#like I know I have those prequels but damn is it hard to find the motivation to write that

[ace-bi-says-hi]

As Cold As Death (Part 1)

Part 1|2|

Summary:

You've had always lived what felt like a half-life, died more times than you could count. Astarion was a vampire spawn who had been "living" in the shadow of his master. But things change for the both of you when you're abducted by Mindflayers and implanted with tadpoles. With a Cleric of Shar; a Githyanki Warrior; an Escaped Solider for Zariel; the Blade of Frontiers; a Former Chosen of Mystra; the Corpse of a Scribe and the Pale Elf, you venture forth towards Baldur's Gate in the hopes of finding a cure. Where the shadow over Astarion is darkest and the Dead Three 's chosen lurk along the way.

Genre: Romance, Slowburn

Pairing: Astarion/Necromancer GN!Reader (Tav)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, blood drinking, manipulation. More to be added as the fic goes on. Please let me know if there's any I missed.

Word Count: 4.9k

Note: This has been cross-posted to AO3 and can be seen as a prequel to 'Predators and Prey'. No beta, we die like bing bong.

It had been a long and arduous day of exploring and bloody battle. Your grim harvest had done little to assuage the pain emanating from your strained heart. Of all the people to get infected with one of those gods damned parasites it just had to be you. Though at least you weren't alone in this - you had formed a little group with others in your predicament just a few days ago.

You were a ragtag group, some of these people you wouldn't have found yourself associating with if the circumstances weren't so dire. This included the pale elf in your group. Your magic thrummed in his presence, he was of the dead. A vampire. Though he was trying oh so hard to hide that, just not well. The fact that you could clearly see the bite mark on his neck really showed how half-arsed his attempts were. However, you figured that not having a reflection made it hard to know he had successfully covered them.

In fact, when you had awoken in the night to his attempt to feed on you, you just laughed.

“You won't get much from me if you're peckish. I'm not that nutritional and my circulation is horrid at best.” You lounged back on your elbows, peering up at him.

He stood there, arms crossed in dissatisfaction, “What? No shock? No horror? That would at least be some fun to see.”

“You thought you had fooled a necromancer? 'Star, you radiate undeath. You're paler than me and my pallor has been called deathly – not a perk of my school by the way.”

“Hmmm, you did strike me as rather sickly looking.”

“And so you thought I'd make a good snack?” You raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Look, I'm feeling weak, anyone would do.”

“Your words wound me.” You feigned insult, putting your hand over your heart.

“…You're vexing.”

You took a moment to contemplate the pros and cons of letting him feed from you. The other party members were likely to react negatively to his vampirism and you'd rather not risk him being staked or incinerated. That man's face flashed through your mind unwarranted and gave you the last push you needed.

You huffed a sigh, “If you're truly that weak, I guess I can oblige you. But don't take too much.”

He startled, “Really? I – Of course. Not one drop more. Shall we get comfortable?”

You laid back on your bedroll with a sense of trepidation pooling in your stomach but watched silently as the elf dropped to his knees. He cradled you in his hands and for a moment you wondered if others found his touch to be cold like yours. The thought was interrupted by the sting of his fangs piercing the delicate skin of your neck, like shards of ice. However, after a few moments passed, the familiar feeling of your life being drained away crept in.

You felt it in your fingers first, as your body started prioritising your vital organs over your extremities – the numbness slithering down from the tips of your fingers into your elbows as you fist his shirt, trying to hold on to consciousness. Next, it was your feet. They began to feel like solid ice blocks, you couldn't even wiggle your toes. Your heart began to struggle as your blood pressure dropped, if it weren't for his cradling you, your head would surely be lulling.

“A-Asta…rion. S-stop. That's… enough.” You tugged at his shirt.

By the grace of the gods, he had heard you, quickly releasing you from his maw. You were surprised to see his eyebrows shoot up and his eyes widen.

“Shit, shit, shit. You're going blue! You-”

His voice was lost to you as the all too familiar sensation of death's grip took you. Your face scrunched up in agony until suddenly, pleasantly, you were embraced by nothingness.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You awoke with a gasp, your heart stuttering back to life. Gods you hated when that happened. How long were you gone for this time? Your eyes flickered open and you were greeted by the sight of Astarion pacing back and forth. He was mumbling to himself but you couldn't make out what he was saying. You rolled to your side with a groan and he finally looked at you.

“You're alive! But you died! Your heart stopped-”

“Shhh. Wake up the whole camp why don't you?” You shakily pushed yourself up into a sitting position. “Not like this is my first dance with death. Lucky for me it's always cut short.” You laughed dryly.

Astarion's brows pinched together as he joined you on the forest floor, “Here I was weighing up the pros and cons of paying that skeleton to revive you, only to find out I wasn't even your first. Is that why he knew you? Dying a common occurrence for you?”

“More than I'd care to admit. My first death was when I was just a babe. Just dropped dead right in front of my mother. I don't remember it but she certainly does. I've been taken to see numerous clerics and healers, all of whom have been stumped. My affliction is no curse, nor is it ill health. It is simply a part of my being. Like my connection to life is weak but strong enough to keep me out of death's embrace permanently. As for Withers, I don't remember meeting the undead scribe prior to our encounter in the crypt.”

Your brows furrowed as you puzzled over the cryptic nature of the now-resident corpse. He was all riddles. There was a moment of silence as Astarion seemed to contemplate his words, “Dying is a wretched experience. I would pay any cost not to go through it again. You and I… we're more alike than I thought.”

“Tell me about it. All my life I have been compared to vampires. From my pale complexion, my sensitivity to sunlight and a touch my mother said was as cold as death. Only difference between us is that I can't drink blood for nutrients and mirrors are almost useless for you.”

Another moment of silence and then Astarion was up and riffling through the camp supplies, producing a bottle of wine you had recently found. He then grabbed two goblets from his tent.

“I propose a drink to our newly realised mutual understanding and perhaps, an arrangement?”

He poured a glass and offered it to you.

“What would this arrangement be exactly?” You asked before taking a sip.

Astarion swirled the vintage in his goblet, "Let me feed from you, I won't take much, just enough to give me the energy to find something more… filling. In return, perhaps I can help that pretty little heart of yours keep beating. To be honest, you're useful to me and I need you alive. If you need me to shepherd enemies closer to you so you can sap their life force to fuel your own, who am I to judge?"

You took a moment to consider it, "Well, in that case, feel free to sink your teeth into those we battle."

"I like how you think, after all, they're just as dead." He gave you a charming smile, a flash of fang, before downing his drink, "Now forgive me, as invigorating as you were, I need something more satisfying and you could use the beauty sleep, you look paler than my arm." With that, Astarion stood back up and started stalking towards the forest but he paused and looked over his shoulder at you, "This is a gift you know, I won't forget it."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the rest of your adventuring party were quick to cotton onto the truth of Astarion's nature, probably something to do with the fresh puncture wounds on your neck and the scars on his that mirrored them. Vague threats were made towards him but you were quick to reassure them that it was a) consensual and b) he wouldn't be seeking out any of their necks. You were a tad surprised to see Astarion grab a portion of the morning meal when he didn't need to eat or keep pretending.

You were even more surprised when he unceremoniously handed it to you with a playful jab of: "We need to get you healthier if you're going to be making oh-so-generous donations to myself. You're eating for two now, pup."

"When can I next expect you to come for a nibble?"

"My sweet, there is nothing I'd like more." He placed his hand over his breast in a little half bow, "I'll come to you tonight, when you're snugly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy. And this time I'll make sure I'm quiet - we don't want to disturb your rest. You need it more than I do after all. Later on, when we are settled for the day, I'll eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more. But, of course, I'll keep your delicate constitution in mind."

You couldn't hold his gaze, unused to such flippant flirtation, so you just shovelled down what you were sure was a lovely breakfast if you weren't too distracted to taste it.

It continued with every meal for the following days, you felt so full, fit to burst. Astarion did visit you most nights. Sometimes you slept blissfully unaware, and on others where sleep could not find you, you had idle conversation in the lead-up to his meal. You were surprised by his confession that you were his first thinking being. The way he talked to Shadowheart about sweet vs savoury hearts and his comment on liking spicy food when Lae'zel threatened him had you thinking he had been feeding like this since the start of his undeath. You felt oddly flattered, almost like it was a privilege to have been the camp member randomly chosen for his first proper taste of living.

As promised, Astarion found ways to lead foes into range of your spells so your grim harvest could be reaped. If there was still life in them afterwards, he always took the opportunity to have a bite to eat. You made quite the duo while the others could focus on the heavy hitters that you did not have the strength to face. This was an especially useful tactic when clearing out the goblin camp. Because although there was the option just to quietly take out their leaders, you hadn't the patience for sneaking about or scheming to get them alone. However, Halsin's complaining when you wanted to go to camp to rest up was getting on your last nerve. You had been up for days with no reprieve. You had run out of spell slots so you could reap no more souls to fuel you. It was all too stressful and you could tell that if you didn't rest soon, everyone would get to witness your lifeless corpse briefly. Frankly, it had upset you that it even happened in front of Astarion. Eventually, you put your foot down and hurried to your tent to rest in privacy.

It wasn't long before that privacy was interrupted. You heard Astarion clear his throat.

"Enter," you called weakly. Gods you hated feeling like this. It took all your energy just to sit up.

He was frowning as he pushed aside the tent curtain and stepped in, "Your heart, I can hear its stuttering. Is there anything that can be done to… steady it?"

You laughed dryly, "If there was anything I could do, I would be doing it right now. I just need rest, so please let me."

He didn't leave, instead, he sat himself down beside you, "Perhaps some food might help? Gale is making a stew. He seemed rather concerned, said you're paler than usual. Which is true, though you're not quite blue in the lips like last time. Shadowheart wanted to check you over for any wounds but I assured her I couldn't smell any bleeding."

You were touched that your party members showed you such concern, you actually managed to smile. It had been years since you felt so cared for.

"Stew does sound nice but sadly I don't have much of an appetite at this time. So no extra portion."

Astarion stood back up and seemed to hesitate for a moment, "Would you like me to inform them of your condition? It might help if you had extra eyes on you."

"I don't want to be a distraction. Just… just tell them I have a weak constitution. That should do."

He nodded his understanding then ducked out. You led back down and strained to hear what was going on outside.

"So? How are they? What's going on?" That was Karlach, there was genuine worry in her voice.

"Tav is fine. They just need rest and a good meal. Apparently, they've been frail since birth."

There was a disgruntled huff, "And you've known this the whole time. Is that why you've been hovering around them like a gnat?" Gale said accusatorially. You could imagine him possibly poking the vampire in the shoulder.

"That's true. I found out rather accidentally and they chose to confide in me. They didn't tell you because they thought you would've forgotten our mission and fawned over them like they were a sickly child." He was agitated.

"My my, I didn't take you for the doting type Astarion. Colour me surprised, you actually care about the well-being of your personal blood bank." You couldn't tell if Shadowheart was joking or not.

"Look as much I love idle chit-chat and gossip, Tav would really like a bowl of stew and that's what I came to get. So I'll just say this, when they've recovered from this little episode, do not crowd them. Stress sets it off."

There was silence and shuffling after that. It wasn't long before Astarion returned with a steaming bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. You tried to sit up again but your arms gave out causing you to fall back with a thud and a groan. Astarion sighed, set the stew down beside you and did something you had not expected.

He slid behind you and lifted you to rest against his chest. It felt oddly… intimate. Sure you had sat in a similar position when he fed while you were awake - but there was an understanding that the closeness was necessary. Was this necessary?

"Please tell me I don't have to feed you." He huffed.

You took a second to collect yourself and tried to will away what little heat filled your cheeks, "N-no I can do it. But uh… you didn't have to do all this. Thank you."

"I'm just simply keeping up my end of our little arrangement."

"Even though I won't be able to hold up my end until I'm stable?"

"The way I see it, the sooner you're back on your feet, the sooner we can carry on as normal." He placed the bowl on your lap and passed you the spoon. "Now eat up."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You got about halfway through your meal before you found yourself drifting off into an oddly peaceful slumber, slumped against the vampire. When you awoke the next morning he was no longer in your tent. You donned your robes and joined the others outside. You sat by the fire and Wyll passed you a portion of porridge.

"How are you feeling? Fighting fit I hope."

You gave him a smile, "I'm feeling right as rain today."

Lae'zel made a noise across from you, "If you are so weak that you are useless to us, it would be easier if I put you out of your misery."

Shadowheart glared at her, "Ignore the gith. We'd all be scattered to the winds trying to solve this by ourselves if it weren't for you. Now that we're all aware of your… limitations we can plan accordingly."

"I agree, perhaps Wyll and I can stay beside you while the others take the battle to our foes," Gale suggested, settling beside you.

You started zoning out as everyone except Astarion talked battle tactics. No, you had focused on him, he was standing off to the side staring at you intently. You could almost see cogs turning in his head. You were snapped out of your daze when he finally spoke.

"By all means, keep the ilk away from our precious leader, just don't get in my way. I have no plans to change how I've been operating because it'd been working just fine until we rescued that pesky bear."

It wasn't long before you all set out again. You came across a priest of Loviatar called Abdirak. He had implored you to go through some sort of ritual pertaining to his goddess of pain and at Astarion's behest you acquiesced. Karlach voiced her disapproval, pointing out that you had only just recovered. Normally you'd try to avoid unnecessary pain but if there was a blessing to be had, you figured you could put on a show. And that you did, you made no effort to hold back your cries of pain as that maniac let loose with a gods damned mace. If you were being honest with yourself, you had been expecting a whip. You couldn't focus on the chatter behind you as the others commentated but you did hear amusement in Astarion and Shadowheart's voices. Needless to say, you promptly downed a couple of health potions after you received the blessing.

You cleared through another room of goblins, dispatching Priestess Gut in the process and taking her worm to shove in your pack. You hadn't quite made up your mind on if you should take the dream visitor's advice. The last thing you wanted to do was put your trust in them and end up a mind flayer faster. As the others looked through the possessions of the dead for anything useful, Astarion took you to one side.

"Darling, I was just thinking about you. Remembering our time together, the things we've shared - and I don't just mean that lovely neck of yours." He chuckled then glanced away briefly only to start fiddling with his fingers when he looked back to you, "I'm growing to like the whole package honestly. And you clearly like me too, so…"

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, "So…?"

"Come now, don't be coy. Your body's already given you away. I could feel it when I was getting lost in your neck." His fingers brushed just millimetres away from your throat, "Your little shivers of excitement. And that delicate blush you had just last night when I held you close. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

He had crowded your space and you had to break eye contact so that the blush he was on about wouldn't return. Since when did you become so easily flustered? When did he start having this effect on you? You guessed you had always found him to be handsome but it shouldn't bring such a reaction from yourself.

"I'll never tell."

He gently grasped your chin and tilted your face to look at him, he was smirking like a cat who caught the canary, "You don't have to say a thing - I already know how you feel. Because I feel it too." His voice lowered and his thumb brushed along your bottom lip, smearing blood across it, "We could take an evening to ourselves. Get away from camp - get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate. Somewhere we can…" He got impossibly closer, drawing you in with a hand on your hip, all you'd have to do is lean forward ever so slightly to close the distance, "indulge in each other. Feel alive together."

"A less trusting person might think this all sounds very suspicious," Dammit all! That came out sounding breathier than it had any right to!

Astarion gave a quiet laugh and stepped back, "Thank goodness we're all such good, trusting friends, then." He placed a hand over his heart, "On my honour, the only thing on my mind is depraved, carnal lust."

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, "Th-that sounds pretty good to me."

He gave you a toothy grin, "Wonderful. I just hope we don't have to wait too long to steal away. But once we can, I promise you a night you'll never forget. See you there, lover." He gave you a wink and promptly joined the others, making over-the-top pleased sounds when he found a golden goblet.

You leaned back against a wall, hand over your chest as you felt your heart thud and pause, literally skipping a beat. This man had already been the death of you once, and he might just be again if the last of the goblins weren't. Shadowheart noticed you in the corner and came over.

"We can take a short rest if you need it. We'll understand. Lae'zel can complain all she wants. I'd be more than happy to gag her for you."

You shot her a small grin, "I'd appreciate that. Now that the druid has been rescued and fucked off back to his bloody Grove, we can take this at our own pace."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

You couldn't steal away that night, far too tired from Volo's botched attempt at removing the tadpole and slaughtering the last of goblins in the camp as none seemed to have the sense just to run the fuck away. Sleep took you as soon as you settled for the night but your dream was unusual. The visitor returned and yet again urged you to utilise the tadpoles you had collected from the slain goblin leaders. However, this being had claimed to be stopping the ceramorphosis from progressing as it should. So you were perplexed as to why they would want you to consume more. You awoke, confused and uneasy. A feeling which was compounded when the others came to you, describing a similar experience.

Astarion sat next to you, wordlessly passing you the hearty celebratory breakfast Gale had cooked up. You accepted it with a smile. You could feel the tension that had built between you from his proposition, you had always been a little awkward about… sexual encounters. Not many people want to be bedfellows with a necromancer and thus although you had experience, it wasn't much or recent. So you didn't really know how to talk to someone about it. Astarion, however, didn't suffer from the same anxieties as you.

"I think we should take the day to recouperate, especially with Volo unfortunately mutilating one of your lovely eyes. Though the replacement he supplied has its perks, I imagine that kind of… trauma needs some time to recover from. Perhaps we could visit that Ethel in her cottage. The teiflings aren't in any immediate danger, the Rite of Thorns will have been stopped by that bear of an elf Halsin." He tapped his finger on his chin, pantomiming being in thought, "Now, providing that the 'Dream Visitor' doesn't reappear tonight, perhaps you and I can enjoy a little death." He practically purred those last two words, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "Figuratively speaking."

The implication of what he said was not lost on you and it took all your will not to hide your face behind your hands as your flush finally appeared at full force. Even your ears felt warm! You struggled to respond, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

"That is if you still want to…" His hand dropped away, he actually looked unsure for once.

"O-of course! I uh- I'm just… not used to uh," you gestured between the two of you, "this kind of thing. Usually, there's a tavern involved, some alcohol and ends with disappointment."

He threw his head back, barking out a laugh. When he met your gaze again, there was something in his eyes you couldn't quite place, an unknown warmth was your best guess in hindsight. "I've been there, Darling. I know exactly what that's like. This is yet another first for me. But trust me when I say, a night with me will leave you far far more than simply satisfied."

