#the most love and kindness they received in CENTURIES so ofc he's the one they care abt the most but coming from a person who thinks of them

[p4nishers]

no but like kevin wright actually saying loki cares more about mobius than ANYONE they ever cared about is insane bc. anyone?? more than their brother?? more than their MOTHER????? that is a WILD thing to say i respect

[jnselfshipping]

「Love of my life」

This is a post dedicated to let people know more about my F/O, Aesop, and our relationship. Not many people know him because his source material is so niche. It's also a win-win, because I get to lore-dump and gush about him! This post will keep updating as my understanding of his character changes (if it changes).

~~~~

About him

Aesop has a reserved, quiet personality. He is a man of few words, but he is very intuitive. He has severe social impediments, stemming from crippling social anxiety (explicitly stated by source material). In his 2nd anniversary voicelines, you can hear his voice getting softer and softer until it is barely louder than a whisper.

However, he has another side. Below the surface, Aesop has a kind of confidence. Unlike some other characters, Aesop is always standing gracefully straight, shoulders back and head held high. He is also shown to have a sense of duty in leading others to death, and being very passionate about doing his job perfectly right and respecting the dead.

Lastly, he is baby.

About us

Four years ago, I came across a game called Identity V. It was quite popular (not on western media ofc) and the fandom was in full throttle. I joined the game a while after a gray-haired, sombre and reserved young embalmer became a playable character; a character by the name of Aesop Carl. He was not hugely popular: he wasn't particularly meta, he wasn't super impressive, and his lore wasn't fully fleshed out yet. In fact, most of the attention he received in the fandom was from a ship which characterised him as a weak, bashful, pillow-biting bottom simply because he looked kinda cute. Needless to say, I didn't pay him much attention.

「He looks interesting.」 said I, at the time, in a conversation with a friend, before I changed the topic.

One stuffy afternoon, I came across a lore article of the game, delving deep into the character's stories. It mentioned Aesop, the embalming industry in the 19th century, and the possibility of manipulation that he was subjected to, to make him like he is now. I read it and only half-understood it. I had not bothered to see his character stories before, so I didn't know much about his personality... or anything, actually, but to understand this cool sounding article, I was going to have to sit through some context. I booted up google and found his character stories on some website. It was only to get enough information to read the article. I'm sure I wouldn't fall for this character or anything. It won't be a problem.

Half an hour later, I had a problem. A massive problem.

Over the next months I started writing about him. It started with analytical things about his lore. I read all the chemicals that were used in 19th century embalming processes. I chewed my pen over details in his upbringing: did his father die, or did he divorce? Did his mother commit suicide? How does his mother know Jaye Carl, his stepfather? Was he bullied? Isolated? More and more, I wanted to know all the details about him.

I also wrote poetry. Soppy poetry that I cringe to read now. I told my friends all the possibilities that his life could have gone. And I daydreamed. About his eyelashes, his personality, everything.

I looked up at the sky one day, thinking of him, and with a pang I realised: "Oh shit, I'm in love". And so it began.

And now. We've been together for four years and counting! I cannot be prouder of us.

[ouraniatm]

*dusts off the blog* hi, hello. it's me, your favorite planet or disney dog or whatever you want me to be. i FINALLY managed to beat the goddamn ice titan (suck it ya goddamn bitch) AND beat through idia's OB boss battle. i'm now finished with book 6, so i figured i should lay down cora's whereabouts and involvement before it gets lost into the void. not that i want to make some MAJOR changes in the story or whatever, but if anything, it makes things more intense... least in my opinion. if you wanna read it - or don't because heavy spoilers to book 6 - it's under read more! *cracks knuckles* alright, let's go.

to begin with, a quick tl;dr on cora's situation - her family, the ouranias, serve as the second hand to shrouds. it's a chained dynamic which lasted for generations, when the first ourania pledged absolute loyalty to the first shroud after failing to fulfill their part of the deal. they're kind of the underdogs of STYX whose only purpose is to do what their designated owner, a shroud, says. this family has the "strength and preservation over anything" mindset, so they've conditioned themselves to be as robotic and emotionless as possible, even in dangerous situations, meaning cutting off your emotions wholly because that means weakness and unworthiness. this is to ensure a shroud's wellbeing and their continued work for STYX, but most importantly, to reduce any chance of overblotting. if there is no negative emotion to begin with, you're less likely to bring harm onto your owner...such is the mentality the ouranias have maintained for centuries, and such methods of preparing the new generations of underdogs has partaken for this long now.

