to set "proximity-triggered Polonium diffusers" to quietly poison his office, but when suddenly confronted by Marlowe, an explosion occurred when he tried to grab his wrist. The explosion was a fail safe security device Marlow had installed in the doorway to stop anything inhuman from entering. It went off, but not before Cray caused a wrist weapon that grew from Jacob's wrist (Marlowe called "a spur") to deflagrate at his touch.

Marlow is now explaining what happened in the presence of Adrianna aka Void, who is wearing a metal environment suit. Her eyes have no visible irises. Adrianna surmises the would-be killers will try again, and may go after his rescuer as well. Jacob mentioned "Cole" has been alerted but can not track down his unknown rescuer. Back at the IO bunker, Miles craven and Michael Cray are about to leave when Cray's hand (the same that dissolved Marlowe's wrist weapon) begins to shake uncontrollably, blood runs out of his nose and he collapses. Craven seems more annoyed than concerned.

In IO's Analysis Department, the Chief of Department informs Craven about what footage they got from the Halophones nearby. Craven sees the face of the mysterious woman who saved Marlowe, recognizing Angela Spica.

REVIEW

I really like when a book tells you from the start how long it will take to tell the story. There is a good side and a bad side to it. The good side is that you know everything is planned, you know there won’t be editorial mandates, in other words, a reliable story. The bad side to it is that you may not want to read it until it’s over... which is pretty much what I been doing (I did read 7 issues before, but decided to wait the 24 months).

While we see references to GBS and the Daily Planet, as far as I know, this happens in another universe, which is tragic and funny, as the whole point of Flashpoint was to integrate Wildstorm with the DCU. During the new 52 they tried. And I really enjoyed some of those books, but DC has problems trying to stick to their decisions and then this happened. To be honest, this is a good mistake. Warren Ellis is a great writer, with very interesting ideas and a way of thinking that you can feel in his characters... in a good way.

This first episode is a big trigger event and we get to see it from every corner of his story. Not much happens of course, but I found the structure of the episode well constructed.

The art is the other great appeal this title has. Jon Davis-Hunt has a hybrid style. I cannot really tell all the influences, which makes it very unique.

I give the issue a score of 9

[reigningsniper-a]

"If you want to feel something let me help you." The way gloved hand trailed down the taller woman's hip felt right, the softness of flesh covered in scars felt wonderful. Making sure Riza was sitting down, Lust knelt down between her legs, parting them before removing the pesky clothing. Hands glide up between her thighs, feeling the warmth of Riza's sex was thrilling and soon, painted lips began to kiss the inside of her thighs, purring softly at the sensation before speaking. "Beg for it."

@hariolor​ cuz u moved but HERE 8]

      For a woman lacking in so many sensations, indicative of her hovering in this lifeless limbo, Riza is suddenly, deeply fascinated with the way her body reacts to the gloved hand that works its way from her waist to the swell of her hip. She leans into the open palm, the fingers that grip against her skin just so. A hint of what is to come…or is Lust simply teasing and giving her a mere taste of what lays in her future? Either one sends a pang through her chest, yearning for just a bit more.

      Riza watches wordlessly. Mouth dry, body swinging between fearlessness trepidation towards the same cues, all she can muster is to remain still, in place. Lust’s fingers pass over a set of scars that rise above the smoother planes of her skin as if they were thick lines of oil paint dried onto canvas. Slashes made by various instruments over the years, indicative of pain and strife. A painting of what has more or less marked her permanently in her past. …As if it were more permanent than the fate that has befallen her now.

      Rocking her from her thoughts is the shift in Lust’s hand that silently indicates that she must sit. Not as though she would ponder refusing with the warm lightness in her chest that builds with temptation. So she obeys, settling back against the seat Lust had secretly guided her towards. Had this play been her goal since joining Riza in the room, or was this a sudden burst of impulse? Riza shifts against the solid anchor-

      And stills only so that Lust’s hands do not have to fight the seedlings of eagerness within frozen veins that spreads into every cell of her body. Her legs are opened. Each piece of clothing comes off one-by-one. With every level of exposure reached, Riza neither resists nor insists on going further. Let this be a dip into the murky waters, or allow it to be a dive into the depths. It seems Lust is setting the score as her violet eyes pierce through her even when they weren’t locked with her own. 

      Then Lust settles between her legs once more, and Riza tries to shake herself of the nerves that light up at the acknowledgement of how real this feels. The nerves beneath her skin feel every minuscule movement, almost enough that she can sense how Lust’s grip will move before it does. They give her clues so that she isn’t so lost and so that her new companion isn’t so unpredictable.

      Riza anticipates the movement towards her core, watching Lust’s eyes and the line of her lips as she otherwise focuses on the trillions of sensations drawn from the slopes of sensitive skin. 