Your hands flew up to your face as you held back whatever noise it was trying to escape you. He chuckled and you peered at him through parted fingers, he was grinning ear to ear at the effect he had on you.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Auntie Ethel was a wash. She was a hag! An actual fucking hag! And she lost all interest in helping you when she saw you only had one eye remaining. There was a suggestion of one of your motley crew offering up theirs, but you weren't about to make them give up a goddamn eye to a creature as vile as a hag. And poor Mayrina, you couldn't stand aside and let her be swindled by the thing. Especially after you had found Mayrina's brothers dead in the swamp. You informed the poor girl of such and the hag had whisked her away. The ensuing battle was hell and you counted your blessing that no one accidentally killed the lass when the hag took her form.

So back you camp you went, still parasite-ridden.

You spent the lead-up to dinner organising your supplies in your camp chest, Karlach kindly offered to help as she found empty backpacks and trunks to organise things into before putting those into the magiced chest. Astarion's pottering about didn't escape your notice. He was gathering pillows and blankets from his tent and strolling into the woods with them only to return empty-handed a short while later and grab something else to disappear with. On his third trip, he caught your eye and flashed you a smirk and a wink. You almost dropped the bottle of dye you had been holding.

"Careful soldier, don't imagine you want custard yellow shoes," Karlach chuckled.

"Yeah, certainly not." You hastily put the dye in the appropriate satchel and then looked to Karlach who had a shit-eating grin.

"I saw that wink, have plans with a certain pale elf, do we? Can't say I blame ya. I would ride him to the Feywild and back if I had half the chance. And you too, until you were seeing stars. But sadly, I can't unless ya want to get third-degree burns in awkward places."

You choked on your own spittle. Was everyone around you so forward? Or were you simply the prudish one of the bunch?

"Thanks for the ah… compliment. To be honest, I'm out of my depth with this kind of, how to put it, entanglement. But he seems well versed in it. Like it's his forte I guess. Honied words and fleeting touches."

Karlach shuffled on her knees to face you fully, "All the better I'd say, who better to help ya blow off some steam and let loose than a master? Tell ya what, how about I give you some pointers and stuff? Before I was sent to Avernus and had this thing," she gestured to the engine, "put inside me, I used have the ladies and fellas wrapped around my fingers. If you catch my drift." Karlach wiggled her brows and you laughed, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

"I'd like that. I could use the pep talk."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of the day passed quickly with Karlach imparting as much of her bedroom wisdom onto you as possible. And by the time Gale called everyone to dinner, your nerves were at ease. You had to force yourself not to rush through your meal as excitement filled you. Once done, you wished everyone a peaceful night before making your way through the woodlands in the direction you saw Astarion go multiple times that day, the final time being only moments earlier.

For a brief second, you were worried you had gotten lost until you saw his ruffled shirt hanging from a nearby tree branch. And then he was stepping out from behind it. You gulped, he was utterly beautiful haloed by the moonlight. Maybe he was a moon elf before he was turned?

"There you are," He was a vision of grace as he approached you, of elegance even when partially dressed as he was and surrounded by nature, "I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you."

You couldn't help the quip that left your lips, "Since you set eyes on my neck, you mean? You don't have me yet, 'Star." The memory of your first encounter coming to mind.

He chuckled lowly and shook his head, "Don't I? You're here. And I don't think you want to talk." His hand trailed up your arm, "I think you want to be known." His hand cupped your cheek, his other on your hip - once again pulling you into him, "To be tasted."

You gulped, "A…And what do you want?"

He gave a wry smile, "What do any of us want? Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our Collective ecstasy." He absentmindedly stroked your cheek, "That's what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?"

You leaned into his touch, "I want to forget about everything. I want to live."

"Then tonight, Darling, let's live to our fullest."

His lips were on yours in an instant.

[diacripticcomplex]

My absolute favorite DL characters in no particular order:

🌸 YUI KOMORI 🌸

Never understood the hate towards Yui. Again the anime is a promo for the game and it did not do her character justice at all. The prequel and sequels for some of the mangas did her character justice. She’s a very kind and compassionate person, she’s HUMAN and grew up in a church, she’s a soft girl who doesn’t like violence so y’all can only imagine what this girl has to go thru meeting a bunch of bloody thirsty horny vampire boys, who have severe parental issues and a bunch of other abusive behavioral problems, but she is very patient with each and every brother in all the routes and I love that about her, she’d be a really good therapist too lmao. She’s an Angel, must be protected at all times. I won’t tolerate any Yui hate on this blog.

❤️‍🔥 AYATO SAKAMAKI ❤️‍🔥

Poster boy for the entire franchise. A lot of people find him to be annoying, he is annoying and we love his Aries self for that. While Ayato is a menace to society he’s got a good side to him as well and for the most part knows right from wrong, more than some of the fandom gives him credit for. I also really like his character design, he kinda looks like a mean little bat. They give him a lot of cute and playful moments with Yui and I think that’s beautiful especially in a dark themed game series, they have serious moments but also a lot of light hearted moments and I think that’s important to lighten up the mood sometimes.

👨‍🌾 YUMA MUKAMI👨‍🌾

First off, I absolutely love his character design, the messy long hair and he’s a giant too plus they gave him realistic human hair and eyes to show that he used to be human, maybe I’m thinking too deep on it idk. I absolutely love the identity crisis he had due to his amnesia and the connection with Shu, it brought that twin flame connection back, I love those best friend tropes a lot, his voice actor also is Mako from Free! So I have no choice but to Stan Yuma. Yuma also has a lot more self awareness then the rest of his adoptive brothers and thinks ahead due to his past experiences, he knows that he’s a vampire now but still has a garden for food and has sugar cubes with him at all times, he uses his past experiences and acknowledges that it happened then moves forward he doesn’t dwell on it too much.

🔪AZUSA MUKAMI🔪

He’s a lil creepy, and socially awkward at times but he’s just so relatable sometimes. He’s very soft spoken and he a lil wild with his pain tolerance and some of the out of pocket shit that he says, but I think he’s such a sweetheart, protect him at all costs as well, even his brothers know to protect him at all costs.

🎻 SHU SAKAMAKI 🎻

Shu will forever be my favorite DL boy, he doesn’t like doing anything but can do everything and do it perfectly too. He has severe ptsd, depression, and detachment issues. No you can’t fix him even Yui realizes this and just accepts him for who he is because that’s the only way it’ll work. He’s also hilarious without even trying to be, he says some mean shit at times but it’s so unhinged like damn Shu you don’t have the energy to eat, shower, wipe your ass but you got the energy to completely disrespect all your siblings with a few words. Also his beef with Reiji is somewhat familiar grounds especially if you have a sibling that is constantly irritating your soul. I always felt like I could relate to Shu the most due to him having a hard time getting close to people after losing his best friend, he can’t just get over it either, I don’t like when people would say “oh it happened a long time ago” yes it did but everyone heals at their own pace and it’s important to acknowledge that as well.

[readychilledwine]

Paradise Lost - Cat and Mouse Prequel Part 2

Cat and Mouse Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Summary - After your first treatment with Helion and Rhysand, the only thought on Azriel's mind is revenge.

Warnings - discussions of torture and murder, implied PTDS, reader dealing with guilt, trauma, and her self worth

A/N - our next part is going to be longer and really diving into what all happened to reader (along with a physical therapy session between her and Azriel). I wanted this to focus on Azriel more to ensure that it touched into @azrielappreciationweek and the Day 2 Prompt.

The Silent Isles were exactly what their name described. Silent and surrounded by water. Azriel had been flying them for the past 2 weeks while he waited for y/n to recover from the first session with Rhys and Helion. 

What Rhysand saw in her mind was enough for Azriel to realize freeing her was not enough. He wanted blood. He wanted to watch her keeper's life drain from his eyes. He wanted to hold his body until it went cold and stiff. Then, he wanted to burn that damned place to the ground. 

She had not woken up since that session. Her mind was lost in a jungle of memories blurring and swirling together, all blending so deeply she couldn't find a way out. Rhys was with her constantly, walking her through those pathways until his own nose would bleed and he'd have to pull out of her mind. 

Azriel pulled the hood of his cloak up higher, watching as two of the spies he had figured out were higher up in the chain moved outside. "Go," he commanded his shadows in near silence. 

"So if she's not back within the month," The larger blonde male shrugged.

A red head high fae male sighed. "We kill her. They have her in the High Lord's Palace right now. We got confirmation."

Azriel froze as the message was relayed to him. "And if they move her?"

"Then we find her. Velaris isn't that hard to get into. We've been doing it for years."

Azriel didn't bother flying back home. Instea,d he collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily from the effort he used walking through his shadows to get him home as quickly as possible. Mor rushed to his side, supporting him as he stood up. "Where's Rhys?"

Mor ushered him to a chair before answering. "With y/n. She just woke up."

Conflict set in, squeezing his heart like a vice. "I have to interrogate her, Mor." 

Rhys entered, as if on cue and stared towards Azriel as if he had grown a second head. "Why?"

He replayed the dream for him and Rhysand sighed, leaning against the wall. "She already told me, Az. She also told me you flying there was a waste of our time. There's no way in and no way out."

Dead silence fell over the room. "How?"

"Because the building isn't actually there, Az. It's everywhere. It's already in Velaris, in Spring, in Rusk. She described it as a connection of gates, not a true place. She isn't even sure where they're truly at when they're there."

Rhysand moved, watching the faelights of his court. "If one of us were to try to enter it, it could drop us Mother knows where. She's jumped to different worlds, Azriel. Different timelines. This isn't some bullshit organization of kidnapped kids. This is an incredibly powerful being taking other powerful beings and turning them into cold blooded killers."

Mor sat slowly, drinking her full glass of wine and refilling it, hee eyes wide as she processed. "So she's a key, but if we send her in-"

"They will kill her on the spot by blocking her ability to leave." Rhys said calmly. "All we can do is break the gate between Velaris, our allies, and them, but even then-"

"They can use magic to switch their faces, their scents, and they know their victims stories due to targeting the low class, alone, and lesser fae for their faces," Azriel said. "So destroying the connection won't stop them from entering because they already have faces that the shield knows and will allow in." 

All Rhys could do was nod. "We moved her back to the House of Wind. Helion traded me silence in exchange for something I can't discuss," Rhysand examined the sun bargain mark adorning his left inner ankle again. "Until we know she's safe, she does not leave there unless one of us is with her." 

Azriel nodded. "Can I see her?" 

"If you'd like to." 

Cassian walked him silently to the room Rhysand had moved her to. She no longer had a balcony. Only windows that were damn near impenetrable. Her door was now warded and shielded, appearing to just be part of the wall. Not even her bathroom had floor to ceiling windows allowing her a view of the mountains or city below. 

"Good luck," Cassian said softly. "Approach slowly."

Y/n was sat on her bed, dark hair a curly mess as if it had not been brushed and was constantly being tugged and played with. Her eyes had dark bags under them, which was almost comical for how long she has been unconscious. She was rocking back and forth, her knees tucked to her chest and picking at her nails. 

If Azriel had not known better, he would have assumed his mate was coming down from a high provided by some street potion sold in a dark alley. 

"Hellcat," he moved to her slowly taking a seat with him and sitting across from her. "Y/n, what's wrong? Talk to me."

He poured love and comfort down the bond to her, watched as she slowed her movements down and accepted it. "I've hurt so many people." Her guilt hit him like an arrow, striking deep in his own heart. "I never want to hurt anyone ever again." 

Azriel moved to sit besides her, pulling her into his chest and holding her. "You were forced to do those things, y/n. That doesn't define who you are, what we do once you're free of them does. You've already told Rhys about a huge security risk to our home, you came here willingly when the bond snapped, you've confessed to every assassination you've taken part in."

"But what if that's not enough, Azriel? What if I can never do enough to erase this part of my history that affected thousands of families and sometimes whole kingdoms? What if I simply am not enough?"

The question stung, bringing tears to Azriel's eyes as he forced her to look at him. "I torture fae for a living, little hellcat. I have killed countless people on Rhysand's orders, on his father's orders before him, and simply because they were blocking my way to a target."

Azriel took a deep breath before continuing. "I've ordered executions just based on the world and trust of my spies. I've killed king's guards, royals, lesser and greater fae. Trust me, I can empathize with your feelings, my love. I understand them better than anyone here, and that's why I need you to understand you are worthy. You are enough. You are good."

He forced her head towards his again, kissing her forehead softly. "You did not do those things by choice, y/n. Just remember that." Azriel pulled her close again, burying her head into his neck.

He gave zero fucks in that moment what Rhys had said regarding the Silent Isles and the spy network building. He was going to find them, he was going to skin them alive, and he was going to let you watch or bring you their heads one by one until every single last fae who made you feel this way was no more than a speck of dirt under his boot.

After two more weeks fighting off darkness, you sighed heavily as Helion and Rhys sat across from you. "Are you sure you're ready?" The Day Lord spoke smoothly, "It's only been a month."

You nodded. "I want to get it over with."

"Then let's begin."

[antianakin]

MY STANCES ON CONTROVERSIAL CHARACTERS ARE AS FOLLOWS

Anakin Skywalker: This one's fairly obvious, but I'm one of the people who doesn't see Anakin as redeemed by the end of ROTJ just because he saved one person he personally gives a damn about. My definition of redemption is about atoning and making amends, and Anakin has no possible way of actually DOING THAT for most of the things he's done, so there's no real way of acquiring redemption. He can be a better person, he can be forgiven by individual people for things he's done to them, he can keep choosing to be selfless instead of selfish, but none of that necessarily means he has to be considered redeemed. If you think he's redeemed at the end of ROTJ and that's what brings you joy in your interpretation of the story, great, I honestly don't care. But if you choose to come into my notes and get mad at me because I don't think the space fascist is redeemed just because he decides to save his own son, you will now be blocked on sight, I'm done having that conversation with people.

The Jedi As A Whole: Wonderful people with a beautiful culture that never did a single thing to deserve what was done to them. They were not corrupt, they didn't need to reform their culture in a single way. There was nothing more they could've done for Anakin or the Republic that would've stopped what happened. They don't steal children, they adopt them from parents who choose to let their children lead a better life, and become part of the large extended Jedi family. They are intergalactic therapists whose literal way of life IS therapy for those who choose to follow it. They were outplayed, but they did everything they could've possibly done. Sometimes, it is possible to commit no mistakes, and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life. (Side note here: This is an incredibly pro Jedi blog, if you come on my blog and criticize the Jedi in any way, you will be immediately blocked, I am so done with this fandom's anti-Jedi sentiments, consider this your warning.)

Padme Amidala: Deserved better from the Prequels, has such potential and promise and I want so dearly to save her from her toxic ass marriage to a fascist MAGA manchild, but damn am I glad Luke and Leia didn't have to grow up with her as a mother some days.

Bo-Katan Kryze: I wish I could like her, but the writers are making it SO HARD. They don't seem to ever remember that she gleefully set an entire village on fire because they dared ask for their enslaved people back and to not be occupied anymore, but I do.

Satine Kryze: I wish I could like her, but I don't have enough nostalgia for her to overlook how bad the writing is for her. She treats Obi-Wan like garbage, brings out the worst in him, acts very arrogantly about just about everything and never has to take responsibility for her own mistakes so she gets to die a martyr.

Aleksander Kallus: Literally has to have his ENTIRE BACKSTORY retconned so he can be "redeemed" within the span of one episode. Also manages to "All Lives Matter" Zeb into thinking that judging Imperials for their fascist choices is the same as judging an ENTIRE SPECIES on the actions of one individual who was acting in self-defense anyway. Stop saying he's got the best redemption arc in Star Wars, it sucks fucking ass and he's not a fucking Fulcrum, he just stole the title from Ahsoka and didn't earn it and he was a shit spy anyway.

Crosshair: Bigoted dickhead who treats everyone like complete crap and then goes full fascist as a punishment for the world when no one wants to risk their lives to save him. Let him die already, he's not worth saving.

Bode Akuna: Basically just Anakin lite and we all know how I feel about Anakin. No sob story justifies anything he's done and I didn't find him all that interesting or sympathetic, personally.

Rafa and Trace Martez: I actually loved them, I thought they had an interesting relationship with each other and with Ahsoka, I appreciated how different they felt and the arc Ahsoka goes on with them. I don't mind that they used them to showcase the rising anti-Jedi sentiment among the citizens of Coruscant, I just wish their opinions hadn't been presented as though they were right. I love that we see they've joined a rebellion of sorts post-Order 66 and I wish we'd gotten to see more of Trace, Rafa, and Rex working together rather than the absolute trashfire that we're actually getting on TBB.

Ahsoka Tano: Relationship status: It's complicated. I DO like her, generally, but I REALLY dislike the way she's constantly written in later stuff to be better than everyone else and to have basically zero flaws so that she can end up like a messiah or a goddess of light reborn or something. It's boring, it's annoying, and it just isn't any good. I particularly don't care for how she consistently gets utilized to bash the Jedi Order and absolve Anakin for all of his sins. Ahsoka deserves better, but I'm also immensely frustrated with where her story's taken her and the way fandom tends to treat her. We also just straight-up need more main female Jedi characters and as long as Ahsoka's around it feels like it'll never happen.

Sabine Wren: I love the Rebels version of her, but the Ahsoka show version sucks. I have decided it simply does not exist for Sabine. That isn't the real Sabine and it never will be. That's not Sabine's story, the real Sabine would never try to be a Jedi because quite simply she doesn't NEED to be. And the real Sabine would NEVER disrespect Ezra's sacrifice by undoing it and then leaving him to deal with the fallout. It's stupid, it's ugly, and Sabine deserved better.

Hera Syndulla: Much like Sabine, I love the Rebels version of her, but the Ahsoka version sucks. The Ahsoka version deserves to be kicked out of the army or whatever, she's a terrible mother and an even worse General and quite honestly not that great of a friend. The real Hera would NEVER act like orders didn't matter just because she doesn't like them or refuse to see the logic in letting go of Ezra after he's been missing for 10 years so that those resources can go to people who they can confirm are still alive.

Shin Hati: She's so so so boring. She has the personality of cardboard, it basically consists of "crazy eyes" and that's about it. She is pretty literally just Darth Maul but a girl. Like every single part of her character so far is indistinguishable from Maul aside from the cosmetic stuff. I hope she dies in season 2 and never gets a redemption arc. I'd say Sabine deserves better, but honestly Ahsoka!Sabine deserves her.

Grey Jedi: Stop trying to make fetch happen. It's not going to happen. Let Grey Jedi stay in fanon where it belongs, none of your faves are Grey Jedi in canon and they never will be.

[dragonflies-draw-flame]

10 fandoms/10 characters

Many thanks to @tomatette, @jaynesilver, and @fallingdeeperintothispit for tagging me 😁.