to add on, an ourania is also conditioned to look after the charons and even the chariots. basically, your life is bound to a shroud's from the moment you're born into an ourania family. it's a little different from jamil's family, who offered themselves to serve kalim's family as they are longtime friends. no, in this case, this is a FULL ownership of another person. no right to live, laugh, love, anything - ourania is shroud's shadow. see how twisted this power dynamic is, because i sure do.

alright, now onto present times: after the events in book 5 and shortly before book 6 events begun, cora (who, unbeknownst to everyone besides idia and ortho, was to inherit the position of second hand from her father before an eventual resignation for disrupting the dynamic by attempting to "befriend" her designated owner in much younger years) actually received a call from styx to inform her of charons' eventual arrival and to immediately let idia know. of course, now that she's trying to leave that part behind her in any means necessary - as well as becoming very bitter and jaded in general - didn't even bother to say anything, assuming he'd be informed...which he wasn't. you can probably imagine how pissed off he was when the charons did arrive. 🙃

---

following this, idia orders cora to look after ignihyde and keep everyone from leaving night raven college. once again throwing all his responsibilities on her but whatever, she doesn't have the care to argue back. she's the one to explain everything to the panicking students and warn them not to go after the subjects and that they'd be back soon.

---

does rook listen? absolutely not. if anything, he goes straight to her and relentlessly keeps asking her to come along and help him get to island of woe, her homeland. initially, she refused and kept trying to shoo him off, knowing her arrival would cause and uproar amongst the ouranias, but ofc, rook being rook, he is able to see right through her and hit where it hurts, the most - she wants to put an end to this vicious punishment. she wants to tell idia off and finally be rid of these shackles, to have her own identity...to start over, completely. wouldn't you know, it hits cora (mostly bc he wouldn't leave her the fuck alone) and she agrees...but not to help him, no, she couldn't care less why's rook so insistent to go - but to tell idia off and finally cut ties, like she always wanted.

---

cora is part of the "rescue" team! very reluctant member, but still a part! hooray! she guides them to island of woe, knowing this is the biggest disobedience she caused and would have very, very big consequences. still, she can't say it's the first time she disobeyed idia, so she tucks that problem aside...at least this would lead her to eventual banishment, which is what she truly wants.

---

when they arrive, much to cora's expectations, she was NOT welcome - hell, members of styx instantly recognized her and were outraged...not that she paid them any mind, since she was focusing only on idia, with his boss mode on...who was CLEARLY furious. sure, she expected to get him yapping on and on as usual, but this was different...this was GENUINE anger. the subjects must've tired the hell outta him, but still, cora didn't expect to be yanked off the group while ortho stayed behind with the rest.

---

following the departure from the group comes what is probably their worst argument to date - it begins with usual bickering but is quickly escalated towards jabs at each other's lives, their failures and even what has other done to another - accusations and screams flew, much of which cora never expected. sure, she saw idia peeved off from her actions back at school, their disdain was very clear among other students, but she never saw him fueled with rage to the point his hair turns full blown orange. he says it's her fault for everything, she says it's the other way around...until the argument stops with ortho's intervention. cora is quickly escorted out of the room by charons, but not before uttering to idia: "you're fucking dead to me...erase my memories after this, i don't care, but you better remember this until the day you finally die." with those words echoing the now desolate room, she leaves...feeling much emptier than before.

---

she finally did it , right? she told idia off, just like she wanted, and fully cut ties...just like she wanted...right? if that's the case...why is she second guessing herself? this never happened before...it's odd, but she tries not to think too much of it, not when her father will definitely be coming in to handle the matter at hand - which likely means she'll be banished. well...that was the case until the entire system went into shutdown and freed her from her room.

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

How to Kill an Immortal - Chapter 2

Pairing: Marcus Pike x OFC, with flashbacks of Marcus x other OFCs & OMCs

Rating: M (non-explicit smut)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Angst, character death, M/M relationship, this might swerve into RPF as I’m putting Marcus with a known historical figure here, oral sex (m receiving), oral sex (f receiving)

Summary: He finds himself moving forward with a singular purpose: it is time for Marcus of York to die.

A/N: The italicized dialogue is meant to indicate dialogue not in English. In the first flashback, it’s Italian, in the second, French. I’ve never been to the Yorkshire Museum and the layout and collections are entirely made up, except for the Gilling Sword, which is a real item on display there.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Chapter Two - The Renaissance

Washington, D.C. 2014 AD

Marcus will never get used to flying.