      Suddenly, it dawns on her just how much she’s needed this. And yet…right as Lust’s ruby lips make contact with the insides of her thighs, as that purr stiffens her spine and bends it into an arch, she commands for Riza to-

Beg for it.

      Deep down, somewhere in an unknown region in between the cavern of her chest and the enclose space of her abdomen, Riza finds within herself one of the last dregs of defiance. Does the thought of indulging in an act so intimate with a creature she had once sought death upon really settle into her mind as a repulsing one?

      Or is she simply too proud to beg? 

      However…she can’t deny the way Lust’s purr still echoes and reverberates down the length of her arched spine. She isn’t the woman who launched bullet after bullet into the sin’s chest and head until her munitions were totally spent. She has spilled a different kind of blood now, one she could never with just the pistols and rifles at her disposal. 

      It felt good. She could never deny that. And Lust knew this. Lust witnessed for herself the glint in Riza’s eyes and the clear need for more right then. It surprised her when her dark guide calmed down her euphoria, reminding her that there would be other chances, that there would be more. There was always more blood.

      Is this part of that more, or something else entirely?

      Unsure of what to do with her hands, Riza realizes they’ve gripped so hard that her nails have cut into her skin. The piercing of skin nudges her forward. Her hips test the waters, seeing if Lust will allow her closer. If not she will go from there, but if so, Riza will take it. How close? Time will tell. 

      Chin tilts up in what might be seen as a defiant gesture, yet Lust is certainly keen on identifying the root cause as a particularly deep shiver that shoots up her spine.

      She swallows. “I need it. Now.”

      A beg, and in a move not anticipated by Riza herself, her own little demand.

      This angel of death is not without her tricks up her sleeve, harbored beneath those gloves and cradled in the claws that can spawn from them. Riza ponders on if Lust will ever not surprise her.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2018 Day 21 | Mutual Pining

The Dreamer’s Lights | @casblackfeathers Rating: Explicit Word Count: 118,836 Main Tags/Warnings: AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Wing!fic, Soul Bond Summary: Dean never dreamed about much. His life was made of concrete ideas, plans his feet could follow – like his job as a bladesmith and the family he could rely on – not staring up at the stars, or falling hard for a black-winged angel whose grace glowed in shades of silver and blue. After Dean is shipped off against his will to fight in the war between Michael and Lucifer, that changes; when he’s not dreaming of home – of hushed promises and blue eyes as deep as the sea – he’s drenched in nightmares of blood and death. With Sammy’s help and the angels on their heels, Dean manages to escape the front lines. Now Dean’s returned to the kingdom and is forced to confront the past, as well as the tragic events that took him away from home three years ago – starting with his betrayal by the angel he fell in love with.

Stranger Things and Eldritch Bunkers | @thedogsled Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,003 Main Tags/Warnings: First Time, Love Confessions, Fluff, Domestic, Canon Compliant Summary: The Men of Letters Bunker has had quite enough of Dean pining for Castiel, and it decides to intervene. To be fair, the Bunker interferes a lot, and usually for good reason. For example when it vanished the big garage doors, it prevented Dean from taking Baby out with clogged catalytic converters, saving her from spontaneously setting on fire halfway down the road. And when he and Sam ran out of room to manspread into, an entire extra floor appeared as if by magic. This time, it’s locked Dean and Castiel inside Cas’ room, which is great as long as they have plenty of episodes of Stranger Things left to watch, and the Bunker has some conditions if it’s going to let them back out–Dean has to confess his feelings. Which he does. And then one thing leads to another… Stranger Things and Eldritch Bunkers is a humorous take on the Trapped in an Elevator trope, with a little bit of One Room, One Bed mixed in.

It Gets to Him | @60r3d0m Rating: Mature Word Count: 1,911 Main Tags/Warnings: Jealousy, Sexual Tension, s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets Summary: So maybe Dean’s a little impatient when he decides to burst into that diner (even though Cas told him no), and maybe he’s a little aggressive with his puffed up chest when he flings open the door (okay, yeah, the waitress definitely eyes him warily) and hell, maybe when he says, “Feel a little left out over there—scoot over,” he’s maybe a little too enthusiastic when he shoves into the booth next to Cas (and kind of sits in his lap), but whatever the hell he does, it definitely doesn’t give Sam the goddamn right to pull him aside with a glare and say, “Maybe you wanna be a little less alpha male right now, Dean, and focus on the case?” The fuck—no one knows how to focus on a case better than Dean Winchester. But yeah, maybe Dean can’t help but swallow a little nervously when Sam says that. Because it gets to him.