Star Wars (Sequels): Armitage Hux. I really do love Kylo too—Ren is such an interesting, dramatic character, and he's absolutely perfect for Hux, seriously. But Hux with his emotional unavailability, hard, overly-composed exterior, his passion/drive to the point of his own detriment, traumatic past...he's everything I could want in a character, because I am also all of these hard-to-love things (though thankfully minus the space fascism).

Star Wars (Prequels): Anakin Skywalker. Look, I know he's a bit whiny sometimes but damn if I don't love a murderous pretty boy on a fool's errand for the person he loves. Mystical space powers and dramatic sweeping outfits are just an added bonus.

Beauty and the Beast: the Beast. For the handful of people following my BatB Kylux fic, this is TOTALLY shocking, I know (and also you guys are amazing ❤️). I do love Belle—she's a book-loving introvert, so that's a given. But the Beast (notice I didn't say Prince Adam)...yeah, I did NOT know how to deal with my attraction to him when I was younger. Mercurial, cursed, awkwardly endearing, dark-haired, passionate, and desirously fluffy?! Wears dramatic capes, has an enchanted rose determining his future, and has the library of my dreams that he is willing to share?? What the fuck more could I want?!

LOTR trilogy: Aragorn. Do I really need to explain that to anyone?? (Also: sorry, Legolas...you were a VERY close second).

Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.: Jemma Simmons. Brilliant, adorable style, much more resilient than she looks. Her quote that goes "Past events...have shown me that I’m not good at improvisation. However, I excel at preparation" is not that great out of context here, unfortunately, but regardless, it was so validating to me. Me too, Jemma!!

Once Upon a Time: Killian Jones (Captain Hook). My husband loves this show, so we have watched it so many times. Hook is a seductive, charming bad boy who eventually really does try his best. And his pirate get-up? UGH, have mercy. (Also, wow, apparently I really, really have a thing for pretty, dark-haired, dangerous men who wear mostly black INCLUDING at least one garment that falls to at least knee length. Huh. That's...rather specific.)

Harry Potter: Hermione Granger. I related hard to a bookish girl who had a hard time making friends when I read these in grade school.

Howl's Moving Castle: Howl. I did not know how to process the extent to which I was attracted to him either, especially because he's not even human some of the time (which I liked, a lot). It was a revelation to find the world of online fanfic where I was very much not alone in those kind of thoughts!

Mean Girls: Janis Ian. Yeah, I know Janis does some shitty things in this movie, but she is unapologetic about who she is. I totally admired her boldness in high school, especially since I too dealt with the horror of rumors being spread about my sexuality (except the ones about me were true ahaha). And I always leaned much more Victorian goth than punk, but I nonetheless appreciated her style as well.

t.A.T.u.: Lena. I would be remiss to leave off this duo, even if they were a musical group, which is not one of my usual fandom sources. BUT they were the first pairing I actually read fanfic about online, way back when, and wrote a ton for them too (unpublished). For a 12-year-old who was struggling massively with...well, everything, but especially feeling incredibly alone and terrified of my sexuality, their music video/song "All the Things She Said" blew my mind. Unfortunately I never got my own chance to make out/run away with a pretty redhead in the rain, but still.

Tagging: I think I've seen this done by most people I follow already? But if you haven't done this and are reading it, please consider yourself tagged and do so, if you wish! I love these get-to-know-you things and would genuinely love to hear about you :).

[evansbby]

bestie!! im sorry if I sound delirious writing this I just got home from uni and work and decided to read the poyt prequel as a treat😋 but I still want to share my thoughts on it before I go to sleep <3

first of all, I had to pause, close my eyes and breathe halfway through reading it because Steve is such a dick!! poor baby omega, minding her own business, she just wants to finish her studies!😫

second, the flowers!! I love how significant it is in Steve’s life with the little flashbacks from his childhood, and how he imagined giving omega yellow roses alongside his sappy thoughts, associating omega’s scent with the magnolias…

it made that one scene in poyt4 even more special knowing that he was gonna give it to omega, he was showing omega how much he loves her  (even though he wasn’t ready to admit it yet at the time and projected on omega for “cheating”, but we’re just gonna pretend that didnt happen lol). Omega is just his little flower🥺 he irresistibly loves flowers since the beginning  but he just doesn’t know how to show it!! 

third, the drawings 😫😫 i’m an artist myself and I am terrible drawing from memory! he must’ve really memorised and spent a LOT of time looking at Omega for him to draw her with so much details, our Steve is just a cute little softie awe

Although it pained me to see Steve being a huge douchebag, I’m excited to see how he will redeem himself in poyt 5 now that he finally accepted the fact that he truly loves omega! I hope he will actually start acting on his softer side and not just hide it in his consciousness😣Right now I just want to give omega a big hug from having to go through all of that!! 😫 men are just so weird sometimes 🤧

thank you so much for this lovely read!! I’ve been following this series for awhile now and I know how hard you worked on it<3 your blog and your writings became a constant thing in my life in 2022 and I can’t wait to support more of your work this year!! Sending much love mwa mwa mwa !!! 💌💌

YES YES YES!! Thanks so much for this amazing review, I loved reading through it ughh you have no idea!!

Okay so YESS not only does he associate omega’s scent with the magnolias from his childhood, her scent IS the magnolias from his childhood. Meaning he was obsessed with her scent ever since he was a child. Meaning that it was always meant to be her 😭😭😭

And the yellow roses 😌😌 I feel like those roses also grew in his mom’s garden and he just fixated on them from a young age (ugh damn I should’ve included this ajdjsjajka) anyways, so now every time he buys roses, he gravitates towards the yellow ones. Yellow is also like the colour of spring and hope and that’s also what he associated her scent with.

I LOVE that you said she’s just his little flower, I find that so cute and important! Bc Steve’s mom tells him that flowers need love and nurturing to grow, else they die. Mirrors how his own omega “wilts” and starts losing all hope when Steve mistreats her a lot. 🥲🥲🥲

And finally, the drawings 😌😌 yes, Steve literally spent hours and hours staring at her. During lectures, following her around, finding her social media and looking at the grainy pics 😭😭😭

[foxymoxynoona]

got to the part in lowlander where mishka learns what that name means......................why would u do this to me....what have I done to u...im gonna need u to pay for the emotional damage...ive had a heavy heart since they parted ways but now to know this...and I can't help feeling bad for jk even if I was frustrated at him for his decisions but sacrificing himself like that... u make me feel attach to ur characters every single time😭 I just need jk to be alive and for them to be together and find peace😭

😎 That was one of those secrets that was sooooo hard not to reveal earlier than I planned on it, because I got questions about it a lot! Your conflicted feelings are such a perfect way to feel at that point --exactly like her conflicted feelings!

Good luck with what comes next ! 😇

Damn I really had a blast writing that story. I enjoy writing the prequel Asunder but it's just so very different in style, theme, and pacing.

[ratralsis]

That's all there is of that story

And that was the end of that.

A couple of years ago, as part of my short story writing classes, before I started working on my novel in earnest, I actually did write a pair of extremely short (I think 400 or 500 words?) stories that were a sort of prequel and sequel. I might post those later, just to prove that there's no sense in writing any longer prequel or sequel story. The story's told. Kevin and Marigold met, spent a year together, fell in love, and probably got married way too young.

It was an exercise. A way to keep writing between drafts of the novel without working on the novel itself. I enjoyed writing it, for all its flaws.

Here's something I said to a friend of mine who read the previous version of this story and really didn't like it:

-----

The story is still what it was three years ago. Kevin barely has a character arc: he starts off with a lot of the autistic awkwardness that I have, and he ends with it, too. I don't know if he's actually autistic or even all that awkward. It could be that he comes off as insensitive or mean. The intent was to show that he doesn't know how to react when Marigold becomes emotional or distraught about discussing her past, so he just kind of freezes up and starts thinking hard about what the "right" thing is for him to do. That's me. That's what I do. His growth is that he learns to trust Marigold more and accept her for who she is, and make more compromises in his life to suit her needs. But I don't know if that's really much of an arc.

Marigold's arc is meant to be about how she starts off as a stereotypical beautiful manic pixie dream girl, and Kevin gradually comes to realize that it's a facade and a defense mechanism and that she's very emotionally fragile when she has to lower those defenses and be herself and let others get close to her.

There are parts I'm proud of and parts I'm not. But I still don't think it's good. I'm at that point in my creative development where I can read something like Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn and see a sentence like "With a flap of her hand she summed herself up: barren face, desert eyes, and yellowing heart" and think, god DAMN but that is some incredible description, but there's a world of difference between being able to appreciate someone else's art and being able to make my own at that same level.

So I write a lot about facial expressions. People smile at each other a lot. They grin. They beam. They light up. They nod. They lean one way or another way. They bend down. Sit. Walk over. Move toward. At one point, Kevin pads his way up a flight of stairs. It's a limited vocabulary, because it's how I think. It's how my head works. Blame it on years of video games with limited verbs. "Walk" is a solid verb to describe a character moving from one area to another. But nobody "ambles" or "strolls" or "leisurely makes their way" anywhere. Maybe they should.

This story was an exercise. A bit of practice between rewrites of my novel, which I find myself hating more and more with each draft and each pair of eyes that reads it.

Hopefully, you find at least a little enjoyment in it. I'm glad I wrote it, and I had some things in it that I very badly wanted to say (that loving someone is a choice you have to make every day, that loving someone and trusting them are two very different things, that trusting someone is a painful thing, that family means more than who your biological parents were, that anything can be forgiven, and that violins look like ukuleles to the untrained eye), but I'm not so vain as to think "I meant well" and "I did well" are the same thing.

-----

That about sums it up, I think.

But, as I said before I started posting any of it, I'm happy to answer any questions if anybody has any. I can say that with such confidence because I don't expect anybody to ask me anything.

That's not reverse psychology where I'm daring you to ask me something. It's just good old-fashioned self-deprecation.

[the-hinky-panda]

Mariposa: Part III

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a four-part prequel to “Dustland Fairytale.” There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You’re a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

“These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.”

“Profe, ¿qué significa eso?” (Teacher, what does that even mean?)

You sigh. “Significa que las emociones extremas, particularmente las que causan un comportamiento precipitado, pueden arruinar tu vida. Que esas decisiones son combustibles y destructivas.” (It means that extreme emotion, particularly ones that cause rash behavior, can ruin your life. That those decisions are combustible and destructive.)

“¿Como una cerilla y pólvora?” (Like a match and gunpowder?)

“Precisamente.” (Precisely.)

The bell rings and the students pack up their bags, stack the worn copies of Romeo and Juliet on the back shelf before leaving the room to start their weekend. You sit down at your desk and grab your coffee. It’s cold by now but the caffeine is needed. You’ve been up most nights this week listening to wiretaps and reviewing reports. Escobar is on the run. Police officers are being killed daily. It’s been absolute fucking chaos.

Damn Shakespeare. Whenever a student asks why they need to study Shakespeare, in Colombia nonetheless, you always have an answer ready for them: Shakespeare is known worldwide. His plays are timeless because the themes still apply to today. We can learn from the mistakes of his characters. And as you stare down at those words, you feel like Shakespeare is laughing at you from beyond the grave.

Violent delights do indeed have violent ends.

This is the lesson you have learned the hard way in the last eight months. The CIA transferred you from Bogotá to Medellín. The timing is more than suspicious. Horacio gets reassigned to Madrid and two weeks later, you’re moving into a  Medellín barrio. You quickly come to find out, it’s not the worst move. Trujillo lives a few blocks away and frequently checks on you, to the point that his mother has taken pity on you and your kitchen skills. She makes extra food for dinner and passes it off to you but you must attend cooking classes with her on Sunday. Your empanadas are coming along nicely though.

Horacio’s successor, Colonel Augusto Pinzon, is a stubborn, arrogant man with a strong distaste for Americans. You’ve tried setting up a couple meetings with him to pass along intel and you have yet to officially meet him. He either doesn’t show or sends someone else to pick up the intel. This isn’t working and when you report that to Stechner, he tells you that Pinzon is freezing out the DEA as well and not to take it personally. But how can you not when more and more police are killed daily and your intel could save some of them? So after dinner one Sunday, you offer to clean up dishes and enlist Trujillo’s help so you can talk business without the family overhearing. He catches on immediately to the purpose for both of you to be in the narrow kitchen.

“Speak in English,” he tells you. “They won’t be able to keep up if they’re eavesdropping.”

You fill up the sink with soapy water and grab a dishrag. “Pinzon won’t work with me, at all.”

He frowns. “I know. He won’t work with Peña or Murphy either. At least, he’s not being helpful. They keep asking for men to help with raids and he won’t let us go.”

“He has to know we’re all working towards the same goal? The sooner we get Escobar behind bars, the sooner the massacres will stop.” You rinse a couple plates and hand them to him to dry. “How many friends have you lost?”

“Too many.”

“What if I gave you the intel and you gave it to Pinzon? Don’t tell him it came from me.”

“And if he asks where I got it from?”

“Will he ask that?”

Trujillo stacks the plates in the cupboard. “He may. He’s under the idea that the Americans are going to take all the credit for Escobar’s capture. Anything that might be helpful, he wants to make sure it’s the Colombian army that gets the credit.”

“My God, that is not how you win a war.” It’s how you lose one but you don’t want to voice that thought aloud. “Well, tell him a local gave you the intel. Tell him a horse gave it to you, I don’t care what you tell him, just get him the information. We have to stop the bleeding somehow.”

“I’ll pass along anything and everything you give me.” He sighs. “That’s all we can do right now.”

You wash a few more dishes before asking another question that has been weighing on your mind. “Have you heard from him at all?”

Trujillo shakes his head. “No, not at all. They’re probably monitoring his calls from Spain. Making sure he stays out of what’s happening here.”

“This is all my fault.” You grind your teeth together to keep from saying anything else. You hadn’t meant to say that but Trujillo’s hand comes down on your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“You were the best thing to happen for him. For all of us.”

“But they sent him away because-”

“Because he was being effective. Your intel, his methods, the DEA’s investigations, and the army’s force scared all the right people. Unfortunately, those people were in positions to separate everyone that could bring down the Medellín cartel. They’re more scared of them than us.”

“‘“When you fear a foe, fear crushes your strength; and this weakness gives strength to your opponents.’”

“Is that from one of your books?”

“Shakespeare, yeah.” You finish the last of the dishes and drain the water out of the sink. “We’re going to have to work around Pinzon. Will the DEA agents work with you?”

“They will. They’re just as frustrated as we are.”

“Then let’s use that frustration to our advantage. Pinzon won’t be able to withstand the pressures, especially if he keeps shutting everyone out. It’s going to cause division in the Search Bloc though.”

Trujillo leans back on the counter. “Will it get him out of the position?”

“His men divided, choosing to follow the gringos over him, to catch Escobar? Oh, it shouldn’t take long for the pressure to get to him. His ego is too fragile.”

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.” He nods, and looks out the window. “If Carrillo were still here, Escobar would leave Columbia. He wouldn’t risk being found by Search Bloc. He knows what we did to Gustavo was just a promise of what we would do to him. We need Carrillo back.”

You agree, whole-heartedly. It’s not just the physical interactions you miss, although you would do just about anything to feel his hands on you again, but it’s the partnership you both had. You spent hours listening to wiretaps, taking notes, playing chess during the quieter places in the tapes. His mind was constantly planning, scrutinizing, picking information apart and choosing which parts were useful and then plugging them into his strategy. It was no wonder the generals were afraid of him and sent him out of the country.

“I agree,” you say quietly. “But it’s going to take something large scale to scare President Gaviria into bringing him back.” And you certainly didn’t want to bear witness to whatever travesty that was going to be.

***

It didn’t take long for Pinzon to realize some of the intel that was being handed to him was coming from a CIA informant. It caused a greater rift between his officers, like Trujillo, and the DEA. More officers were being killed on the streets of Medellín and you are almost at your breaking point. Last night, you had been drunk, missing Horacio, livid at Pinzon’s incompetence, and ended up calling Stechner.

“I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

He sighed, like he was dealing with a five year old having a tantrum. “Suck it up, sweetheart. This is part of the job.”

“I’m useless here. Pinzon won’t-”

“You don’t worry about Pinzon. Pinzon’s going to wear himself out. You keep passing intel.”

“To who? No one that can do a fucking thing is getting it!”

“That’s not your job. Keep the intel flowing.”

“Even if it’s going nowhere?”

“Now you’re getting it. Look, your job is simple: teach, listen, and report. That’s it. Carrillo somehow convinced you that you were a soldier in this war and that’s not true. You are a civilian with sharp ears. That’s it. You’re sad? Frustrated? Sick of the violence? Do what we all do, get drunk, get fucked and get over it. Find yourself another officer and get under him. And if that doesn’t work, I don’t know. Change your fucking hairstyle.”

You hung up on him. But he didn’t call you back so you assume since he didn’t get your resignation by the next morning, you decided to keep going. And you had. Despite the raging hangover, you go into the classroom and continue to teach the tragedy of two teenagers who thought they were invincible only to be faced with the crashing reality that they were just as insignificant as everyone else. Death came for them, as it does for everyone. That’s why, when you drag yourself home and see Trujillo sitting on the stairs leading up to your apartment, your stomach drops. Who is dead now? And how many of them this time?

“Hola, Profesora.” (Hello, Teacher.)

“Hola, oficial. ¿A qué debo esta visita?” (Hello, Officer. To what do I owe this visit?)

“Tengo una sorpresa para ti.” (I have a surprise for you.)

You stop a couple stairs away from where he’s standing. This is new. “¿Qué?” (What?)

The briefest of smiles tugs at the corner of his mouth before he climbs the few stairs up to your door. You watch as he pulls out a key and unlocks the door.

“Uh, why do you have a key to my apartment?”

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m going to worry about this.”

He grins over his shoulder at you. “Not for long, you won’t,” he says as he opens the door and steps inside.

You follow him over the threshold and into your living room, convinced you’re dreaming. There is no way, no reason, for Horacio Carrillo to be standing in the middle of the room. Trujillo hands him the key and turns to leave, pinching your arm as he passes by you.

“Di algo, hermana.” (Say something, sister.)

You try, you really do, but your mind is still trying to process how he is real and standing before you. You hear the door close as Trujillo leaves and it startles you out of your shock. “You’re really here?”

“I am,” he smiles at you but doesn’t move any closer. “¿Estás bien?” (Are you well?)

“Yes. I, uh, I am. And you?”

“Soy bueno.” (I’m good.)

You’re afraid to move, fearing that if you do, he’ll disappear. But standing still is starting to get awkward. Not to mention the shock of seeing him is starting to wear off and the pounding behind your eyeballs from your hangover is starting to come back. “Do you want a drink?”

He nods. “Sure.”

You force your feet to move and go into the kitchen. You still have a bottle of aguardiente in your cabinet and pour two tumblers of it. He follows you into the narrow space and he’s so close to you now that it makes it hard to breathe. “How’s, uh, how’s your wife and kids?”