He has taken most modern things in stride, but airplanes? They will always feel like magic to him. He closes his eyes as the engines fire and his body starts to press back into the seats with the force of forward movement.

It's thrilling.

He forces his eyes open when he feels his belly start to sink as the wheels lift off of the runway. He stares out the window with a small smile as the features of the ground shrink before his eyes.

Oh, Isabella, the things I have seen.

She has weighed heavily in his thoughts since this new case had come across his desk at the FBI–one of the collection highlights at the Yorkshire Museum, the Gilling Sword, had been stolen.

Marcus has gone to nearly every corner of the Earth, but he has never once returned to York.

Not until now.

God, he is tired. The long years have put a wariness in him that no amount of sleep can fix. His breakup with Teresa had left him with an unsettling realization. Once he had overcome the initial shock, he had realized with stunning clarity that he can no longer let himself fall in love just to watch that person leave him in some way or another. As the centuries have passed, human lives have appeared shorter and shorter, each new love barely a blip for him.

He finds himself moving forward with a singular purpose:

It is time for Marcus of York to die.

He hasn't exactly been cautious in the last few centuries, fighting in wars and volunteering for the most dangerous missions. It wasn’t that he had wanted to die, particularly, but it was one of those things that wouldn't have bothered him had it happened.

With each passing mission where Marcus had miraculously survived–either lucky or unlucky, depending on how he looks at it–he had started to suspect that his death at the hands of another would need to be purposeful.

Marcus is going to need to ask someone.

The way he sees it, he's either going to need to offer money to someone with questionable morals or to try and get a kind soul to believe his story and agree to help him.

Marcus knows which of those scenarios is more likely.

Thankfully, he has more money than he knows what to do with. That's one of the benefits of living for hundreds of years. He's had the opportunity to acquire wealth beyond his wildest dreams simply by nature of having more chances to make it.

Marcus had kept that bakery he had opened with Isabella for another fifty years or so after he had spoken with the witch Sabine before collecting his savings and taking off to explore the world.

He had always wanted to be a learned man, and with enough resources to disguise himself as, if not aristocracy, then at least as someone with means, Marcus had traveled to Oxford to become a student.

He had thrown himself into the pursuit with gusto. Marcus has always been the curious sort, and as such, had wanted to learn everything about everything. He had spent years studying Classics, Philosophy, Literature, Poetry, but what he had ended up loving most was Art.

Marcus smiles to himself as he watches the clouds below him. Some things never change.

He remembers the day he had stumbled upon this new profession by chance, recovering stolen art for the FBI. A high-profile theft of five hundred million dollars worth of art from the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum had caught his eye in a newspaper in 1990–both because of the subject matter and because Marcus’s brain has always been drawn to the names of those he's loved and lost.

In the article, Marcus had read an interview from an Art Crimes Detective working on the case, and had fallen in love with the idea of recovering stolen art. He had immediately pursued the job, applying for the FBI and going through the required training at Quantico.

Marcus had felt that he could offer a unique perspective to the job, having seen so many works in person over the years, or in some cases, by knowing the artists themselves.

Florence, Italy. 1501 AD

“Only you would leave your lover in bed to sketch,” Marcus said, wrapping his arm around his artist companion and pressing a gentle kiss to their shoulder.

“You will forgive me if I say that our activities left me feeling… inspired, yes?”

Marcus looked down at the charcoal drawing–a lean but well-muscled nude man in a contrapposto pose. “Surely that is not me,” he said with a little smile, tracing over the line of the man’s shoulder.

“If it were you, beloved, his cock would be bigger,” came the teasing reply, and Marcus laughed. “And the Operai would have me drawn and quartered for such an offense.”

“This is for the commission you were given, then?” Marcus asked between more playful kisses.

The artist nodded in assent, before turning around to kiss Marcus deeply. “To the world he shall be named David, but to me, he shall always be called by another name.”

“You flatter me,” Marcus teased quietly. “Now come back to bed, Michael.”

The other man laughed. “You say my name with such a hideous English accent when you shorten it.”

“Your full name is such a mouthful,” Marcus teased.

He gasped as he was pushed back onto the bed, his lover already crawling over him.

“You did not seem to mind your mouth being full, earlier,” Michael whispered against his lips.