Dislocation | @60r3d0m Rating: Mature Word Count: 24,514 Main Tags/Warnings:Hurt/Comfort, Bed Sharing, Castiel in the Bunker, Canonverse, Two Deans, Two Universes, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: After the sun is restored and the Woman of Letters banishes Castiel, he falls and becomes human, lost and alone in a place far from home. Four hundred and fifty-one days later, Sam finds him. He tells Castiel that Dean is alive. So they go. They go and they arrive at the bunker and Sam’s acting strange and there’s something that he’s not telling Castiel, something about Dean. And then Castiel finally reunites with Dean. And there is something about Dean. Something about Dean that has Dean pulling Castiel into tight embraces, something about Dean that has Dean running his thumb across Castiel’s cheek with a tender look in his eyes, and something about Dean that has Dean shaking when Castiel says certain things to him, things that are normal, things that should not affect him this way. There is something about Dean that no one is telling him.

Trope Springs Eternal | @scones-and-texting-and-murder Rating: Explicit Word Count: 41,169 Main Tags/Warnings: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, bed sharing, First Time, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Barista Dean, Firefighter Castiel, BDSM, Dom Castiel, Sub Dean, Top Cas, Bottom Dean, A/B/O, Tentacles Summary: Dean’s in love with Cas. Cas is in love with Dean. That much is obvious to everyone who sees them. But instead of acting on it, these two idiots seem bound and determined to score gold medals in the pining olympics. The staring, the longing, the unresolved sexual tension that’s strong enough to combust and engulf the planet…is there anything that can push them out of their safe, cowardly positions? Leaving them to their own devices hasn’t worked so maybe it’s time to pull out the big guns.

Winding Roads, Blinding Lights | @paintmeahero Rating: Explicit Word Count: 23,094 Main Tags/Warnings: Non Hunting AU,  Referenced suicide attempt, Abusive relationship (Not Dean/Cas), suicidal dean,  Summary: As he watches the love of his life get married, Dean tries to accept that Castiel has moved on, and tries to do the same. Then an incident during a Christmas party gives him the first glimpse into the darkness of his lost love’s life, and perhaps a way to save both of them

This Isn’t How It Was Supposed To Go | @nox-lee Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,175 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternating POV, 12x10 coda, angst with a happy ending, smut Summary: It’s been excruciating all this time without Dean and now he’s finally here. Cas wants to soak Dean in, wants to scrub him clean of the prison grime and smooth away the new lines that have formed on his hardened face. He wants to breathe him in and re-catalogue every freckle. Instead he watches Dean disappear down the hall and slam his bedroom door. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

Mutual | @supernatural9917fic Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4,597 Main Tags/Warnings: Smut, casturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Dean in Denial, Men of Letters Bunker, Light Angst, Wall Sex Summary: Cas has been cured of Rowena’s attack dog spell and is back with the Winchesters. Coping with his unrequited feelings for Dean has never been easy, but he finds that it can be so much worse when the feelings are mutual.

Picture Perfect World | @pherryt Rating: Explicit Word Count: 51,882 Main Tags/Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, Alpha!Dean, Top!Dean, Omega!Cas, Bottom!Cas, Infidelity (Not Cas or Dean), Character Death (Not Cas or Dean), Infertility, Mpreg, hurt/comfort Summary: To anyone looking in, Castiel Roche-Novak had the perfect life and the perfect marriage. He was mated to his wealthy best friend, he had a job he loved and together they had a beautiful daughter. The same could have been said for Dean Winchester, married to his high school sweetheart, getting to travel for his job but finally thinking of settling down to start the family he’d always wanted to have. Their entire lives are turned upside down in the worst ways and neither think their paths will ever cross again, until Cas’s publicist contracts the photographer to work with Cas on a project. Fate must be laughing now…

An Old Feeling | @deservetobesaved Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1,741 Main Tags/Warnings: Angst, Fluff, First Kiss, Jealous!Dean, Jealous!Cas, Canon Divergence Summary: Castiel thinks Dean will never love him back so he decides to try and move on. Cue jealous!Dean and confessions galore.

First Signs of Spring | @surlybobbies Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 2,060 Main Tags/Warnings: Soccer, soccer coach!Cas, Soccer Uncle!Dean, fluff Summary: Dean had never been interested in soccer. That is, until his niece begins playing in a youth soccer league. It also doesn’t hurt that he falls in love with her coach.