“Good,” he answers, taking a sip of the drink. “They’re still in Madrid.”

And he’s wearing his wedding ring which means they’ll be coming back to Colombia. “For how long?”

“Until we catch Escobar.”

You almost choke on your drink. “That could take months.”

“It could.” He leans against the refrigerator. “So you live in Medellín now.”

“Yeah, they moved me here shortly after…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the question. After you left.

He hums in acknowledgement and knocks back the alcohol in one go. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, I’m not.”

His mouth is on yours before you realize he’s moved. His hands pull you tight against him, still solid muscle from head to toe, and hold you against his chest. His tongue invades your mouth and you welcome it as your hands relearn the feel of his hair against your fingers. Having him against you after months of being apart is like the moment when a thunderstorm finally breaks and the heavy humidity dissipates, leaving the air cool and fresh. The sadness at his departure has broken and the relief of his presence brings fresh hope.

You know you’ve missed him, but the sharp sting of tears behind your eyes tells you the emotion went deeper than that. You grieved him, the loss of the relationship. Somewhere between you throwing up in a dumpster to saying goodbye to him when he left for Madrid, you had grown from partners, to friends, to lovers. The progress had been so incredibly smooth, he had just become an extension of you. His absence had been that of a missing limb, at times you could still feel him there only to realize he was gone. But he has returned and you wonder now how long it will take for you two to regain that lost ground of your relationship.  

He  backs you up to the small kitchen table and lifts you up onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist and pull him closer to you. This is familiar. The tang of cologne and cigarettes, the feel of his muscles under your hands. His mouth slides from yours and ascends up your neck with a mixture of licks and nips. He reaches your ear and gently closes his teeth around the cartilage as he whispers to you.

“Te he extrañado mucho, mi amor.” (I’ve missed you so much, my love.)

“Yo también te he extrañado. Sueño contigo a menudo.” (I’ve missed you too. I dream of you often.)

His hands are everywhere, trying to get under the neckline of your dress or under the skirt, desperately seeking out any skin he can find. “¿Y tú con qué sueñas?” (And what do you dream of?)

You tug his shirt loose and slip your hands under the fabric and over the skin of his back with a contented sigh. “Este. Estás volviendo a mí.” (This. You coming back to me.)

“Estoy aquí, Mariposa.” (I’m here, Butterfly.)

You have so many questions for him. How long is he here for? Why is he here? What happened to bring him back? But all those questions can wait. You grab his belt buckle and undo it while his hands slide under your skirt and pull your panties down your legs, dropping them to the floor. Your hand wraps around him and he’s already hard and solid in your palm. His head drops to your shoulder with a groan as two of his fingers slide into you with ease.

“So wet for me, querida.”

You wrap your hand around his length and stroke him a couple times, forcing your mouth to work. “I told you I missed you. Seems like you missed me too.”

He lifts his head and pushes your skirt out of the way as you line him up to your entrance. He takes his time to slowly sink into you and you both breathe sighs of relief when he’s fully inside. His mouth finds yours again and the kisses are sloppy but full of barely contained joy at the reunification. He palms your breasts through your clothes and you grab fistfuls of his cotton dress shirt, looking for something to hold on to as he starts to move.

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to quicken and have more power behind them. The desperation is evident in every snap of his hips. It gets harder for you to hold on to him, so you lay back on the table, reaching behind you to grab the edge. His hands are on your hips, pulling you towards him as he relentlessly pounds into you. Your thighs are trembling from gripping his waist but you feel that low warmth in your stomach starting to blossom. Your grip on the table allows you to push against him with each thrust. You’re both chasing your ends now and the force he’s using makes you grit your teeth to keep them from gnashing together. “I’m going to-”

“Me too,” he grits out.

He removes one of his hands from your hip, his thumb immediately finding your clit and slowly rubbing it. You back arches off the wooden table as your orgasm rips through your body. Horacio lets loose a string of profanity in Spanish as he comes just as violently. He falls forward, covering your body with his own, panting against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, so when he does straighten up, he takes you with him. You stay tucked under his chin, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. You’re both damp from both your activity but also the humidity in the air. You don’t care though. His pulse beats against your temple, his heart under your palm. His hand spans the breadth of your ribcage and his other is in your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp. It’s as if neither one of you can get close enough to the other.

“I thought about you everyday,” you whisper.

“I did the same.” He presses his lips against your forehead. “Te amo, querida.”

“Te amo, Horacio.” It feels so good to say those words again.

He kisses your cheek before pulling away and you both take a few minutes to clean up and resituate your rumpled clothing. You refill the glasses and sit on the couch. You try to remain professional, or at least adult-like, but he pulls you closer to him until your head is resting on his shoulder and his hand, as always, lays on your side. You enjoy a few moments of quiet, of peace, before asking questions about the war zone outside in the streets.

“So Gaviria brought you back to catch Escobar?” you ask.

“Yes. He had to when Pinzon resigned.”

“Wait, what?!” You sit up straight so you look him in the eye. “Pinzon resigned?!”

“Yesterday morning.” He gives you a shit-eating grin. “What? You didn’t know that?”

“No! How did I…why didn’t…” you’re stunned. “Trujillo…”

“Was told to keep it a secret. I only got wind of it two days ago. Pinzon was showing signs of cracking. He was cleaning out files, stashing evidence, and stopped communicating with the unit. Added to the continued attacks on the police, the body count was getting too high to justify. So Gaviria called me and said he wanted me to replace Pinzon when the official resignation came through. Apparently it did yesterday morning.”

“This is awfully big news to keep quiet.”

“We had to,” he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. “If Pablo got wind of Search Bloc not having a commander for 36 hours, he would have blown the headquarters to smithereens.”

So that answers another question of yours. “So you report tomorrow morning?”

“I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, studying your face. You know he’s already strategizing for something. “What are you planning now?”

He sighs, releasing a long stream of smoke. “People know me here, much more than they did in Bogotá.”

You take the cigarette from him and take a drawl before handing it back. “We’re going to have to be more discreet. That’s why Trujillo gave you a key.”

“Yes. So now that you know I can let myself in when it’s safe.” He winks at you. “Don’t confuse me for an intruder and shoot me.”

“Head of the Search Bloc gunned down by teacher in barrio apartment. Not exactly a glorious end to your career.”

“No, not at all.” He leans down and kisses you briefly. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

You smile up at him and return the kiss. “I think I do.”

***

Coronel Carrillo’s return certainly put a buzz around the school. Every corner you turned, students and staff alike were talking about it. The feelings seemed to be pretty fairly split down the middle. Half were happy to see his return, certain that he would bring Pablo Escobar to justice. Half were scared that they or their families were going to get caught in the crossfire during the manhunt.

“¿Profe?” (Teacher?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

“¿Se enteró de lo que pasó ayer en el Barrio Escobar?” (Did you hear about what happened in Barrio Escobar yesterday?)

You did actually, from Horacio himself and a grinning Trujillo. You had to admit, arriving with a hundred police officers and then urinating on the mural did, in fact, get a very clear message across. But you school your face to remain neutral in light of the question. “Sí, lo hice.” (Yes, I did.)

The teenage boy, Diego, shrugs. “¿Entonces, qué piensas?” (So, what do you think?)

It’s a trap, pure and simple. He’s been one that you’ve had an eye on for the last few weeks. He doesn’t say much, keeps to himself, but you watch his reactions to the students around him. He’s recruiting, shifting through those he can pull into whatever gang he’s creating. And now, he’s testing you as only a sixteen year old can: a public challenge in front of his peers and all eyes are on you. Luckily, this isn’t your first rodeo.

“Creo que el Coronel Carrillo tiene una sólida comprensión del simbolismo. Tal vez debería hacer que viniera y enseñara Romeo y Julieta.” (I think Colonel Carrillo has a solid understanding of symbolism. Maybe I should have him come in and teach Romeo and Juliet.)

Most of the class laughs at your comment but there are a few who don’t. You make a mental note to record those names. “Bien, guarda los eventos actuales para estudios sociales. Volvamos a nuestros adolescentes enamorados.” (Okay, let’s save the current events for social studies. Let’s get back to our love sick teenagers.)

The day carries on as normal after that until the last class of the day. You’re helping a student find a line in the play so they can reference it in the paper they’re writing on the theme when you return to your desk with a small note half-way hidden under your well-worn copy of the play. You lift up the book to read the note.

No bebas tu agua. (Don’t drink your water.)

So you don’t. You carry on with the rest of class and wait till all the students leave. You pick up the bottle, with the note, and carry both down to the office, asking to speak to the principal. Of course, the principal is about as helpful as Pinzon, given that you’re new to the school, an American, and a woman. It is the unholy trifecta. Thankfully, the secretary takes pity on you and calls the police directly. Slipping her five hundred pesos also helps get the call made. You sit in the office and wait for someone to show up, having to hide your relief when Trujillo walks into the office.

The principal of course comes out and tells Trujillo nothing is wrong, just a scared American having a prank pulled on them. However, Trujillo takes the bottle and says that he’s going to check it out just in case the prank happens to be more sinister and asks you to join him outside to fill out a report. You follow him out to the car and see Horacio sitting in the front seat.

“I’m honored you showed up in person,” you say, leaning on the open window.

“A teacher being threatened by students, that’s a big offense.”

“Possible threat,” you correct.  

Trujillo sets the bottle down and opens the lid. Horacio gets out of the car and picks up a water bottle from the car, moving you out of the way. When he spills some water over your bottle, the entire thing fizzes and erupts, all three of you jumping out of the way of the liquid.

“Holy shit,” you mutter.

“Sulfuric acid most likely,” Horacio says. “Probably grabbed it from the chemistry lab.”

“That would have fucking killed me if I drank it!”

Horacio is staring down at the still fizzing acid, his jaw clenched. You know he’s once again trying to figure out the best way to handle this. “¿Como esta el director?” (How’s the principal?)

Trujillo frowns. “No se preocupa. Dijo que solo era una estadounidense asustada.” (Not concerned. Said she was just a scared American.)

“Supongo que le haré saber que tiene motivos para estarlo. Trujillo, ve a buscar sus cosas de su cuarto y luego llévala a mi casa, aunque por la parte de atrás.” (I guess I’ll let him know she has reason to be. Trujillo, go grab her things from her room and then take her to my house, through the back though.)

You tell Trujillo your room number and that you just need your purse. Horacio opens the passenger side door of the police Jeep, which you eye warily. “You sure this is wise?”

“What?”

“Taking me to your house?”

“Think of it as protective custody until we figure out why they targeted you. Is it because you’re their teacher or do they know something more?”

You’re still leaning on the side of the vehicle. “So you would do this for any teacher that receives a threat like this?”

“Any teacher that’s also a CI, yes.”

He means it too. You don’t need to see his eyes, which are hidden behind the reflective aviators at the moment. It’s the muscles around his mouth that betray him and they haven’t so much as twitched. You climb into the car and he shuts the door. “There are a couple students you may want to track down. I have their names in a notebook in my purse.”

“What happened?” He’s now leaning on the open window.

“They asked me if I knew what happened the other day in the barrio. I told them yes and that you seemed to understand the power of symbolism. There were a couple kids who didn’t appreciate the joke.”

“We’ll start with them,” he nods. “Spotters are becoming a big issue right now. A lot of sicarios are using local kids to act as spies for the cartel. They’re using a fairly extensive radio system to report police movement around Medellín. He could be one of them. Name?”

You nod. “Diego Juarez. And that sounds like something he might be involved in. He’s been paying very close attention to his peers and their reactions to news that involves the cartel. He’s the one that asked me today if I knew what happened.”

“I’ll get your rosters from the Principal. You call Stechner from my house, let him know what happened. I’ll see if Peña or Murphy can help with interviewing the kids.”

Trujillo comes out of the school with your bag in his hand and immediately gets into the driver’s seat. You pull out your notebook and tear the page out with the student’s names from earlier in the day and hand it to Horacio. He looks at it and puts it into his pocket. He points to the phone and you hand it to him. He walks away from the car for a couple minutes while he speaks to someone before bringing the phone back.

“Murphy is coming to help go through the rosters. I’ll ride back to Search Bloc with him.”

Trujillo leans forward in his seat. “¿Quieres que vuelva?” (Do you want me to come back?)

Horacio shakes his head. “No. Quédate con ella hasta que yo llegue.” (No. Stay with her until I get there.)

You give him a cheeky grin. “¿Tiene miedo de robar cosas, Coronel?” (Afraid I’m going to steal stuff, Colonel?)

He gives you a pseudo-irritated look. “Bueno, ahora lo soy.” (Well, now I am.)

“Supongo que tendrás que cachearme cuando llegues a casa.” (Guess you’re just going to have to frisk me when you get home.)

Trujillo groans. “Ustedes dos son los peores.” (You two are the worst.)

You watch the slightest of smiles twitch at the corner of Horacio’s mouth. He taps the car twice and Trujillo drives off. The trip to Horacio’s house takes almost fifteen minutes and it’s in a nicer section of Medellín but certainly not fancy. Trujillo parks the car in the alley behind the home and radios to the officer stationed at the front before you get out of the car to alert him that there’s going to be approved movement in the house. You follow Trujillo through the back gate and into a small, well-manicured yard. He takes out a set of keys and unlocks the backdoor.

“You just have a key to all of our homes, don’t you?”

He smiles. “The price of being a secret keeper.”

“Thank you, for that,” you say sincerely.

He nods in acknowledgement and opens the door for you. It leads directly into a well lit kitchen that is gleaming white tile and cabinets. It’s absolutely spotless which doesn’t surprise you in the least but it’s still something to behold.

“¿Alguna vez has estado aquí?” (Have you ever been here?)

“No.”

“Anda, mira a tu alrededor. Voy a ver si tiene comida.” (Go, look around. I’ll see if he has any food.)

You open a swinging door that leads into a dining area and then into a front formal living room. The curtains are all pulled tight so no one can see into the house. You wander past the front door and into a more casual living area with a den connected to it. The den looks more like Horacio: leather bound books, maps laid out on the desk, and a tape player with headphones.

Trujillo comes to stand next to you and hands you a beer. “¿Ver? No eres el único que trae obras a casa.” (See? You’re not the only one who brings work home.)

You take the beer. “Is this why you have our keys? You break in and drink our booze?”

He smiles at you. “It’s not breaking in if you have a key.”

***

It’s almost midnight by the time Horacio arrives home. He and Murphy had spent most of the evening talking to students and their families. You were right to be suspicious of Diego; he threw off all kinds of warning signs, as did his parents. But by the time he finishes the interviews, compares notes with Murphy, files reports, and picks up some of your belongings from your apartment, it’s much later than he thought. When he walks through the door, Trujillo is watching the news on the television from one of the armchairs while you are sound asleep on the couch.

He nods to Trujillo as he drops your bag at the foot of the stairs and goes into the kitchen, Trujillo following him.

“¿Como es ella?” Horacio asks, pouring a hefty amount of aguardiente into a glass. (How is she?)

“Asustado. Más de lo que deja ver.” (Scared. More than she lets on.)

“Ella tiene una buena razón. Diego Juárez es uno de nuestros observadores, si no uno de los líderes. Estoy seguro de ello.” (She has good reason. Diego Juárez is one of our spotters, if not one of the leaders. I’m certain of it.)

Trujillo nods. “¿Tenemos un plan para comenzar a rastrear a los observadores?” (Do we have a plan to start tracking the spotters?)

Horacio yawns and rubs a hand over his face. “Estoy trabajando en uno. Peña y Murphy van a estar mañana en Search Bloc. Lo discutiremos juntos.” (I’m working on one. Pena and Murphy are going to be at Search Bloc tomorrow. We’ll discuss it together.)

“Bueno. Duerma un poco, Coronel.” (Okay. Get some sleep, Colonel.)

“Tú también, hermano.” (You too, brother.)

Trujillo leaves out the back door and Horacio locks it behind him. He pours another glass of alcohol before going back to the living room. You’re still sound asleep on the couch, covered with a cotton blanket, the tv the only light in the room. He decides to leave you there for now, grabs your bag and heads upstairs. He goes into his bedroom and sees your clothes from the day neatly folded and stacked on the chair in the corner so he sets your bag down there. When he grabs clean clothes to change into, he notices one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants are missing.

His shower is quick and he tries to solidify the plan for later on today. They’ll send out a few cars at night. It’ll be Saturday night and most of the spotters will be out on the streets with their friends. They’ll use unmarked cars, four men in each. They’ll hit the areas on the map where Jacoby, the intel specialist assigned to Search Bloc, had marked off where the transmissions appeared to be coming when they did the run to Barrio Escobar. They’ll gather as many of them up as possible, put the fear of God in them, and send them back home to tell their friends to stay out of the drug war for as long as they can. He towels off and pulls on a clean t-shirt and a pair of boxers before going back downstairs.

You’re still sound asleep, curled on your side, hands tucked under your cheek. He turns the hallway light on so there’s some light after he turns off the television. He’s not that stupid to wake you up in a pitch black room, just his form looming over you. So he bends down and runs his fingers across your check, brushing back strands of hair that have fallen across your face.

“Mariposita?”

You huff indignantly and furrows appear in your forehead. Have you always looked this young? Or is he just getting too old to be fighting this war? He gently pulls back the blanket and folds it. Sure enough, your frame is swimming in one of his shirts and sweatpants. He takes both of your arms, sitting you upright, so he can scoop you up bridal style and carry you to bed. By the time he’s made it to the foot of the stairs, you’re starting to come out of your sleep.

“‘Ratio?”

“Yes?”

That must have been enough of an answer as you lay your head against his collarbone and drape your arms over his shoulders. He lays you down on the bed and pulls the sheet and blankets over you. Your eyes open, blinking slowly as a smile creeps across your face. He sits down on the side of the bed and holds the side of your face in his hand.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask so sweetly.

“No.” But he wonders if he is at the moment. Seeing you in his clothes, laying in his bed makes him dizzy and he doesn’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with this being the only time you have ever truly looked like you belonged to him, that you fit into his life. Whenever you had taken up the same space in public, you had to act like you didn’t know each other. The only time you could indulge in your relationship was behind closed doors: your apartment in Bogotá and now here in Medellín, his temporary office in Bogotá, the backseat of the Jeep, and that one time in your classroom. You were always something to keep hidden, tucked away and discreet.

Then Trujillo had figured out what was going on between the two of you. It had been shortly after Diana Turbay’s death, another late night in the office filing reports when Trujillo came in and shut the door. The conversation had been short and straight to the point as it typically is between the two of them.

“Have you heard from Mariposa?” Trujillo had asked, speaking in English to help cut down on the eavesdropping if there happened to be any.