Marcus shuddered. “This is true,” he conceded playfully. “But I believe you promised me you were going to return the favor, amato.”

“If I do,” the other man said, “you must promise not to use that horrendous Anglicized nickname. If I bring you unbridled pleasure, you call me by my given name as I do so.” He started to mouth down Marcus’s chest, giving him open-mouthed kisses and little nips of his teeth as he moved.

When Marcus’s cock was suddenly enveloped in warmth, he cried out the man’s name reflexively.

“Michelangelo.”

York, England. 2014 AD

Marcus walks down the streets in a daze. Everything is familiar… but not. The layout of the land is the same. Some of the buildings are original. The rest is foreign to him. If he looks carefully at some of the older buildings, he can see the various strata in the architecture–original foundations, followed by years and years of updates and renovations as humanity grew and changed.

Much like Marcus himself.

He is not the same man who wandered these streets six hundred years ago. While the years have never shown on his face, time has left its stamp on him nonetheless. He has been shaped by centuries of love and loss, happiness and grief, joy and anger, peace and war.

He avoids the area of town where he knows the bones of his and Isabella’s old bakery must lie. Just by sight, it appears that the area where he once lived a modest life with his wife and children has been much more modernized, so not many of the old structures are likely to remain.

It is just as well, Marcus thinks, his hand automatically drifting toward his pocket to touch the blue scrap of cloth he carries with him always. I am relic enough. He probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand the overwhelming grief, which hasn’t faded over the years, but simply changed and evolved as much as the world around him.

He stops at one of the buildings–this one has much of its original architecture remaining on the exterior, but the inside is a fully modern-looking Starbucks–to grab a quick coffee on his way.

Latte in hand, Marcus enters the Yorkshire Museum and announces his presence to the security guard with a friendly smile and a flash of his badge. The guard mumbles something into his walkie talkie, and in a few minutes, they are being approached by a young woman with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes.

For a moment, Marcus is a ten-year-old boy on a nearby cobblestone street. He shakes himself.

“Evelyn Croft, I’m the curator for our Middle Ages collections,” the woman says, sticking out her hand.

“Special Agent Marcus Pike, Art Crimes,” he replies, taking her hand and shaking it. He feels a jolt of electricity when their hands touch and he has to stop himself from yanking his hand back. He gazes up at the woman, and she is looking back at him with what feels like suspicion and curiosity, which she quickly schools into rigidity.

“I hear you’re missing a certain sword,” Marcus says with a crooked grin, trying to dispel the odd tension that has filled the room.

Evelyn nods briskly. “The Gilling Sword is one of our most prized collections. We’ve worked with local police on the matter, but our director wanted to call in an expert.”

Marcus laughs. “Aw, too bad they sent me instead,” he jokes.

The joke doesn’t land, and Evelyn raises her eyebrows.

He clears his throat. “Anyways. I’ve already met with the police this morning and I stopped by to, uh, take a look at the collections, if that’s all right? I’d like to see the layout of the galleries and the exact location where the sword was being displayed.”

Evelyn leads Marcus through the museum towards the Medieval wing, which has been cordoned off to all visitors due to the theft. Most of what constitutes the collections are items from castles and the like–objects Marcus never would have interacted with when he had lived through it–and it gives him that same feeling that he had felt walking through the streets. Familiar, yet foreign to him at the same time. It’s the same feeling he gets when he looks at Evelyn.

When he asks if she’s from the area, she tells him her family’s presence in York can be traced back to the 14th century, which does nothing to calm the butterflies in his stomach every time he looks at her. In seven hundred years of life, there are bound to be some coincidences, but this doesn’t feel like one. Marcus searches for a term to describe it.

Fate. It feels like fate.

Marcus shakes his head. He doesn’t believe in fate.

He takes a few photos of the broken case and takes mental notes of the exits and the locations of the security cameras around the gallery. “I understand the security guard who was working during the theft is here today?” he asks Evelyn, who nods. “I’d like to talk to him, too.”

They walk further through the gallery as Marcus asks the curator a few more questions about the sword and its origins. When they pass by a collection of textiles, Evelyn mentions that they’re her specialty, and a large focus of her research. As he looks over the pieces–some ornate, some plain–he is reminded so strongly of his blue handkerchief that he has to instinctively touch the material in his pocket once more just to check. Still there.

“I feel like I’ve met you before,” Evelyn suddenly speaks, and Marcus whips his head around in surprise.