Verity Vengeful | @alxdiamond Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,129 Main Tags/Warnings: Case Fic, Fallen/Hunter Cas, Love Confessions Summary: An argument with Dean spurs a recently fallen Cas to prove he can be useful as a human by finding his own hunt. But when he’s taken by the unknown creature he’s hunting, Sam and Dean have to race to his rescue. Only it turns out this monster feeds on secrets, and the secrets Cas has been keeping may be too deeply hidden for him to be saved

Anna’s Dad | @mscaptainwinchester Rating: Explicit Word Count: 35,253 Main Tags/Warnings: Meg/Castiel, Underage Pining, High School Senior Dean, High School Senior Anna, Parent Castiel, Tattoos, No Underage Sex, Semi-public Sex, Robots, Prom Summary: When Charlie talked him into joining the prom committee, Dean was not happy about it. He’s not even interested in going to prom, let alone planning it. But a meeting at committee chairman Anna Novak’s house changes all that. When Dean meets her smoking hot dad, a punk gothic god covered in the most alluring tattoos, it alters his entire perspective. Now he’s hanging out with Anna all the time and finding every excuse to flirt with her gorgeous dad. Castiel Novak swore off romantic relationships when his mate died a decade ago. Now he writes novels, throws lavish Halloween parties, and drinks with his fuck-buddy, Meg. When he meets Anna’s stunning friend, Dean, all his determination to keep emotions out of the equation goes flying out the window. Now it’s all he can do to keep his hands to himself in the face of relentless temptation. Will Dean ever get to see how far down Mr. Novak’s tattoos go? Will Castiel get over his hang-ups and let Dean in? Or will they both go their separate ways without ever knowing if their explosive chemistry could be more than just a tryst behind the pool shed? Featuring sexist classmates, a champion robot named Leia, growly alphas, and a prom theme from Hell (er… Hogwarts).

To the Stars, Through Difficulties | @thedogsled Rating: Explicit Word Count: 21,589 Main Tags/Warnings: Near Future, Family Feels, First Time, Saving People Hunting Things, Frottage, Premature Ejaculation, Anal Fingering, Barebacking, Sex Toys Summary: After more than a decade on the road together, the boys drop in on Sam to celebrate his birthday, and spill the latest on the life he gave up years ago. Despite being closer than ever, Cas and Dean are both desperately lonely, so an intervention is staged–and it’s quite possibly the most adorable intervention in the world! Sam’s two boys are thrilled to see their uncle again - or maybe just excited to have a patient angel to practice their lasso skills on - and his tiny new daughter, Mary, is meeting Cas and Dean for the first time. But will the enticement of family be enough to keep Dean from driving off into the sunset alone when things with Cas hit the rocks?

What’s the Problem Baby? | @blueascend Rating: Mature Word Count: 8,053 Main Tags/Warnings: Friends with Benefits Summary: Castiel and Dean entered a friends with benefits agreement a couple of years ago. Both want more, but neither will admit it. When other people start to get involved, will it finally push them together, or break them apart? 

[deathtouch]

💛 femfeb day 19 | my femfeb masterpost 🧡 xposted → ao3 | dw | pf.io 💖 Ashe/Pharah | 3.6k | Mature 🧡 AU, Supernatural Elements, Werewolf AU, First meeting, Kissing 💛 Ashe keeps waking up in places she shouldn't be with no memory of the night before.

Somebody was moving something big. Ashe didn’t know what, and she didn’t know when, but she knew it was coming through her territory and she knew it was going to be soon.   She’d had the supreme misfortune of coming upon shipments guarded by Helix Security before. It was a bad idea to try and take them on, but maybe if she had the right information... If she learned a little more about what Helix was doing swarming, her town and her bar. Maybe she’d be able to work something out. Cook up a plan, score big, keep the gang happy. “You want another beer, Ms. Ashe?” Ashe tipped her head up, looking out from under the brim of her hat at the new gang member that had joined the ranks just last week. She looked past him, over to the bar where a handful of strangers stood drinking. She took in the display of muscles, the brown bomber jackets, the aviator sunglasses. Helix, alright. “It’s just Ashe, sugar.” She said, sliding off her stool. “And I can go and get it myself. Keep playing pool.” She left her vantage point in the corner with its perfect view of all the entrances and exits and it’s inconspicuous location next to the pool tables. She cut passed a few Deadlocks lingering around, leaning on pool cues, sipping from their own mugs of beer. She made her way to the bar, subtly situating herself next to the only Helix loner, some woman sitting all by herself instead of with a cohort of colleagues. Ashe slid her empty mug across the bar and tapped the bar twice with two fingers. It was her signal that she didn’t want service but an excuse to speak to whoever was next to her for as long as possible. Ashe would see to the bartender at the end of the night, toss a couple bills her way in exchange for any information she happened to pick up while pouring drinks. “You folks ain’t from around here, huh?” Ashe said conversationally. She pinned an elbow to the bar and tucked her fist under her jaw, making it obvious she was ready to sit here and chat awhile. The woman next to her turned to look her over, brandishing a face tattoo that Ashe couldn’t help staring at. She was pretty. The kind of gal Ashe would like to take home, with a face she would be happy to ride for hours. “No,” was the diminutive reply. “Name’s Ashe,” she flashed her teeth in a smile. “...Fareeha.” Reluctant, but not a lost cause. Ashe could charm her. By the end of the night they would be good pals. Normally she left this kind of grunt work to the grunts, but there was something in the air tonight. She was itching to get things done herself.

.oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

 Ashe was surprised to see it wasn’t entirely dark out just yet. She’d been in the bar since 7 and it was nearly 8:30 now. Summer meant that the sun was setting later and later each day. The horizon was painted in vibrant colors; gold and peach clouds on a warm purple sky. The air was hot, dry, and gritty with dust rucked up by warm wind.

 Fareeha followed her out the door trying to hide the smile on her face. She must not get much attention from many people, because she was like a moth to Ashe’s flame. All Ashe had to do was play it sweet, flirt little, bat her eyelashes and stroke a finger over Fareeha’s muscled arm.

 Now alone with no prying eyes to watch, Ashe shamelessly reached out to hook two fingers in the belt loops of Fareeha’s jeans. She dragged her in close and backed up against the side of the building. She pressed their lips together, mouths hot. Their tongues tasted like the beer they had been drinking but sweetened with the pleasure of kissing someone soft and pretty.

 Ashe pulled away just enough to ask, “You got a place around here we could go? Just you and me?”

 She was hoping that the Helix Security folks were all set up in one spot, probably the motel up the road if she had to guess. There was plenty to be gleaned from getting a look at where they were staying. Who knows what she might come across?

 Ashe was definitely in it for the score, for the tantalizing prospect of a job she and the gang could work. She wasn’t mad at the idea of going home with Fareeha, though. God, she really was a good-looking gal. Ashe liked the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of the sweat on her skin from the June heat. She looked good enough to eat.

 There was something itching under Ashe’s skin, this need she couldn’t identify. She normally didn’t get this riled up or invested in her marks. Maybe she needed a good hard fuck to settle her down some.

 Fareeha didn’t answer. She pressed her lips to Ashe’s jaw, her neck, her throat, her collarbone. Ashe tipped her head back and let it happen, staring up at the sky where she could see the color changing before her eyes. The purple was smothering the gold light, turning it pink and then red.

 The moon was on the rise.

 .oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

 Ashe woke with a pounding in her head. She cursed herself for drinking too much. She hadn’t gotten black out drunk in a good long while and she was too old now to be doing that kind of thing. She blinked, catching glimpses of a motel room she didn’t recognize, before shutting her eyes to the bright morning light filtering in from the open window. She laid still where she was, eyes closed. She tried to remember what had happened last night. She remembered going to the bar, and the Helix goons filling up the place. She remembered drinks with a pretty woman, though she couldn’t quite recall her name. They must have gone off together… Ashe had this soreness in her muscles like she’d spent the whole night fucking. Her jaw ached and she wondered just what kind of use her mouth had been put to. She was sticky with sweat already. The motel room’s A/C wasn’t running, and if it was it wasn’t cranked up high enough. When she could manage it, she sat up. Her head throbbed. She looked down at herself and her naked body and was immediately shocked into sudden alertness when she found blood on her hands. Not just on her hands but soaked into the beds of her nails and all the fine wrinkles of her fingers. It wasn’t just her hands, it was everywhere. Her thighs, her stomach, the bed. The bed! There was so much goddamn blood on the bed. She scrambled off of it, damn near knocking the lamp on the side table over in her haste. There was blood on the carpet too, pooled black and thick. Ashe frantically grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find, an oversized threadbare t-shirt with a peeling Bruce Springsteen decal. She yanked it on over her head, pulled it down enough to cover her nudity, and went running out the door. It had been left wide open so that the desert heat could come rolling in. There were bloodstains in the parking lot, on the gravel and sidewalk. She wasn’t sure where they lead to and she wasn’t about to stick around and find out. She needed to find a phone, to get one of the fixers in the gang to come out and fix this. Something had gone terribly wrong last night, but she couldn’t remember what.