He kept his eyes on the file in front of him. “No.”

“You should see her.”

“Why is that?” He did look up at that point to Trujillo shift ever so slightly on his feet.

“Because…”

He leans back in the leather chair and folds his hands. “Because?”

“You’re calmer after you see her.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“She brings you peace. And quite frankly, we could all use some of that right now.”

He considered that for a moment and decided there was some truth to it. You do bring him a peace that no one else seemed to be able to provide. “How many people know?”

Trujillo’s head tilts slightly to the side. “That you have a CI or that you’re having an affair with her?”

“The affair.”

“No one, just rumor and not well grounded at that.”

He believes the gringos call it “locker room talk.” That’s fine. “And I trust you will keep this a secret?”

Trujillo actually looked slightly offended. “Of course, Colonel.”

“If anything happens to me, you look out for her.”

The indignation was gone, replaced by solemness. “Of course, Colonel.”

And Trujillo continues to be the only one of his men he trusts implicitly with this beautiful secret.

Peace. You certainly brought him solace that night and many more to come. God, how he had missed you in Madrid though. Nightmares still plagued his dreams and dried up the words on his tongue when he tried to talk about them with Juliana. So he started writing letters to you, saying the things he couldn’t to his wife. He poured out his guilt, grief, and desire on those pages. He brought the letters with him to Colombia and they’re now sitting in a wooden box on the top of the bookcase in the den. He’ll need to burn them before his family returns to Colombia.

“Horacio.”

“Sí, mi amor?”

You wind your arms around his neck and pull him down towards you, pressing your lips to his. Your hands slid through his hair, fingernails scraping at his scalp. When he emits a startled gasp, you take advantage and slip your tongue between his lips. Sleep is now the farthest thing from his mind and judging by the strength of your grip, it’s the farthest thing from your mind too. He slips out of your embrace and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it land somewhere by the dresser. His boxers are the next thing to go as you sit up and disrobe yourself. As soon as you kick off the borrowed sweatpants, you open the sheets for him to join you.

He feels the cool cotton of sheets land on his lower back as he braces himself over you. Your hair is spread out on the pillow like a halo, your cheeks tinged with the heat of arousal, your eyes taking in every little detail of his face. He is still left wondering if this is a dream given how many times he had desperately wished for you to fill this side of the bed. For him, in the comfort and familiarity of his own home, being able to turn over and see you asleep beside him is a fantasy fulfilled. Or, like now, awake and under him.

His mouth descends to the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth scraping against the muscle. Your back arches, pressing your breasts against his chest and lowers himself down on top of you. Your legs part to make room for him and he easily slides into you, swallowing the moan you make with a kiss. Despite the raging emotion that he’s feeling, he takes his time, trying to draw out the lovemaking since he doesn’t know when he can get you in his bed again. That’s when he realizes three things in very short succession.

One, this is not fucking, this is not sex. This is making love in the purest form. The slow but steady push and pull of your bodies, his intrusion and your willing acceptance, the shared air as you both pant against each other’s face. This union feels more sacred than a marriage vow, which reminds him of the second realization.

Two, before his shower he removed his wedding ring and he never put it back on. This is not a new occurrence, as he often forgets to put it back on. Usually Julianna finds it as she prepares for bed and hands it to him with a mild scolding look. But when his left hand skims down your side, the smooth gold circle doesn’t catch in your ribs. It doesn’t trace over your skin like a constant reminder that you don’t belong to him. He’s able to lay his left hand completely flush with whatever plane of your body he chooses to touch. And he’s not that inclined to put it back on even after the act is completed.

Three, you truly are his now and he is yours. Your legs wrap around his waist, trying to pull him deeper. Your mouth seeks out his in an effort to keep your sighs, pleas, and curses from being heard by the neighbors. When you come, you bite down on the sinew on his shoulder to keep from screaming out and he has to bury his face into the pillow as the sting from your teeth push him over the edge and he comes hard and hot inside of you. Still trying to catch his breath, he starts to pull away from you but you hold him tight against you.

“Not yet,” you whisper.

“I’m not crushing you.”

You hum. “It feels good.”

He turns his head and kisses your flushed cheek. “You feel good.”

Your hands trace unseen patterns on his back. “That was…”

He props himself up on an elbow to stare down at you. “Fantastic?”

“Yes, fantastic,” you laugh. “But, it was also different.”

You were always astute. In the classroom, on the job, and even in bed. You had noticed the shift between the two of you and he wonders if you’ve had a realization of your own: that this is where you belong. By his side, on the field and at home. Partners in every sense of the word. You had asked him that rainy afternoon in the police Jeep if he was looking for a new wife and he had said no and he meant it. At that time. Now, knowing what it’s like to have someone who understands every part of you, even the darker parts, how could he not wish to carry out the rest of his career and life with you? He kisses the tip of your nose before throwing the sheets back so he can get up and get a washcloth to clean you both.

“Must just be the mattress,” he comments with a wink.

You hum your amusement and draw your knees up to your chin and hug your legs closer to you in a half attempt to be modest despite the sheen of perspiration clinging to your skin and the soiled sheets beneath you. You’re the picture of perfection to him and he swears that he will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

[leylinefiction]

Mariposa: Part III

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a four-part prequel to "Dustland Fairytale." There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You're a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

“These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.” 

“Profe, ¿qué significa eso?” (Teacher, what does that even mean?)

You sigh. “Significa que las emociones extremas, particularmente las que causan un comportamiento precipitado, pueden arruinar tu vida. Que esas decisiones son combustibles y destructivas.” (It means that extreme emotion, particularly ones that cause rash behavior, can ruin your life. That those decisions are combustible and destructive.)

“¿Como una cerilla y pólvora?” (Like a match and gunpowder?) 

“Precisamente.” (Precisely.) 

The bell rings and the students pack up their bags, stack the worn copies of Romeo and Juliet on the back shelf before leaving the room to start their weekend. You sit down at your desk and grab your coffee. It’s cold by now but the caffeine is needed. You’ve been up most nights this week listening to wiretaps and reviewing reports. Escobar is on the run. Police officers are being killed daily. It’s been absolute fucking chaos. 

Damn Shakespeare. Whenever a student asks why they need to study Shakespeare, in Colombia nonetheless, you always have an answer ready for them: Shakespeare is known worldwide. His plays are timeless because the themes still apply to today. We can learn from the mistakes of his characters. And as you stare down at those words, you feel like Shakespeare is laughing at you from beyond the grave. 

Violent delights do indeed have violent ends. 

This is the lesson you have learned the hard way in the last eight months. The CIA transferred you from Bogotá to Medellín. The timing is more than suspicious. Horacio gets reassigned to Madrid and two weeks later, you’re moving into a  Medellín barrio. You quickly come to find out, it’s not the worst move. Trujillo lives a few blocks away and frequently checks on you, to the point that his mother has taken pity on you and your kitchen skills. She makes extra food for dinner and passes it off to you but you must attend cooking classes with her on Sunday. Your empanadas are coming along nicely though. 

Horacio’s successor, Colonel Augusto Pinzon, is a stubborn, arrogant man with a strong distaste for Americans. You’ve tried setting up a couple meetings with him to pass along intel and you have yet to officially meet him. He either doesn’t show or sends someone else to pick up the intel. This isn’t working and when you report that to Stechner, he tells you that Pinzon is freezing out the DEA as well and not to take it personally. But how can you not when more and more police are killed daily and your intel could save some of them? So after dinner one Sunday, you offer to clean up dishes and enlist Trujillo’s help so you can talk business without the family overhearing. He catches on immediately to the purpose for both of you to be in the narrow kitchen. 

“Speak in English,” he tells you. “They won’t be able to keep up if they’re eavesdropping.” 

You fill up the sink with soapy water and grab a dishrag. “Pinzon won’t work with me, at all.” 

He frowns. “I know. He won’t work with Peña or Murphy either. At least, he’s not being helpful. They keep asking for men to help with raids and he won’t let us go.” 

“He has to know we’re all working towards the same goal? The sooner we get Escobar behind bars, the sooner the massacres will stop.” You rinse a couple plates and hand them to him to dry. “How many friends have you lost?” 

“Too many.” 

“What if I gave you the intel and you gave it to Pinzon? Don’t tell him it came from me.” 

“And if he asks where I got it from?” 

“Will he ask that?” 

Trujillo stacks the plates in the cupboard. “He may. He’s under the idea that the Americans are going to take all the credit for Escobar’s capture. Anything that might be helpful, he wants to make sure it’s the Colombian army that gets the credit.” 

“My God, that is not how you win a war.” It’s how you lose one but you don’t want to voice that thought aloud. “Well, tell him a local gave you the intel. Tell him a horse gave it to you, I don’t care what you tell him, just get him the information. We have to stop the bleeding somehow.” 

“I’ll pass along anything and everything you give me.” He sighs. “That’s all we can do right now.” 

You wash a few more dishes before asking another question that has been weighing on your mind. “Have you heard from him at all?” 

Trujillo shakes his head. “No, not at all. They’re probably monitoring his calls from Spain. Making sure he stays out of what’s happening here.” 

“This is all my fault.” You grind your teeth together to keep from saying anything else. You hadn’t meant to say that but Trujillo’s hand comes down on your shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. 

“You were the best thing to happen for him. For all of us.” 

“But they sent him away because-”

“Because he was being effective. Your intel, his methods, the DEA’s investigations, and the army’s force scared all the right people. Unfortunately, those people were in positions to separate everyone that could bring down the Medellín cartel. They’re more scared of them than us.” 

“‘“When you fear a foe, fear crushes your strength; and this weakness gives strength to your opponents.’” 

“Is that from one of your books?” 

“Shakespeare, yeah.” You finish the last of the dishes and drain the water out of the sink. “We’re going to have to work around Pinzon. Will the DEA agents work with you?” 

“They will. They’re just as frustrated as we are.” 

“Then let's use that frustration to our advantage. Pinzon won’t be able to withstand the pressures, especially if he keeps shutting everyone out. It’s going to cause division in the Search Bloc though.” 

Trujillo leans back on the counter. “Will it get him out of the position?” 

“His men divided, choosing to follow the gringos over him, to catch Escobar? Oh, it shouldn’t take long for the pressure to get to him. His ego is too fragile.” 

“Okay, that’s what we’ll do.” He nods, and looks out the window. “If Carrillo were still here, Escobar would leave Columbia. He wouldn’t risk being found by Search Bloc. He knows what we did to Gustavo was just a promise of what we would do to him. We need Carrillo back.” 

You agree, whole-heartedly. It’s not just the physical interactions you miss, although you would do just about anything to feel his hands on you again, but it’s the partnership you both had. You spent hours listening to wiretaps, taking notes, playing chess during the quieter places in the tapes. His mind was constantly planning, scrutinizing, picking information apart and choosing which parts were useful and then plugging them into his strategy. It was no wonder the generals were afraid of him and sent him out of the country. 

“I agree,” you say quietly. “But it’s going to take something large scale to scare President Gaviria into bringing him back.” And you certainly didn’t want to bear witness to whatever travesty that was going to be. 

***

It didn’t take long for Pinzon to realize some of the intel that was being handed to him was coming from a CIA informant. It caused a greater rift between his officers, like Trujillo, and the DEA. More officers were being killed on the streets of Medellín and you are almost at your breaking point. Last night, you had been drunk, missing Horacio, livid at Pinzon’s incompetence, and ended up calling Stechner. 

“I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” 

He sighed, like he was dealing with a five year old having a tantrum. “Suck it up, sweetheart. This is part of the job.” 

“I’m useless here. Pinzon won’t-” 

“You don’t worry about Pinzon. Pinzon’s going to wear himself out. You keep passing intel.” 

“To who? No one that can do a fucking thing is getting it!” 

“That’s not your job. Keep the intel flowing.” 

“Even if it’s going nowhere?” 

“Now you’re getting it. Look, your job is simple: teach, listen, and report. That’s it. Carrillo somehow convinced you that you were a soldier in this war and that’s not true. You are a civilian with sharp ears. That’s it. You’re sad? Frustrated? Sick of the violence? Do what we all do, get drunk, get fucked and get over it. Find yourself another officer and get under him. And if that doesn’t work, I don’t know. Change your fucking hairstyle.” 

You hung up on him. But he didn’t call you back so you assume since he didn’t get your resignation by the next morning, you decided to keep going. And you had. Despite the raging hangover, you go into the classroom and continue to teach the tragedy of two teenagers who thought they were invincible only to be faced with the crashing reality that they were just as insignificant as everyone else. Death came for them, as it does for everyone. That’s why, when you drag yourself home and see Trujillo sitting on the stairs leading up to your apartment, your stomach drops. Who is dead now? And how many of them this time?

“Hola, Profesora.” (Hello, Teacher.)

“Hola, oficial. ¿A qué debo esta visita?” (Hello, Officer. To what do I owe this visit?)

“Tengo una sorpresa para ti.” (I have a surprise for you.)

You stop a couple stairs away from where he’s standing. This is new. “¿Qué?” (What?)

The briefest of smiles tugs at the corner of his mouth before he climbs the few stairs up to your door. You watch as he pulls out a key and unlocks the door. 

“Uh, why do you have a key to my apartment?” 

He shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Oh, I’m going to worry about this.” 

He grins over his shoulder at you. “Not for long, you won’t,” he says as he opens the door and steps inside. 

You follow him over the threshold and into your living room, convinced you're dreaming. There is no way, no reason, for Horacio Carrillo to be standing in the middle of the room. Trujillo hands him the key and turns to leave, pinching your arm as he passes by you. 

“Di algo, hermana.” (Say something, sister.) 

You try, you really do, but your mind is still trying to process how he is real and standing before you. You hear the door close as Trujillo leaves and it startles you out of your shock. “You’re really here?” 

“I am,” he smiles at you but doesn’t move any closer. “¿Estás bien?” (Are you well?)

“Yes. I, uh, I am. And you?” 

“Soy bueno.” (I’m good.) 

You’re afraid to move, fearing that if you do, he’ll disappear. But standing still is starting to get awkward. Not to mention the shock of seeing him is starting to wear off and the pounding behind your eyeballs from your hangover is starting to come back. “Do you want a drink?” 

He nods. “Sure.” 

You force your feet to move and go into the kitchen. You still have a bottle of aguardiente in your cabinet and pour two tumblers of it. He follows you into the narrow space and he’s so close to you now that it makes it hard to breathe. “How’s, uh, how’s your wife and kids?” 

“Good,” he answers, taking a sip of the drink. “They’re still in Madrid.” 

And he’s wearing his wedding ring which means they’ll be coming back to Colombia. “For how long?” 

“Until we catch Escobar.” 

You almost choke on your drink. “That could take months.” 

“It could.” He leans against the refrigerator. “So you live in Medellín now.” 

“Yeah, they moved me here shortly after…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the question. After you left. 

He hums in acknowledgement and knocks back the alcohol in one go. “Are you seeing anyone?” 

“No, I’m not.” 

His mouth is on yours before you realize he’s moved. His hands pull you tight against him, still solid muscle from head to toe, and hold you against his chest. His tongue invades your mouth and you welcome it as your hands relearn the feel of his hair against your fingers. Having him against you after months of being apart is like the moment when a thunderstorm finally breaks and the heavy humidity dissipates, leaving the air cool and fresh. The sadness at his departure has broken and the relief of his presence brings fresh hope. 

You know you’ve missed him, but the sharp sting of tears behind your eyes tells you the emotion went deeper than that. You grieved him, the loss of the relationship. Somewhere between you throwing up in a dumpster to saying goodbye to him when he left for Madrid, you had grown from partners, to friends, to lovers. The progress had been so incredibly smooth, he had just become an extension of you. His absence had been that of a missing limb, at times you could still feel him there only to realize he was gone. But he has returned and you wonder now how long it will take for you two to regain that lost ground of your relationship.  

He  backs you up to the small kitchen table and lifts you up onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist and pull him closer to you. This is familiar. The tang of cologne and cigarettes, the feel of his muscles under your hands. His mouth slides from yours and ascends up your neck with a mixture of licks and nips. He reaches your ear and gently closes his teeth around the cartilage as he whispers to you. 

“Te he extrañado mucho, mi amor.” (I’ve missed you so much, my love.) 

“Yo también te he extrañado. Sueño contigo a menudo.” (I’ve missed you too. I dream of you often.) 

His hands are everywhere, trying to get under the neckline of your dress or under the skirt, desperately seeking out any skin he can find. “¿Y tú con qué sueñas?” (And what do you dream of?)

You tug his shirt loose and slip your hands under the fabric and over the skin of his back with a contented sigh. “Este. Estás volviendo a mí.” (This. You coming back to me.) 

“Estoy aquí, Mariposa.” (I’m here, Butterfly.)

You have so many questions for him. How long is he here for? Why is he here? What happened to bring him back? But all those questions can wait. You grab his belt buckle and undo it while his hands slide under your skirt and pull your panties down your legs, dropping them to the floor. Your hand wraps around him and he’s already hard and solid in your palm. His head drops to your shoulder with a groan as two of his fingers slide into you with ease. 

“So wet for me, querida.” 

You wrap your hand around his length and stroke him a couple times, forcing your mouth to work. “I told you I missed you. Seems like you missed me too.” 

He lifts his head and pushes your skirt out of the way as you line him up to your entrance. He takes his time to slowly sink into you and you both breathe sighs of relief when he’s fully inside. His mouth finds yours again and the kisses are sloppy but full of barely contained joy at the reunification. He palms your breasts through your clothes and you grab fistfuls of his cotton dress shirt, looking for something to hold on to as he starts to move. 

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to quicken and have more power behind them. The desperation is evident in every snap of his hips. It gets harder for you to hold on to him, so you lay back on the table, reaching behind you to grab the edge. His hands are on your hips, pulling you towards him as he relentlessly pounds into you. Your thighs are trembling from gripping his waist but you feel that low warmth in your stomach starting to blossom. Your grip on the table allows you to push against him with each thrust. You’re both chasing your ends now and the force he’s using makes you grit your teeth to keep them from gnashing together. “I’m going to-” 

“Me too,” he grits out. 

He removes one of his hands from your hip, his thumb immediately finding your clit and slowly rubbing it. You back arches off the wooden table as your orgasm rips through your body. Horacio lets loose a string of profanity in Spanish as he comes just as violently. He falls forward, covering your body with his own, panting against your neck. 

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, so when he does straighten up, he takes you with him. You stay tucked under his chin, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne. You’re both damp from both your activity but also the humidity in the air. You don’t care though. His pulse beats against your temple, his heart under your palm. His hand spans the breadth of your ribcage and his other is in your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp. It’s as if neither one of you can get close enough to the other. 

“I thought about you everyday,” you whisper. 

“I did the same.” He presses his lips against your forehead. “Te amo, querida.” 

“Te amo, Horacio.” It feels so good to say those words again. 

He kisses your cheek before pulling away and you both take a few minutes to clean up and resituate your rumpled clothing. You refill the glasses and sit on the couch. You try to remain professional, or at least adult-like, but he pulls you closer to him until your head is resting on his shoulder and his hand, as always, lays on your side. You enjoy a few moments of quiet, of peace, before asking questions about the war zone outside in the streets. 

“So Gaviria brought you back to catch Escobar?” you ask. 

“Yes. He had to when Pinzon resigned.” 

“Wait, what?!” You sit up straight so you look him in the eye. “Pinzon resigned?!” 

“Yesterday morning.” He gives you a shit-eating grin. “What? You didn’t know that?” 

“No! How did I…why didn’t…” you’re stunned. “Trujillo…” 

“Was told to keep it a secret. I only got wind of it two days ago. Pinzon was showing signs of cracking. He was cleaning out files, stashing evidence, and stopped communicating with the unit. Added to the continued attacks on the police, the body count was getting too high to justify. So Gaviria called me and said he wanted me to replace Pinzon when the official resignation came through. Apparently it did yesterday morning.” 

“This is awfully big news to keep quiet.” 

“We had to,” he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up. “If Pablo got wind of Search Bloc not having a commander for 36 hours, he would have blown the headquarters to smithereens.” 

So that answers another question of yours. “So you report tomorrow morning?” 

“I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, studying your face. You know he’s already strategizing for something. “What are you planning now?” 

He sighs, releasing a long stream of smoke. “People know me here, much more than they did in Bogotá.” 

You take the cigarette from him and take a drawl before handing it back. “We’re going to have to be more discreet. That’s why Trujillo gave you a key.” 

“Yes. So now that you know I can let myself in when it’s safe.” He winks at you. “Don’t confuse me for an intruder and shoot me.” 

“Head of the Search Bloc gunned down by teacher in barrio apartment. Not exactly a glorious end to your career.” 

“No, not at all.” He leans down and kisses you briefly. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” 

You smile up at him and return the kiss. “I think I do.” 

***

Coronel Carrillo’s return certainly put a buzz around the school. Every corner you turned, students and staff alike were talking about it. The feelings seemed to be pretty fairly split down the middle. Half were happy to see his return, certain that he would bring Pablo Escobar to justice. Half were scared that they or their families were going to get caught in the crossfire during the manhunt. 

“¿Profe?” (Teacher?)

“Sí.” (Yes.) 

“¿Se enteró de lo que pasó ayer en el Barrio Escobar?” (Did you hear about what happened in Barrio Escobar yesterday?)

You did actually, from Horacio himself and a grinning Trujillo. You had to admit, arriving with a hundred police officers and then urinating on the mural did, in fact, get a very clear message across. But you school your face to remain neutral in light of the question. “Sí, lo hice.” (Yes, I did.) 

The teenage boy, Diego, shrugs. “¿Entonces, qué piensas?” (So, what do you think?) 

It’s a trap, pure and simple. He’s been one that you’ve had an eye on for the last few weeks. He doesn’t say much, keeps to himself, but you watch his reactions to the students around him. He’s recruiting, shifting through those he can pull into whatever gang he’s creating. And now, he’s testing you as only a sixteen year old can: a public challenge in front of his peers and all eyes are on you. Luckily, this isn’t your first rodeo. 

“Creo que el Coronel Carrillo tiene una sólida comprensión del simbolismo. Tal vez debería hacer que viniera y enseñara Romeo y Julieta.” (I think Colonel Carrillo has a solid understanding of symbolism. Maybe I should have him come in and teach Romeo and Juliet.) 

Most of the class laughs at your comment but there are a few who don’t. You make a mental note to record those names. “Bien, guarda los eventos actuales para estudios sociales. Volvamos a nuestros adolescentes enamorados.” (Okay, let’s save the current events for social studies. Let’s get back to our love sick teenagers.)

The day carries on as normal after that until the last class of the day. You’re helping a student find a line in the play so they can reference it in the paper they’re writing on the theme when you return to your desk with a small note half-way hidden under your well-worn copy of the play. You lift up the book to read the note. 

No bebas tu agua. (Don’t drink your water.)

So you don’t. You carry on with the rest of class and wait till all the students leave. You pick up the bottle, with the note, and carry both down to the office, asking to speak to the principal. Of course, the principal is about as helpful as Pinzon, given that you’re new to the school, an American, and a woman. It is the unholy trifecta. Thankfully, the secretary takes pity on you and calls the police directly. Slipping her five hundred pesos also helps get the call made. You sit in the office and wait for someone to show up, having to hide your relief when Trujillo walks into the office. 

The principal of course comes out and tells Trujillo nothing is wrong, just a scared American having a prank pulled on them. However, Trujillo takes the bottle and says that he’s going to check it out just in case the prank happens to be more sinister and asks you to join him outside to fill out a report. You follow him out to the car and see Horacio sitting in the front seat. 

“I’m honored you showed up in person,” you say, leaning on the open window. 

“A teacher being threatened by students, that’s a big offense.” 

“Possible threat,” you correct.  

Trujillo sets the bottle down and opens the lid. Horacio gets out of the car and picks up a water bottle from the car, moving you out of the way. When he spills some water over your bottle, the entire thing fizzes and erupts, all three of you jumping out of the way of the liquid. 

“Holy shit,” you mutter. 

“Sulfuric acid most likely,” Horacio says. “Probably grabbed it from the chemistry lab.” 

“That would have fucking killed me if I drank it!” 

Horacio is staring down at the still fizzing acid, his jaw clenched. You know he’s once again trying to figure out the best way to handle this. “¿Como esta el director?” (How’s the principal?) 

Trujillo frowns. “No se preocupa. Dijo que solo era una estadounidense asustada.” (Not concerned. Said she was just a scared American.)

“Supongo que le haré saber que tiene motivos para estarlo. Trujillo, ve a buscar sus cosas de su cuarto y luego llévala a mi casa, aunque por la parte de atrás.” (I guess I'll let him know she has reason to be. Trujillo, go grab her things from her room and then take her to my house, through the back though.)

You tell Trujillo your room number and that you just need your purse. Horacio opens the passenger side door of the police Jeep, which you eye warily. “You sure this is wise?” 

“What?” 

“Taking me to your house?” 

“Think of it as protective custody until we figure out why they targeted you. Is it because you’re their teacher or do they know something more?” 

You’re still leaning on the side of the vehicle. “So you would do this for any teacher that receives a threat like this?” 

“Any teacher that’s also a CI, yes.”

He means it too. You don’t need to see his eyes, which are hidden behind the reflective aviators at the moment. It’s the muscles around his mouth that betray him and they haven’t so much as twitched. You climb into the car and he shuts the door. “There are a couple students you may want to track down. I have their names in a notebook in my purse.” 

“What happened?” He’s now leaning on the open window. 

“They asked me if I knew what happened the other day in the barrio. I told them yes and that you seemed to understand the power of symbolism. There were a couple kids who didn't appreciate the joke.” 

“We’ll start with them,” he nods. “Spotters are becoming a big issue right now. A lot of sicarios are using local kids to act as spies for the cartel. They’re using a fairly extensive radio system to report police movement around Medellín. He could be one of them. Name?” 

You nod. “Diego Juarez. And that sounds like something he might be involved in. He’s been paying very close attention to his peers and their reactions to news that involves the cartel. He’s the one that asked me today if I knew what happened.” 

“I’ll get your rosters from the Principal. You call Stechner from my house, let him know what happened. I’ll see if Peña or Murphy can help with interviewing the kids.” 

Trujillo comes out of the school with your bag in his hand and immediately gets into the driver’s seat. You pull out your notebook and tear the page out with the student’s names from earlier in the day and hand it to Horacio. He looks at it and puts it into his pocket. He points to the phone and you hand it to him. He walks away from the car for a couple minutes while he speaks to someone before bringing the phone back. 

“Murphy is coming to help go through the rosters. I’ll ride back to Search Bloc with him.” 

Trujillo leans forward in his seat. “¿Quieres que vuelva?” (Do you want me to come back?)

Horacio shakes his head. “No. Quédate con ella hasta que yo llegue.” (No. Stay with her until I get there.) 

You give him a cheeky grin. “¿Tiene miedo de robar cosas, Coronel?” (Afraid I'm going to steal stuff, Colonel?)

He gives you a pseudo-irritated look. “Bueno, ahora lo soy.” (Well, now I am.) 

“Supongo que tendrás que cachearme cuando llegues a casa.” (Guess you're just going to have to frisk me when you get home.)

Trujillo groans. “Ustedes dos son los peores.” (You two are the worst.) 

You watch the slightest of smiles twitch at the corner of Horacio’s mouth. He taps the car twice and Trujillo drives off. The trip to Horacio’s house takes almost fifteen minutes and it’s in a nicer section of Medellín but certainly not fancy. Trujillo parks the car in the alley behind the home and radios to the officer stationed at the front before you get out of the car to alert him that there’s going to be approved movement in the house. You follow Trujillo through the back gate and into a small, well-manicured yard. He takes out a set of keys and unlocks the backdoor. 

“You just have a key to all of our homes, don’t you?” 

He smiles. “The price of being a secret keeper.” 

“Thank you, for that,” you say sincerely. 

He nods in acknowledgement and opens the door for you. It leads directly into a well lit kitchen that is gleaming white tile and cabinets. It’s absolutely spotless which doesn’t surprise you in the least but it’s still something to behold. 

“¿Alguna vez has estado aquí?” (Have you ever been here?) 

“No.” 

“Anda, mira a tu alrededor. Voy a ver si tiene comida.” (Go, look around. I’ll see if he has any food.) 

You open a swinging door that leads into a dining area and then into a front formal living room. The curtains are all pulled tight so no one can see into the house. You wander past the front door and into a more casual living area with a den connected to it. The den looks more like Horacio: leather bound books, maps laid out on the desk, and a tape player with headphones.

Trujillo comes to stand next to you and hands you a beer. “¿Ver? No eres el único que trae obras a casa.” (See? You’re not the only one who brings work home.)

You take the beer. “Is this why you have our keys? You break in and drink our booze?” 

He smiles at you. “It’s not breaking in if you have a key.” 

***

It’s almost midnight by the time Horacio arrives home. He and Murphy had spent most of the evening talking to students and their families. You were right to be suspicious of Diego; he threw off all kinds of warning signs, as did his parents. But by the time he finishes the interviews, compares notes with Murphy, files reports, and picks up some of your belongings from your apartment, it’s much later than he thought. When he walks through the door, Trujillo is watching the news on the television from one of the armchairs while you are sound asleep on the couch.

He nods to Trujillo as he drops your bag at the foot of the stairs and goes into the kitchen, Trujillo following him. 

“¿Como es ella?” Horacio asks, pouring a hefty amount of aguardiente into a glass. (How is she?)

“Asustado. Más de lo que deja ver.” (Scared. More than she lets on.)

“Ella tiene una buena razón. Diego Juárez es uno de nuestros observadores, si no uno de los líderes. Estoy seguro de ello.” (She has good reason. Diego Juárez is one of our spotters, if not one of the leaders. I'm certain of it.)

Trujillo nods. “¿Tenemos un plan para comenzar a rastrear a los observadores?” (Do we have a plan to start tracking the spotters?)

Horacio yawns and rubs a hand over his face. “Estoy trabajando en uno. Peña y Murphy van a estar mañana en Search Bloc. Lo discutiremos juntos.” (I'm working on one. Pena and Murphy are going to be at Search Bloc tomorrow. We'll discuss it together.)

“Bueno. Duerma un poco, Coronel.” (Okay. Get some sleep, Colonel.)

“Tú también, hermano.” (You too, brother.) 

Trujillo leaves out the back door and Horacio locks it behind him. He pours another glass of alcohol before going back to the living room. You’re still sound asleep on the couch, covered with a cotton blanket, the tv the only light in the room. He decides to leave you there for now, grabs your bag and heads upstairs. He goes into his bedroom and sees your clothes from the day neatly folded and stacked on the chair in the corner so he sets your bag down there. When he grabs clean clothes to change into, he notices one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants are missing. 

His shower is quick and he tries to solidify the plan for later on today. They’ll send out a few cars at night. It’ll be Saturday night and most of the spotters will be out on the streets with their friends. They’ll use unmarked cars, four men in each. They’ll hit the areas on the map where Jacoby, the intel specialist assigned to Search Bloc, had marked off where the transmissions appeared to be coming when they did the run to Barrio Escobar. They’ll gather as many of them up as possible, put the fear of God in them, and send them back home to tell their friends to stay out of the drug war for as long as they can. He towels off and pulls on a clean t-shirt and a pair of boxers before going back downstairs. 

You’re still sound asleep, curled on your side, hands tucked under your cheek. He turns the hallway light on so there’s some light after he turns off the television. He’s not that stupid to wake you up in a pitch black room, just his form looming over you. So he bends down and runs his fingers across your check, brushing back strands of hair that have fallen across your face. 

“Mariposita?” 

You huff indignantly and furrows appear in your forehead. Have you always looked this young? Or is he just getting too old to be fighting this war? He gently pulls back the blanket and folds it. Sure enough, your frame is swimming in one of his shirts and sweatpants. He takes both of your arms, sitting you upright, so he can scoop you up bridal style and carry you to bed. By the time he’s made it to the foot of the stairs, you’re starting to come out of your sleep. 

“‘Ratio?” 

“Yes?” 

That must have been enough of an answer as you lay your head against his collarbone and drape your arms over his shoulders. He lays you down on the bed and pulls the sheet and blankets over you. Your eyes open, blinking slowly as a smile creeps across your face. He sits down on the side of the bed and holds the side of your face in his hand. 

“Am I dreaming?” you ask so sweetly. 

“No.” But he wonders if he is at the moment. Seeing you in his clothes, laying in his bed makes him dizzy and he doesn’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with this being the only time you have ever truly looked like you belonged to him, that you fit into his life. Whenever you had taken up the same space in public, you had to act like you didn’t know each other. The only time you could indulge in your relationship was behind closed doors: your apartment in Bogotá and now here in Medellín, his temporary office in Bogotá, the backseat of the Jeep, and that one time in your classroom. You were always something to keep hidden, tucked away and discreet. 

Then Trujillo had figured out what was going on between the two of you. It had been shortly after Diana Turbay’s death, another late night in the office filing reports when Trujillo came in and shut the door. The conversation had been short and straight to the point as it typically is between the two of them. 

“Have you heard from Mariposa?” Trujillo had asked, speaking in English to help cut down on the eavesdropping if there happened to be any. 

He kept his eyes on the file in front of him. “No.” 

“You should see her.” 

“Why is that?” He did look up at that point to Trujillo shift ever so slightly on his feet. 

“Because…” 

He leans back in the leather chair and folds his hands. “Because?” 

“You’re calmer after you see her.” 

“What does that mean exactly?” 

“She brings you peace. And quite frankly, we could all use some of that right now.” 

He considered that for a moment and decided there was some truth to it. You do bring him a peace that no one else seemed to be able to provide. “How many people know?” 

Trujillo’s head tilts slightly to the side. “That you have a CI or that you’re having an affair with her?” 

“The affair.” 

“No one, just rumor and not well grounded at that.” 

He believes the gringos call it “locker room talk.” That’s fine. “And I trust you will keep this a secret?” 

Trujillo actually looked slightly offended. “Of course, Colonel.” 

“If anything happens to me, you look out for her.” 

The indignation was gone, replaced by solemness. “Of course, Colonel.” 

And Trujillo continues to be the only one of his men he trusts implicitly with this beautiful secret. 

Peace. You certainly brought him solace that night and many more to come. God, how he had missed you in Madrid though. Nightmares still plagued his dreams and dried up the words on his tongue when he tried to talk about them with Juliana. So he started writing letters to you, saying the things he couldn’t to his wife. He poured out his guilt, grief, and desire on those pages. He brought the letters with him to Colombia and they’re now sitting in a wooden box on the top of the bookcase in the den. He’ll need to burn them before his family returns to Colombia. 

“Horacio.” 

“Sí, mi amor?” 

You wind your arms around his neck and pull him down towards you, pressing your lips to his. Your hands slid through his hair, fingernails scraping at his scalp. When he emits a startled gasp, you take advantage and slip your tongue between his lips. Sleep is now the farthest thing from his mind and judging by the strength of your grip, it’s the farthest thing from your mind too. He slips out of your embrace and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it land somewhere by the dresser. His boxers are the next thing to go as you sit up and disrobe yourself. As soon as you kick off the borrowed sweatpants, you open the sheets for him to join you. 

He feels the cool cotton of sheets land on his lower back as he braces himself over you. Your hair is spread out on the pillow like a halo, your cheeks tinged with the heat of arousal, your eyes taking in every little detail of his face. He is still left wondering if this is a dream given how many times he had desperately wished for you to fill this side of the bed. For him, in the comfort and familiarity of his own home, being able to turn over and see you asleep beside him is a fantasy fulfilled. Or, like now, awake and under him. 

His mouth descends to the spot where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth scraping against the muscle. Your back arches, pressing your breasts against his chest and lowers himself down on top of you. Your legs part to make room for him and he easily slides into you, swallowing the moan you make with a kiss. Despite the raging emotion that he’s feeling, he takes his time, trying to draw out the lovemaking since he doesn’t know when he can get you in his bed again. That’s when he realizes three things in very short succession. 

One, this is not fucking, this is not sex. This is making love in the purest form. The slow but steady push and pull of your bodies, his intrusion and your willing acceptance, the shared air as you both pant against each other’s face. This union feels more sacred than a marriage vow, which reminds him of the second realization. 

Two, before his shower he removed his wedding ring and he never put it back on. This is not a new occurrence, as he often forgets to put it back on. Usually Julianna finds it as she prepares for bed and hands it to him with a mild scolding look. But when his left hand skims down your side, the smooth gold circle doesn’t catch in your ribs. It doesn’t trace over your skin like a constant reminder that you don’t belong to him. He’s able to lay his left hand completely flush with whatever plane of your body he chooses to touch. And he’s not that inclined to put it back on even after the act is completed. 

Three, you truly are his now and he is yours. Your legs wrap around his waist, trying to pull him deeper. Your mouth seeks out his in an effort to keep your sighs, pleas, and curses from being heard by the neighbors. When you come, you bite down on the sinew on his shoulder to keep from screaming out and he has to bury his face into the pillow as the sting from your teeth push him over the edge and he comes hard and hot inside of you. Still trying to catch his breath, he starts to pull away from you but you hold him tight against you. 