 .oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

 Ashe watched the pool balls go rolling across the green felt of the table in front of her. She couldn’t quite stop her foot from tapping against the bar stool she was sitting on, a steady rhythm of anxious energy thrumming through her body. She was trying her damnedest to act natural. She had gone out drinking like usual, refusing to deviate from the norm in any suspicious way that the law might pick up on later. She couldn’t catch the heat for this. She just couldn’t. She was so careful everywhere else; there was absolutely no way they could ever pin her Deadlock crimes on her, no matter how guilty she was. That didn’t matter, though. Al Capone went down for tax evasion, after all. She would be furious if her whole operation fell apart because of some botched murder she couldn’t even remember. Deadlock had already been decimated by the authorities once, she wasn’t going to let it happen again. If she could just remember who she killed, or why, or anything about what had happened last night it would be different. She couldn’t. She couldn’t remember a damn thing. It was all a blank. What was worse, her fixers couldn’t fix anything because there wasn’t a crime to fix. If someone was dead somewhere, they sure as shit couldn’t find the body. Any evidence that Ashe had ever been in that hotel room was gone and that was the best they could do. “It’s a full moon tonight,” The new kid was saying, trying desperately to make conversation with her. It would serve him much better just to shut his trap and quit sucking up, but Ashe didn’t bother telling him that. Talking to him was just about the best distraction she had from her own paranoid thoughts. “I thought it was a full moon last night.” She remembered that. She remembered seeing the moon in the sky. Big and white and glowing, a beacon in the purple haze. She got a weird itch between her shoulder blades thinking back on it. It was the same feeling from the bar last night, the one that had her all riled up and raring to go. It was back again and twice as bad. “Almost.” He lined up a shot, took it. The seven ball sank into a corner pocket. “The moon looks so full the night before and the night after most people can’t tell the difference.” Ashe stood abruptly, unable to sit for a moment longer, all this talk about the moon was making her antsy. She needed a smoke or something to settle herself down. The Deadlocks hanging around the pool tables parted ways for her and she disappeared into the dimly lit back hallway. Ashe went out the rear exit. It opened up to a sad looking parking lot where the bartender’s beat up old truck was parked. The dumpster was propped open and stinking of sour booze. The sun wasn’t quite set yet but almost. She could probably smoke inside, no one would care, but stepping out where it was quiet might do her some good. She took out a cigarette and fought with her lighter. It was thirsty for more lighter fluid and unwilling to light. She sparked it again and again, cursing under her breath at the damn flame that just wouldn’t ignite. In a split second she went from trying to light her cigarette to being throttled up against the side of the building, head banging back against its brick exterior. She knew better than to cry out or make noise, though it hurt like a son of a bitch. Anger followed her surprise like a chaser, flashing through her, making her furious. “You,” The woman pinning her hissed, voice vicious. Fareeha. Ashe recalled her from the previous night. It was hard to forget that tattoo. “What the hell did you do to me.” “What did… What did I do to you?” Ashe repeated back, incredulous. She grabbed at Fareeha’s wrist, trying to pry her fingers back. “What the hell are you doing to me! Get your damned hands off my girly, I’m warning you.” Ashe needed absolutely no reason to throw down. She was ready to tear something to shreds with her bare hands. Fareeha had gone and given her the excuse, anyway, slamming her up against the bar like this. It was getting dark with the sun sinking down below the horizon. Visibility was getting low. In the pale evening light, she swore she could see the brown of Fareeha’s eyes blazing gold. She had this savage expression on her face, lips curled back in a bloodthirsty snarl, and Ashe thought she saw the other woman’s teeth growing longer… getting pointier. Her own jaw began to ache in some odd form of empathy. Her own teeth felt wrong, too big, like they were filling up her mouth. Her skin was itching again. She felt violent. “What did you do to me!” Fareeha demanded, shaking her like a rag doll. Her voice was pitched down low, unearthly and chilling. When Ashe dug her nails into Fareeha’s wrist she found that they were nails at all but long black claws. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Ashe realized she recognized the driver of the dusty old Camaro rolling down the road and immediately felt relieved. It was the new kid, the one always running his mouth. A little sad that he was driving something with four wheels and not maglev, but Ashe wasn’t about to put down her savior. Not to his face at least. “Ms. Ashe, that you?” He said, slowing to a stop by the side of the road. “It’s just Ashe, sugar.” She reminded him, gesturing to the crumpled blanket in the backseat. “Hand me that, will ya?” She certainly was a sight. Naked as the day she was born, baking in the hot morning sun, walking slowly but surely down the Interstate back towards town. Or what she hoped was back towards town. She was so far out she couldn’t quite tell. The bottoms of her feet were burning from treading barefoot on the hot sand and asphalt. The new kid hurried to snatch up the blanket from the back and shove it out the window to her. She wrapped it around her middle, trying not to be too concerned about the stains on the fabric or the stale smell. It was better than being naked. She felt a bit bad that she didn’t remember his name, but Deadlock was a big family and he hadn’t quite made his mark yet. She’d go on calling him sugar, that was fine. “How’s about you give your boss a lift back into town.” Sugar seemed confused but he nodded, reaching across to open the passenger door for her. She slid inside, wincing as she moved. Her whole body ached liked she’d been run through the ringer. Maybe she had been. The last thing she remembered was Fareeha accosting her outside the bar. Had they gotten into a fight? Ashe didn’t know. She didn’t seem to have any bruises, but something had happened. Something. “…Just out for a walk then?” Sugar asked