“Not yet,” you whisper. 

“I’m not crushing you.” 

You hum. “It feels good.” 

He turns his head and kisses your flushed cheek. “You feel good.” 

Your hands trace unseen patterns on his back. “That was…” 

He props himself up on an elbow to stare down at you. “Fantastic?” 

“Yes, fantastic,” you laugh. “But, it was also different.” 

You were always astute. In the classroom, on the job, and even in bed. You had noticed the shift between the two of you and he wonders if you’ve had a realization of your own: that this is where you belong. By his side, on the field and at home. Partners in every sense of the word. You had asked him that rainy afternoon in the police Jeep if he was looking for a new wife and he had said no and he meant it. At that time. Now, knowing what it’s like to have someone who understands every part of you, even the darker parts, how could he not wish to carry out the rest of his career and life with you? He kisses the tip of your nose before throwing the sheets back so he can get up and get a washcloth to clean you both. 

“Must just be the mattress,” he comments with a wink. 

You hum your amusement and draw your knees up to your chin and hug your legs closer to you in a half attempt to be modest despite the sheen of perspiration clinging to your skin and the soiled sheets beneath you. You’re the picture of perfection to him and he swears that he will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. 

[orionsangel86]

Following the release of the pilot of that bloody Winchester prequel yesterday, a lot of people have been excitedly posting interviews and articles on it and starting up the meta and spec again. I thought I'd be able to avoid seeing it on here but this is the SPN website so clearly that was a bad assumption.

Thing is, I genuinely believed I was okay. This year has been SO GOOD for me for healing the wounds that SPN carved into me. With OFMD, WWDITS, The Sandman, IWTV, and now Good Omens 2 news I have been happily existing in a little joy filled bubble everytime I come on Tumblr.

I just scrolled past a post which had screenshots of an article from Robbie Thompson on the Winchesters. I thought I'd read it out of curiosity. I shouldn't have.

It brought everything back. Talk of the Winchester brothers and how "theres no Dean if there aint no Sam" and how they arent changing a damn thing about SPN canon, and how we will find out where Dean is, with the writer speculating he's telling the story from heaven...

I don't know why, but it hurt.

It was like something had decided to prod really hard at the old SPN scars, the ones that never really healed right to begin with, and are still jagged and tender even after 7 months of solid healing thanks to only consuming media that actually respects me as a person.

I haven't felt that kind of pain since Jared Padalecki last opened the hole in his face to spew bullshit about how the finale from Hell was so perfect and right for the brothers *gags*.

It wasnt even a bad article, but it acknowledged things I had tried to erase from my head. God. Im so fucked up. That horrible show fucked me up so much. I wanted to just shut down tumblr and mentally check myself out for a bit and put on the Dreamcast on spotify or something, but I had to get this off my chest, even if people read this and think im fucking moronic for caring so much and wasting energy on this stupid show and why do I care right?

7 fucking years I devoted to that horseshit show. 7 fucking years I held it in my heart and adored it even though the whole time it clawed and carved at me and hated me because I wasnt the audience it wanted.

One little article and I feel like ive been triggered even though that word should be far too strong for something as stupid as getting emotional over a TV show. Im having a minor breakdown in my living room at 10pm on a Wednesday night in 2022 over fucking SPN.

I dont even know why im openly admitting this on the spn website when I know its gonna subject me to hate and a whole mass loss of followers but I had to get this out. I had to write it down. Its so difficult to express how this show makes me feel. I dont wanna be the one you all roll your eyes at and call a negative anti but I also don't understand how everyone else seems to have slipped so easily back into old habits.

I wanna scream at everyone not to be fooled. But I dont wanna stamp on other peoples joy either. So I guess I gotta remove myself from the equation here. Fool me once etc etc.

Im gonna have to unfollow some long term mutuals, especially those that arent tagging content. If you correctly tag every winchester related post and reblog then at least my filters will block them, but if they slip through im gonna have to unfollow. I cant be having 10pm meltdowns over SPN at this point in my life. Not when there is so much good stuff out there to be focusing on instead.

[archangelmacaron]

🗣️📝

OK So! Favorite WIP?

This is a tough one! I really like writing about Evelyn and Az, I think their dynamic comes to me pretty easily. But I'm not certain that they count, since I'm in the middle of editing for public consumption rather than writing new content! So if we're talking like, actually-in-progress, like still-have-empty-chapters-and-not-certain-how-to-fill-them WIP, that would be the third part of Holly's story! I think people will really like the new characters, and you get to know B a lot better! As for a snippet... let's go for an in progress prequel of when C met her lovely wife Susu. Probably not what you'd expect, the way they act now... -

C walked in the opposite direction than her student to the room leading to the hallways outside. The knock came again. “Yeah, yeah, I'm comin, okay?”

She opened the heavy wooden door, and was immediately greeted with a fist to her face. She ducked. “What the fuck—”

The punch had been a feint. Susu's other fist hit her gut like a sledgehammer, knocking her to her knees. She scrambled up, dodging the other woman's blows as she followed her around the entryway. “Whoa, whoa, babe, chill, this ain't the arena!”

She was surprised when Susu finally spoke, in a beautiful, lilting language that sounded like birds singing.

“How—dare—you!” Each word was accentuated with another hit. C finally caught a fist, pushing her much shorter opponent backwards slightly.

“Why don't we just sit down and talk about this?” she asked. “I have some wine, or vodka, if you prefer—”

“Go to hell!” Susu attacked again, this time with her weighted boots in a kick that would probably have shattered even C's kneecaps if she'd let it connect. “All of you damn demons are the same—mocking me—and you—you are the worst of them!”

“Whoa, whoa, I'm the worst? I wasn't the one planning to literally eat you in a back alley, babe, I kinda think those guys win the crown for the shit lord challenge today.” C caught Susu's next fist and used it to spin her into the wall, which she hit heavily, spinning back to stare at C wide-eyed.

“You—you can understand me?”

“Yeah? I forget what language that is, though. Sorry, my accent probably sucks, so I’m gonna stick to my own—”

Susu's surprise was short lived, and her anger was back. She threw herself against C, knocking her into the wall across the hallway and grabbing her throat with both hands. “I don't give a damn what language you speak—”

“Excuse me.” Both women looked up to where A was standing, in very proper pajamas. The young boy was frowning at them. “Could you please keep it down? I am trying to read before I sleep.”

A strange look crossed Susu's face, but C nodded, tugging her fingers away from her throat to speak, coughing slightly. “Sorry, kid. Hey, Susu, mind if we take this elsewhere?”

Surprisingly, Susu let her go, stepping back and nodding. She turned to A and gave a small bow of apology. It sounded like she was thinking hard to pick the correct words. “My—my sorrow. Please... continue study.”

She jerked her chin at C, giving her a pointed, lead the way kind of look. A nodded. “I appreciate it. Goodnight again, C, and goodnight, Susu.”

Susu looked at C in surprise as A walked away and closed his bedroom door. “He knows me?”

C beckoned to her, walking down the hallway, turning into another, and out into another room, this one an old conference room with a large, heavy table in the middle, as she spoke. “Yeah, we had a little chat about the tournament earlier. I told him I thought you'd win.”

She stopped at the head of the table, grinning. “So. Did you?”

Susu seemed like she wasn't interested in conversing anymore, and threw herself at C. They grappled for a moment before C dropped her on the table, pinning her in place. “Well?”

Susu glared up at her. “No. I left to find you.” She headbutted C, sending her backwards, then knocked her onto the floor, effectively reversing their positions. C stared up at her in confusion.

“What? Why the hell would you do that? You only had two more matches to go!”

“Because it is a pointless victory. You threw that match.” Susu's glittering eyes looked beyond angry—almost hurt. She grabbed C's open collar with both hands. “You could have easily won with your Threads. Easily! So why? Do you pity me, because I am a halfling? Do you think I am too pathetic to win without your help?”

“Babe, whoa. No. Not in the slightest.” C shook her head, her voice growing serious. “You know those guys were gonna jump you out back, right? I wasn't makin' that shit up to cool you off.”

Susu tilted her head, loosening her hands slightly. “What?”

“The ones chattin' near me before our match. They were talking about finding out how a halfling would taste, is cannibalism actually bad, yadda yadda, and said they'd meet you at the loser's exit after our match.”

“Why would... I could handle myself!” Susu tightened her grip again, scowling. “I didn't need your help.”

“Five Supreme contestants, all after I kicked your ass? Now you're being arrogant.” C grinned, glancing at the other woman's hands on her shirt and legs straddling her. “If you wanna have a rematch, babe, I'm all for it, but uh... kinda getting different ideas here, in this position, you get me?”

Susu blinked, looking down, then back at C. “I do not--”

C rolled over, dragging Susu under her. She smiled again as Susu didn't resist being pinned, her long fingers wrapping around the other woman's wrists. She leaned in a little. “I'll be blunt, Susu, I really wanna fuckin' kiss you right now.”

Susu's eyes widened, and she looked confused for a moment. C wondered if she'd gone a little too far, read a little too much wishful thinking into the other woman's body language, when Susu spoke. “You are... like me?”

“Like you? If you mean you're gay as fuck, then yeah, I sure am.” C closed one eye, looking down at her. “Did I get that right? Or is there some kinda totally heterosexual explanation for why you're allowing me to be on top of you like this?”

Susu laughed, an absolutely beautiful sound, like birds singing, wind chimes blowing, maybe even a choir of angels, C wasn't really sure. She nodded, a slight smile on her face as she looked up at C. “Yes. Yes I am, 'gay as fuck,' as well.”

“Excellent.” C slid her hands down Susu's arms, feeling one of her extremely rare heartbeats at that adorable smile. “So, you wanna...?”

Susu answered her by grabbing her head and slamming their mouths together.

C grinned as she finally pulled away. “I'll take that as a yes.”

[captainshadowgirllostfan]

I honestly don’t find Harrison Ford charming, like at all. Maybe because the recent interviews I’ve seen of him is generally him being freaking old but there are a LOT of old actors who have life in them. People find the “I don’t care” attitude of Harrison Ford kind of idk breath of fresh air and I’m like no I’d rather hear from an actor passionate about his or her own work, THAT TO ME is a breath of fresh air because to me celebs and actors are more interested in themselves rather than the work their in. It’s crazy how far Ford has gone when his general attitude to me ABOUT EVERYTHING is just “I’m in it for the money.”. It seems those are the types of celebs and actors who actually succeed in the world.

Compare that to Mark Hamill and Hayden Christensen... though mostly Hayden, because when Hayden talks about star wars or any of the work he’s in, he’s really invested in the story telling and character he’s playing. He appreciates every one, even the characters that have set his career back. I mean I would think he would resent playing Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader much like how Natalie Portman had come to resent Star Wars and playing Padme, but he isn’t and it’s just so incredible to me.  He’s so humble and grateful of the stuff he’s in and never shows this characteristic attitude shown by actors of how they’ve been wronged just because they’ve been in one bad movie that fans and critics have demolished.

Actors have it hard, but Hayden... all he did was buy a farm and move on with his life.

And he still talks about Star Wars, what a honor it was playing Anakin, and how much of a fan he is as well. 

Mark Hamill is the same.

Man... Mark Hamill and Hayden Christensen are so underrated. I wish we saw more of the them, or that we will anyway. Mostly Hayden anyway. I don’t like how Mark treated Rian Johnson. Mark’s attitude in things with Star Wars seems more aligned with what the fans want, while Hayden seems to respect the creator’s vision while telling fans they can want whatever they want but in the end of the day, art belongs to the person who creates it and what they wanted their art to be. Art is a form of expression by the creator. It’s never about what your fans want, it’s about what you want to bring to the table.

Still both Mark and Hayden are FAR more interesting than Harrison Ford, whose name I just forgot just by talking about Hayden and Mark ONLY because those two can talk about the stuff their in and I’m invested. Ford on the other hand always seems like he just got out of bed and can’t find his thoughts whenever you ask him a question. Maybe it’s old age, idk. But like why in the world to people love actors who are just there for the paycheck? 

I mean where’s the passion? 

I guess life is just about working for the paycheck and we know actors get a buttload. 

Can’t say anything about Ewan. I think Ewan takes his job seriously and he loves Star Wars, I mean he’s the reason Obi-Wan Kenobi became a tv series (even though I feel like the show was unnecessary, I love how it brought back the prequel love and I’m grateful for that.) Ewan is so damn likable, you can’t really say anything negative about the guy. I’m so glad his career has become so diverse over the years. Wish the same was for Hayden, but Hayden has been in some great some and I am sooo gonna bingewatch that shit, once I very very slowly finish some pages on my bullet journal, watch some youtube videos I have open and read some articles too lol.

I also need to start watching some movies on my movie list too.

And clean my room...

[spideyskrunkly]

Off With His Head!

Criminal Case Fanfic

Characters: David Jeremiah Jones (au), Samuel King, cc suspects

Warnings: Swearing, gore/blood

A kidnap happens and one decides to twist it. (Prequel of WAJGUD and DMTU)

"That is the last thing I want to hear about!"

King got mad at Jones for messing around again. Well, he wasn't necessarily messing around, he was just relaxing in his office and eating some snacks which was considered 'slacking'.

"Chief, I don't mean to relax a bit, but isn't it only fair if I get a break from getting involved with most of the cases?"

"NO! That's June's part. He deserves the break, he's been more of the worker than you've ever been! Why can't you be like him?!"

Ouch. Getting compared was a pain. It wasn't only June, though, it was literally any officer that he gets compared to.

"I don't know whether I should fire you or give you to the fucking circus, but you need to be better and make a damn use of yourself!"

Oh wow. That hurt.

Chief King left with a sigh and slammed the door. Jones couldn't help but be upset by the choice of words. Tears weren't coming out, but sadness on his face was. He wish he could cry, though. But then he felt like he had to be a bigger man.

Jones decided to leave for the day. It was past 12 after all. Man, this is gonna be a depressing night.

Or was it?

Jones managed to reach to the sidewalk until he heard some noises from some of the bushes on the other side of the street. Should he interfere? He was depressed and... fuck it, he's a policeman who needed to do his job.

Jones decided to cross the street and then find... fire? Maybe a lighter or something? He checked behind the bushes.

Nope a fire on a stick being in the middle of some sort of symbol.

"What the..."

All of a sudden, Jones felt a hard item smack onto his head and started to lose consciousness.

"AH, FUCK!" That was all he could yell out, sadly. He was beginning to forget some words, some color of the scenery. Then everything turned black.

-

"What do we do with him?"

"We can't just let him walk out at day like normal, but we can't just let him stay here! People will think something's wrong with him!"

Jones started to wake up to the sound of the conversation. He looked around his surroundings and saw two people in covered masks and those masks seem... heavy. He even noticed that it seems he's sitting down with his hands tied behind him that seems to be tied to some pole.

"Ah! You're awake. Lovely!" One of the people started walking towards him. But then it shook Jones as he just woke up and he started to back away.

"Inspector Jones, it's okay! We mean no harm! Well... if you just cooperate."

"...How... did you know my name?"

The two masked people looked at eachother with what seems to be a little panic. The other masked figure put their hands onto their hips. The one close to Jones turned back to him and kneeled down.

"You are one of the badass cops in Grimsborough! And we are-"

"Who are you guys?"

"We are the Crimson Order! And we-"

"Whuzzat."

... "Can you shut up for a minute?"

They explained to him everything he needed to know about the Crimson Order.

"Wow, you guys are brutal."

"And we are in desperate need of help."

"... Huh?"

"We have... suspicions that our leader is starting to have doubts." The other member walked over to Jones. "His name is Milton Grimes. Prison Warden."

"What do you want me to do?"

"We want you to confirm if our suspicions are correct or not. If you do this one task, we will reward you in gold."

"In gold?" Jones thought about it for a second. He wanted to turn it down as he's a loyal officer in the base. ...Loyal officer. Chief said he's not good enough to be an officer. Then he thought about another thing, did he really want to go back to his usual life? Being talked down by his chief, by people, getting hurt, getting his emotions damaged, getting his heart broken? ...

"Okay. Just give me the plan."

"I... actually didn't expect you to agree. For gold?"

"Eh... something like that."

-

Milton was trying to shuffle through his pages to find evidence to get rid of the Crimson Order once and for all. He knew that he was gonna get in trouble, but he didn't care. He needed it to stop.

As he left the prison, he tried to think as much as he could. He went down to the ranch where no one other the fog and water surrounded him.

But he couldn't give the evidence to anyone important. Not the mayor, not his mother, not the chief (even if he left), not that GreenCorps dude. He needed to give it to someone with a lower rank, someone who will understand.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Milton looked behind where the voice came from and saw a brunette with a blue outfit that matched his eyes.

"... Inspector Jones!"

"So you know me?"

"Yes. And I need your help! Yes, you're the perfect person for this!"

"What seems to be the problem? I was planning on relaxing here, but now, this seems big?"

"Yes. Big and bad. It's all about the Crimson Order!"

He handed Jones the files that contained the evidence. "Everything you find in those files in guilty. I am also guilty, but I am changing my ways. I know I will be arrested but trust me when I say that I want to redeem myself!"

Jones stared at the files. Then he tossed them into the water.

"Wha- INSPECTOR?! You just destroyed what could have been shown!"

"Oh, Milton... you've failed."

"...What?"

"Why do you think I managed to find you here?" Jones pulled out a machete behind his back as he laughed. "Honestly, you're the leader and you're trusting someone who just came out of nowhere with the evidence? How much of a dumbass are you?!"

"... You knew?"

"And I tend" He lifted the machete. "to keep it that way."

"INSPECTOR, WAIT-"

-

"He's taking too long!" Howard was beginning to be annoyed. He knew about the situation as much as the others did.

"Relax, son." Serena sipped on her wine of blood. "It might be too much for him."

Suddenly, the door to the goldmine opened. What entered was Jones with a confident and twisted look on his face and with a bag.

"There you are! What took you so long?" Alden was annoyed as well.

"Shut up, old man." Jones threw the bag to the side. "Well, everybody. Your suspicions of the Crimson Order Leader was correct. He has been trying to get rid of you all."

"Finally! We can take him in for questioning!" Howard chirped with joy.

"I wouldn't be too sure."

"What do you mean, Inspector?" Alden looked... concerned.

"Well... I'd say he thought he was getting ahead... THEN HE HAS NO HEAD!" Jones pulled out Milton's head from the bag.

"HOLY SHIT!"

"WHAT ON EARTH?!"

Terrifying responses to the scenery made Jones feel... powerful.

"Inspector... what did you do?! This wasn't part of the plan!"

"It was a part of MY plan. I don't want your gold." Jones threw the head to the members and brought out his hatchet."

"I want to be your leader. Any objections will end up like Milton here."

Everyone looked terrified.

"I'm willing to answer questions, though."

[rexsjaigeyes]

divs my absolute beloved ✨ can we see something from Sweet Dreams from echo’s pov?? i love how he take a bit more control in that fic than we usually characterize him in fanon 💖💖

Vee bestie, thanks for sending the first pov ask! This was a bit of a challenge, but hopefully it's still hot lmao. I cheated a little bit and started the scene right before the fic began, so I guess it counts as a prequel too.

From a certain point of view ask game

Sweet Dreams... Are Made of This (Echo’s POV)

Read Sweet Dreams - I recommend you read this first if you haven’t already!

Pairing: Echo x female reader x Fives

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: threesome, mentions somnophilia

Echo’s mind screams at him to sleep, but he’s stuck in that weird space between being fully awake and dreaming of you. He can’t help it when you had taken such good care of him and Fives just a few hours ago. His tired brain replays the images of you arching your back when his fingers hit that spot deep within you and the way you moaned when his vod sucked hickeys on your neck. He can feel himself slowly drifting off before his eyes snap open, and he realizes the moans he thought were part of his dreams are actually spilling from your mouth.

He has to stop himself from immediately reaching out to you, noticing that you’re still fast asleep even as your moans become more frequent. His eyes travel down your naked body, glad to have suggested that the three of you forego pajamas tonight due to exhaustion. Holding his breath, he stifles a groan when he sees you rocking your hips ever so slightly. He smirks, wondering what you’re dreaming of that's making you this desperate for some friction. It’s cute that even after all the fucking the three of you did, you’re still so horny, even in your sleep. But as Echo bites down on his tongue to stop himself from waking you, he notices his brother has other ideas.

Echo glares as one of Fives’s hands slide around your waist, holding you tight to his body and pulling you closer to him. Echo would have ignored his greedy hold on you if Fives wasn’t so bold as to groan right in your ear too.

“Di’kut,” Echo whispers harshly, “you’ll wake her up!” He watches Fives go rigid for a second before he lifts his head to peek over your shoulder.

“You’re awake too? Was it her moans that woke you up? Or was it the way she was writhing?”

Echo rolls his eyes, feeling his exasperation for his vod rise. Maybe it’s the fact that Fives doesn’t seem to care about the possibility of waking you up with his low moans and wandering hands. Or maybe he’s frustrated that Fives always gets a free pass to do as he pleases while Echo is the one behaving nicely for you all the time. He doesn’t mind being good for you of course, but Fives’s bratty attitude never fails to piss him off. You’d tell Fives to do something simple, like keep his damn mouth shut, and he’d still find a way to test your patience — as well as Echo’s. Earlier tonight was yet another one of those nights when Echo had put on his best behavior, but every cocky word from his brother’s mouth had him aching to see you put Fives in his place. He doesn’t blame you for not doing it tonight though; you were tired, and Fives was a lot to handle. But if he isn’t going to listen to you tonight, then maybe he’d listen to a fellow ARC trooper instead.

Echo grimaces as he watches Fives grip you tighter before grinding into your backside. Your moans have only gotten louder, and Echo can’t take it anymore. His cock is hard and throbbing already, and his fingers itch to feel your soft skin before digging into the flesh of your thighs. He knows you wouldn’t mind waking up like this — in fact, you had begged for it to happen before — but that doesn’t stop him from scowling at Fives over your shoulder.

“If we’re going to wake her like this, you better fucking listen to me very carefully, Fives.”

“Oh so you get to be in charge now? Are you sure you can handle it without the reg manual?”

Echo clenches his jaw and fights the urge not to smack the back of Fives’s head or risk hitting you in the process too. “Fucking brat,” he mutters to himself. “Remember what Rex said? If we work together, she’ll have the time of her life. And you want her to feel good, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good, then follow orders.” He sees the unconvinced look on his brother’s face, so with a sigh, he adds, “If we do this right, we can have her cumming for us as many times as we want while she actually gets some rest.”

Finally, it looks like Fives fully understands what he’s getting at, and Echo hopes he’ll actually do as he’s told tonight. It’s the only way this plan will work since Fives always tries to jump the gun or dive head-first into things too quickly. This time, he’ll need to learn to be patient in order to get what both he and Echo wants.

Fives nods with a gulp, and Echo feels a surge of relief upon seeing his agreement to do things his way. Your soft whine breaks Echo’s staring contest with his vod, and he watches Fives shudder as you push back against him again. He can’t wait any longer — not when his brother’s hand makes its way up to your tits to roll one nipple between his fingers.

Echo shoves his hand away from your chest. “Keep your hands on her waist. If you get to feel her grinding against you, then I think I deserve to feel her tits.”

Fives scoffs but fortunately does as he’s told, tracing a path back down to your waist. You start to stir in your sleep, likely hearing all the whispering and feeling Fives’s large hands grabbing your body. So Echo scoots closer to you and finally allows himself to touch you properly. Fuck, you look beautiful like this — your body moving effortlessly even while you’re half-asleep, grinding back against Fives with needy whimpers. If Echo had less self restraint, he’d push his vod away and fuck you deep into the mattress. But he wants to take care of you; you deserve it after giving him and his brother such a warm welcome home. He brushes his thumbs against your nipples just in time to see your tired eyes fluttering open.

“Hm, what happened?” you ask softly.

“You were moaning in your sleep, mesh’la.” Echo can’t help the satisfied smile that grows on his face as he whispers those words. The way your eyes widen make him want to kiss the embarrassment off your face.

But as usual, Fives has to join the conversation as well. “She was squirming too.”

Echo doesn't have time to give his vod a stern look because he notices the way your body stiffens as you finally process the situation you’re in. Even with the way Fives groans shamelessly, Echo can hear the telltale sound of his brother’s cock slipping between the back of your thighs. You shudder as Fives continues rutting against you, and Echo relishes the sight of you so desperate to meet each rocking thrust. He holds you close, feeling every inch of your heated skin as you look to him for some sort of relief. In this moment, he doesn’t care that Fives is taking what he wants; it’s slow torture for you, so Echo allows it. He loves the way you look up at him as you cling to his biceps. And he’d bet that if he reached down between your legs, he’d find the evidence of how much you’re enjoying waking up this way — and how much you’re enjoying your dreams. Which reminds him...

“Were you dreaming of us?” Echo asks, noticing the way you tremble upon hearing his question.

You nod your head sheepishly, so he returns a reassuring smile. You look hesitant to admit it, but Echo loves the fact that even in your sleep, you want to be taken care of by him and his vod. He chuckles as you try to hide your face in his chest, but he wants to see all of you tonight. Echo gently lifts a finger to your chin, tilting your head up so you’ll look straight into his eyes.

“Don’t be embarrassed, cyar’ika.” He glances over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of Fives helplessly rutting against you, and Echo has to stop himself from laughing at the irony; if anyone should be embarrassed right now, it should be Fives for how easily you reduce him to a whimpering mess. “Don’t you feel how much of an effect you have on us too?” Echo leans closer to you so he can be heard over his brother’s low moans. “We dream about you too.”

He’s not lying. His dreams from a moment ago still feel fresh in his mind — just the thought of it makes his cock throb harder. But now... he’ll get to make his dreams a reality.

---------

tagging some besties: @sirianisrock @bobas-missing-codpiece @sgtdogmastyle @ladyopress @zinzinina @saradika @thiccumz @bucketsimp @shiny-mando @milf-thrawn-nuruodo @dreamydroid

[tennessoui]

1 - Soulmate AU - Soulamtes share dreams to learn more about each other and to teach each other their local traditions if necessary. Obi-Wan learns the hardship his mate faces in slavery, their secret language, and how to help free slaves. Anakin gets taught about the Jedi, reading, writing, and how amazing his mate is.

ahhhh ok i really don't want to share this under this prompt because i wrote the ask down wrong in my notes so the prompt i wrote follows my poor notes that just say - 'soulmate sharing/learn about them before they meet' but this is amazing prompt wise and it would clear up a ton of misconceptions in the prequels obviously if they both got dreams of the other's early lives but this is.... not that but i hope you enjoy anyway <3 <3

1. Soulmates (and daemons) (2.0 k)

Obi-Wan doesn’t have a soulmate for sixteen years.

It’s just him and the animal representation of his own soul that had traveled to the Temple with him as a babe, a Vulptex kit. She’s named herself now and grown larger and stronger through the years, her coat growing out to perfect crystalline ends. From a distance, they look like razor-sharp spikes of ice. Or so other people have said.

Obi-Wan knows that’s not true. He knows that his soul isn’t cold or untouchable or unreachable. But he’s had no luck telling anyone else that, not when Avarie snaps at everyone who tries to touch her in a manner that’s quite un-Jedi like. She’s prickly and quick to bristle. He’s emotional and angry, even before he’s ten years old.

Look, it’s not easy living around people who all know they have soulmates, either because they’ve met them or because they’ve woken up to find that their own animal has disappeared only to be replaced with their mate’s soul representation.

Most of the time, that sort of switch happens when a person’s still a youngling. A very young youngling. Sometimes babies are taken to the Temple with their soulmate’s animal tucked between tiny arms. Those, in Obi-Wan’s opinion, are the luckiest ones. They never have to wonder if they even have a soulmate at all.

They just grow up knowing that they’ll be loved one day.

Obi-Wan grows up thinking maybe it’s just going to be him and his vulptex until the day he dies. It makes him angry at the injustice of it all.

He knows his own emotions probably keep him from a Padawanship, but he can’t help but think that Avarie’s own appearance and attitude certainly don’t help. They’re at odds with one another for two years, bound together but each ignoring the other. Obi-Wan’s never heard of this before, of fighting with your own soul’s animal.

But, he thinks, most people don’t spend as long with theirs as he has with Avarie.

Perhaps she is everything unlikable about himself, made apparent to everyone else. No one, master or soulmate, would ever want him. Not when everything about his soul screams keep your distance.

Master Jinn taking him as his Padawan is a surprise then, one that soothes over some of Obi-Wan’s soul-deep aches. The night he gets his padawan braid is the first night in years that Avarie curls up against him to sleep.

When he is sixteen and a few standard months old, he wakes up alone in his bed, Avarie nowhere in sight.

Well. Not alone, actually.

A ball of fur that he had originally thought to be a wrinkle in his bedspread whines pitifully and moves to follow him when he sits up.

He stares dumbly down at the strange little muzzle and unopen eyes. Half of its face is a pure white, and the other half a solid black, as if someone has taken it and held it against a fire until its fur was stained with smoke.

“Uh,” he says to his soulmate’s animal. The creature, some sort of canid, perks up at his voice and snuffles closer to him eagerly. “Yes, hello,” Obi-Wan grins, petting its tiny head with the tip of his thumb. It tries to prolong the touch by lifting its muzzle up and whining.

It’s so small.

His soulmate must be...must be just as young.

Obi-Wan is sixteen and a few months and his soulmate has just been born, most likely. But.

But he has a soulmate.

-----

Odyna grows fast, much faster than Obi-Wan had thought possible. It feels like he blinks once on the morning he wakes to see her, and then suddenly she’s at his knees. Her paws and ears are huge still, and Obi-Wan knows she’ll grow much, much bigger.

His master in particular is very interested in trying to figure out what species his soulmate’s animal is.

“She feels incredibly strong in the Force,” Qui-Gon says on more than one occasion. “And her markings--”

Odyna growls from where she’s laying splayed out in Obi-Wan’s lap as he brushes over her furry back. She instantly preens when he taps her gently on the nose.

Some days he thinks she’s the exact opposite of Avarie in every way possible, and has to wonder how his soulmate--who would be six now--is faring with Avarie. He hopes she’s at least letting them pet her.

Odyna relishes Obi-Wan’s attention always, though she scorns anyone else’s hands or affections in a way that reminds him of his own Vulptex.

The Jedi Council was unimpressed with Avarie’s aversion to touch and seems even more skeptical at Odyna’s. “A dangerous, possessive attachment, it will be,” Yoda has told Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan more than once.

Soulmate relationships in the Order are common and practically encouraged, seen as the will of the Force. But even then, possessive attachment is heavily forbidden. The Force animals of the Jedi will often allow other Jedi to touch them and greet them. It’s unbecoming of a Jedi’s soul, to close itself off from the touch of others.

And yet a part of Obi-Wan can’t stop himself from feeling smug about how overt Odyna’s claim over him is. She’s clingy, incredibly needy, and overprotective at turns.

A Jedi’s mission to Lothal brings back a trade deal and a name for Obi-Wan’s soulmate’s Force animal. “It looks just like a Loth-wolf,” she tells him. “But the ones on Lothal I saw were huge. Taller than a Wookie.”

Obi-Wan groans at this. His master is already so much taller than him. Now Odyna too? If his soulmate grows to tower over him as well, he’s going to have some choice words for the Force upon his death.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” He asks Odyna that night as she flops down onto his bed in her customary position of splayed everywhere. “My room is only so big.”

She grins at him and licks his face.

“Force, that’s so uncivilized,” Obi-Wan grouses, getting up out of bed again to go wash his face.

----

Surprisingly, Tatooine’s heat is not the first thing Obi-Wan notices about the planet. No, what he notices first and foremost is the way that Odyna, until this point relatively satisfied to lay curled around his chair (at nine, she’s big enough to come up to his shoulders when standing), seems to lose her damned mind as soon as the door is open and the hot air permeates the ship.

He was just going to look at the damage, but his soulmate’s Force animal seems to have other plans. Odyna bounds out onto the sand and nudges Obi-Wan forward, hard enough that he loses his balance.

She nudges him again, even as he tries to bat her away. “Odyna, stop it,” he demands, scrambling to his feet.

“Are they...alright?” One of Queen Amidala’s handmaidens asks.

Qui-Gon at least tries to hide his amusement, but Obi-Wan shoots him a dirty look anyway because he can hear the smile in his master’s voice when he says, “Oh yes. This is quite normal.”

It is not normal, thanks.

Odyna howls in agreement.

When Qui-Gon tells them that they’ll have to go into the nearest town to barter or buy the parts needed to fix the ship, Obi-Wan volunteers first. Maybe if he can let Odyna stretch her legs, she’ll calm down.

Instead, the closer they get to Mos Espa proper, the more antsy she becomes until, quite suddenly, she bolts through the streets. Obi-Wan has little choice but to take off after her. It’s almost impossible, of course, to lose a Loth-wolf when they’re that huge, but there’s a sort of strange tight pressure in his chest at having her out of his sight.

He leaves his master and the handmaiden behind without a second thought, but at least he doesn’t have to run far.

Outside a shop that looks as rundown as the other ones, Odyna has stopped and sat down, her tail wagging furiously behind her.

Obi-Wan has a fair few things in mind to yell at her, but all of that gets knocked out of his head when he sees the crystalline figure of a very familiar vulptex standing in the shadow of the loth-wolf.

His breath catches in his throat and he almost loses his balance again when Avarie turns to look at him with those intelligent black eyes, head cocked.

If she’s--if she’s here, then that means--that means--

He stumbles forward until he can kneel in front of his Force animal, hand outstretched.

Suddenly there’s commotion inside the shop and a little boy tears outside holding some sort of rusted pipe over his shoulder threateningly. “Don’t touch her!” the boy yells, brandishing the pipe. “She doesn’t like it, get gone or I’ll make you get gone!”

Obi-Wan blinks. His very first interaction with his soulmate after waiting twenty-five years, and the boy is threatening him.

“You’re mine,” he says dumbly, brain trying to process these impossible events.

It is, of course, the wrong thing to say. If anything, the boy puffs himself up even more. “I’m no one’s!” He yells indignantly. “I’m a person. My name is Anakin Skywalker!”

Obi-Wan holds up his hands in apology. “Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--I meant that she’s mine. Avarie. She’s my soul.”

Anakin lowers his pipe with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know her name?” he asks suspiciously.

Obi-Wan fights the urge to roll his eyes. He’d never considered that he’d have to win over the trust of his soulmate. “She’s my soul,” he says again slowly, before gesturing to the black and white loth-wolf behind them, who has laid down in the dust, tongue hanging out in response to the heat. “As she is yours.”

“You’re my...soulmate?” Anakin drops the pipe as he looks over Obi-Wan in frank disbelief. “But you’re so….”

Obi-Wan raises a wry eyebrow and grins. He braces himself to hear old, or maybe even male.

But instead his soulmate shocks him again by saying, “....pretty! Are you sure you’re not an angel instead?”

Which, of course, corresponds to his master’s arrival. The maiden with him at least has the decency to cover her smile with her hand. Meanwhile, his master’s smirk is probably going to be burned into his memory forever.

“Yes, Anakin,” Obi-Wan responds. “I promise, I’m your soulmate.”

“Mine,” Anakin says in a wondrous tone. And then, a grin steals across his face and he grabs Obi-Wan's hand. “My soulmate.”

Obi-Wan hopes this isn’t the beginning of that dangerous possessiveness Yoda has spent years lecturing him about.

-----

“I’m going with him,” Anakin argues, stomping his foot in the Council chambers. Obi-Wan hides his face in his hand. “He’s my master.”

“Anakin, we’ve been over this. You’re much too young for this mission,” Obi-Wan explains gently, as if they don’t have a dozen interested eyes on them.

“I’m twelve!” Anakin will not be deterred. “That’s plenty old!”

“It’s too dangerous,” he tries instead.

“Then you shouldn’t go!”

Obi-Wan wonders if he should try arguing that he’s a twenty-eight year old Jedi Knight, who may go where he pleases. He doesn’t think that’ll go over well with his padawan.

Anakin, he says through their training bond. Do not do this in front of the Council.

Anakin turns to stare mulishly up at him. I want you to be safe.

I will have Odyna with me, Obi-Wan points out, tilting his head in reference to the loth-wolf spread out on the Council Chamber’s floor. And you will have Avarie with you. You will know I am safe. And I will know she is making you sleep and eat and bathe.

Anakin seems to consider this and then crosses his arms, but eventually nods. I don’t like it when she bites me until I go to bed, he grumbles, kicking his feet and glaring over at Avarie, who is dozing between Odyna’s paws.

Obi-Wan fights the urge to chuckle out loud. In truth, he’s a bit jealous that Avarie has figured out a way to get obedience from their soulmate. Half the time, Obi-Wan is still floundering to get simple acknowledgement of a command.

-----

Many years later, of course, when Anakin is a knight and Obi-Wan a master, he figures out the thing that never fails to get Anakin soft and pliant and relaxed.

It’s kisses.

More specifically, kisses from his soulmate while they’re lying in bed together, sheets tangled around their feet and both of their Force animals in the other room, keeping watch at the door.