awkwardly, shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the shoulder. This was an unreasonably undignified position for her to be in and she knew it. She couldn’t explain it. She’d awoken this morning in the middle of nowhere, dunes of sand and scrub grass all around her, with no idea how she got there. She’d possibly lost a fight? Or won one? Or maybe this was some failed attempt to bury Ashe’s body where no one would find it? “The less we say about this the better, Sugar,” Ashe told him. “You keep this between you and me and I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of on the next job. Got that?” Sugar’s eyebrows went up and he brightened considerably. “Yes, ma'am.” As soon as they hit 50 MPH he was grinning like an idiot. New gang members were easy to please. “Guess it’s a good thing I saw you. Gang’s been talking about some wild animals near town. Wouldn’t do either of us any good, you becoming some wolf’s breakfast.” A wolf? Ashe adjusted the blanket, covering herself up a little more before casting Sugar a look. “There ain’t no wolves in these parts. Whoever told you that’s fucking with you.” “Somebody saw one. A white wolf running down the highway. Some kinda coyote too.” “Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Just shut up and drive, Sugar.” .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. “It wasn’t no coyote.” Being at the bar was probably a bad idea. Suspicious deviations from her usual routine be damned. Something bad was happening, to her specifically or around these parts in general Ashe couldn’t quite tell. She wasn’t sure where else she should be, though. She was safe here at the bar. Half the gang was here with her, a dozen men, women, and omnics ready and willing to go to bat for her if she needed them. It seemed like every time she stepped out these doors things went sour, so it was best just to stay put on her favorite spot in the corner. “Small though, right? Sure it wasn’t a dog?” “No, it wasn’t no dog either!” The rumor about animals passing through town, wreaking havoc and running amok, was spreading through the gang like ripples on water. Ashe supposed she was grateful for these stories, dumb as they sounded. She would rather have everyone in town talking about this massive white wolf and its tiny dog friend than about her waking up naked in the middle of the scrubland and strolling down the interstate. Sugar had done well enough to keep his word about the whole thing, but he kept sending her odd glances between his turns at pool. He would lean up against the cue and gaze at her as if waiting for something to happen. Ashe felt like she was waiting for something too, but she didn’t know what. “It had marks on his back, black and white. I never seen no dog and no coyote with marks like that.” Her skin still itched, right square in the center of her back. It wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but it wasn’t a good feeling either. She tried not to pay it any mind, but it was easier said than done. Even with everything that had happened to her these last few days, with all the things she should be worried about, this was what was bothering her the most. She wanted to sink her teeth into something, tear it apart with her hands, chase it through the dust and the dirt of the desert until her body ached. “A jackal?” “...the hell? A jackal? In New Mexico?” The bar door creaked open, the noise of it almost lost to the din of drinking and shooting pool and the endless conversation about who had seen what type of animal. Ashe looked up from under the brim of her hat to see a handful of those Helix Security types wandering in. Slices of golden light from the setting sun fell across the barroom floor. Fareeha was the last to enter, backlit ominously. Ashe felt eyes on her immediately. “Makes about as much sense as a white wolf.” Without even the pretense of buying a drink first, Fareeha made her way over to the pool tables. She looked ready to raise hell. Something about her presence and the way she approached set the entire gang on edge. The pool playing slowed to a stop. The conversation died down entirely. Everyone turned to watch her. Fareeha was fearless in the face of this threat. She stood in front of Ashe, a good few feet away, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her muscles were bulging gloriously. “We need to talk.” “Yeah, I suppose we do,” Ashe agreed reluctantly. She slid off her barstool intending to take this conversation somewhere more private. “You want someone to come with you, Ms. Ashe?” Sugar spoke up. “Not now, Sugar.” Ashe waved him off and nodded for Fareeha to follow her right back out the front door she’d just come in. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Ashe bounded through the open expanse of desert, the sand dunes painted pale grey in the moonlight. Her feet carried her far faster than she had any reason to be going. She cut through the quickly cooling wind as it ruffled her white fur. Fareeha was faster, quicker, far ahead of her, making a break for the horizon. By the end of the night she would be in Ashe’s clutches, that was a certainty. She could run but she couldn’t hide. Giving chase was fun but she wouldn’t last forever sprinting like this. Ashe would catch up to her one way or another. Above them the stars glittered in the sky, twinkling white in a dark blue blanket. Out here, in the middle of nowhere with no light pollution to speak of, they could see just about every glittering spec and glorious constellation. The moon, round and full, beamed down its pristine silver light. The two of them were basking in it, soaking it up, letting it wash over them. Fareeha bounded up the side of a sharply rising slope. She stopped, perched perfectly on the peak, to pant open mouthed. She cocked back her head and brayed up at the moon in the sky. Her howl was uniquely high, curiously sharp, and it pricked at Ashe’s ears. She burst forward with newfound speed, scaling that same slope in record time. She launched herself at Fareeha, tackling her, taking her down until they were tumbling, rolling, spilling out across the sand and brush. She nipped at Fareeha’s neck, not hard but enough to set her whimpering. She submitted easily, rolling onto her back, offering herself up. Ashe licked down her pointed brown muzzle pink tongue catching the saliva at the corner of her mouth. Fareeha tasted good. Unlike anything Ashe had ever tasted before. She thought she had Fareeha good and pinned but the twisty little thing managed to wiggle out from underneath her and go darting away. Ashe gave her a head start before chasing after her again.

i’m taking femslash february suggestions year round send requests or prompts ➝ here follow me on twitter ➝ here thanks for reading ✩°｡⋆

[themarionetteanovel]

Chapter Twenty-Four - The Notebook

Claire came back into her apartment and looked at her phone again. She found the last text she’d sent Adam, saying she’d see him at nine tonight. So how, then, had she wound up convinced she was working the lunchtime shift? She was losing it. At least this error gave her something new to puzzle over. Until, that was, she was aware her brain had shifted gears. All the unpleasantness of this morning came back to her as if she were reliving it: fleeing down those steps with that gorgeous, well-dressed man cursing her, accusing her of murder. He must have recognized that notebook in her bag and the sight of it had set him off.

She fetched it from the plastic bag and threw herself on her bed. She was tempted to flip through for what might have triggered him, but instead continued from where she’d left off. Methodical always worked best for her. The next page made her regret doing so. She came across a list, written in jagged block letters, next to a crude ink outline of a human body. Best arteries to strike. Jugular (neck). Femoral artery (legs, inner thigh). Brachial artery (armpit). The words were accompanied by crude arrows to the relevant body parts.

On the next page, a list of drugs. Some of these she recognized as prescription narcotics. These weren’t hard to get for recreational users; five minutes in the bathrooms at The Broken Cue or Jordan’s place and you could score an entire pharmacy. She should be taking this to police. Her cynical side was convinced this would only wind up in some box while they pursued fresher cases. Even if that turned out to be Sophie’s blood in that underground chamber rather than being from some animal, she needed to know for herself whether the trail would eventually lead to Dave. Her answers lay in identifying the owner of this book. Ones her own fingerprints now covered. She’d found no names mentioned yet, or any phone number.

She continued browsing. After a list of forensic and true crime websites, were pages filled with more doodles. More stars filled in with a checker-board pattern. A Heraldic-style dragon, clumsily rendered. She tried to remember if she’d ever spotted this at Jordan’s place. He had only that square memo pad and a fiercely-guarded sketchbook, the kind with thick pages bought at an artists’ supply store. She’d only ever seen him draw in that; he wasn’t a doodler.

Her stomach rumbled. She got up and went to her cupboard. A tin of Chef Boy r Dee would do. After eating, she opened her laptop. She returned to the news reports she’d bookmarked to read them more closely. Sophie was last seen saying goodbye to friends while coming out of a tavern on the 105 called The Purple Toad. She’d been in the midst of discussing weekend plans when she was distracted by a phone call. No one knew who was on the other end when she answered, and she hurried off without saying another word. One witness assumed it was her mother or father calling; Sophie’s parents were described as “controlling”.

Later calls to her phone went unanswered. And then her voice mailbox was full. Claire regretted being unable to search that chamber more thoroughly. Murderers often kept tokens from their victims and there might yet be an incriminating clue left behind. Assuming Sophie was dead. She might not be. Her parents didn’t seem to think she was. So why did Kevin?

How horribly ironic, she mused, now that the shock and rage over learning about Dave’s affair had worn off. Her search for answers to the death of her boyfriend had turned into an amateur murder investigation of the woman who’d cuckolded her. She sensed this woman was no longer alive, regardless of how many others claimed she’d spoken about running away to a bigger city, preferably near the ocean. In some parallel universe, perhaps she’d caught Sophie and Dave in the act and she’d been the one to murder them.

Claire was certain Dave had been home that night. She remembered it well. It was the night her mother had called to tell her Louise was pregnant. She held off telling Dave, deciding she’d wait until he was in better spirits. He’d been tired and irritable all evening and had gone to bed early. After leaving him alone for a few hours, she’d gone in to see if his mood had recovered. It had. He’d pulled her down onto the mattress and begun stripping off her clothes, telling her if she wanted a baby, then they needed to practice making one. That night was the second last night they’d ever made love.

She set her dish in the sink to soak and opened the notebook to where she’d left off. She came across more bad poetry, more blank pages, more bad ink drawings. She tried calling Jordan to ask if this was his, but his phone just rang and rang. No voicemail service picked up. At last, she came across the reference to Dave that had prompted her to take this book to begin with. What she read next made her blood turn cold.