Marcus cocks his head to the side. “What makes you say that?” he asks carefully.

“Listen, this is going to make me sound completely insane, I’m sure, but I–” she trailed off, shaking her head.

Marcus’s heart is pounding. He needs to know what Evelyn was going to say. “I’m not gonna judge,” he says with a smile. “Tell me, I’m curious.”

“I’ve–I feel like I’ve seen your face in a dream,” she admits. “A dream I can’t remember, but it’s so familiar to me. Is that weird?”

Marcus’s breath catches. “I’ve seen a lot of unusual things in this world,” he says. “Sometimes the unexplainable is just something we don’t understand yet.”

“You’re saying you believe I’ve dreamed about you?” Evelyn asks, skeptically.

“Would you think I was insane if I said you seem familiar to me, too?” Marcus replies.

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “You’re just saying that now that I’ve said it.”

“I promise, I’m not. I felt it when we shook hands, I–” he begins.

“Is this your way of flirting? Because it’s not working. It feels like you’re mocking me.”

Marcus tries to backpedal. “Hang on, you’ve got the wrong idea, here–”

“You must be Special Agent Pike.” A booming voice interrupts their odd conversation. “Declan Lawson, I’m the Director of the Museum. Heard you were here, wanted to stop by and introduce myself.” He shakes Marcus’s hand. “As you can imagine, we’re all very worried about the sword and anxious for its return.”

“I can imagine,” Marcus agrees. “I’ve just been taking a look around at the gallery, and I was hoping to speak with the security guard, Mr. Mitchell? Ms. Croft told me he was here today. She’s been very helpf–”

As he turns around to acknowledge Evelyn and thank her, he realizes she’s already gone.

Paris, France. 1587 AD

"Where is she?"

"Hmm?"

"The woman who gave you that favor."

"Oh." Marcus carefully retrieved the blue handkerchief from where it had been sticking out of the pocket of his waistcoat, which had been haphazardly discarded on the side of the bed. "It–it belonged to my late wife," he answered.

"She must have died very young, non?"

Marcus nodded. "It was a long time ago now." It was the closest to the truth he could get.

"And do you visit me to remember her or to forget?" the woman asked with a teasing pout.

"Neither," Marcus replied with a smile. "I visit you because I have been quite taken with you since the moment I saw you at Le Cigne."

"You and every other red-blooded man in that tavern, mon chère."

It was Marcus’s turn to pout. “I thought I was different.”

She giggled. “You are, because you tried to court me instead of bed me, and you didn’t give up even after you discovered my profession.”

Marcus gently set the handkerchief on the table beside the bed and turned to kiss a path across her collarbone. “Yet I still persist today,” he murmured against her skin, “and one of these days I will persuade you to give up this life, Madeline.”

Madeline giggled again as Marcus continued kissing down her body. “And what would I do instead, hmm?”

“Be my wife.”

She shoved at his shoulder. “You are a madman.”

“Ah, mais non–I am in love,” Marcus replied with a sly smile, looking up at her with hooded eyes.

“One may often be mistaken for the other,” Madeline teased. “Or they both may coexist in the same person.”

“I am still sane enough to know the difference between the two,” Marcus said, dipping his tongue playfully into her belly button and making her squirm.

“Is that not what a mad person would say?”

Marcus gave her outer thigh a gentle slap. “Hush, or I shall not continue my journey southward.” He trailed his fingertips gently through the curls just above her sex. “Do you not love me?” he asked quietly.

“I have told you that I do,” Madeline reminded him.

“Tell me again,” Marcus demanded, then slid his tongue through her folds.

“Ah! Je t’aime, Marcus,” she gasped.

“Again.” He did not relent, devouring her with enthusiasm, wanting her to come apart even as the words spilled from her trembling lips.

“I love you.”

“Come away with me and be my wife,” Marcus asked again, some time later, when they had again separated. Madeline lay on his chest, and he gently stroked her hair as they spoke in hushed tones.

“What would we do for money?” Madeline asked. “We cannot survive on love alone, however much you seem to try.”

“I make a modest income at the print shop on Rue Deparcieux,” Marcus answered. “It is quite enough to support the two of us.”

Madeline looked up at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “You would marry a prostitute?”

Marcus palmed her cheek. “I would marry you no matter the circumstances. Your profession does not matter to me; only the contents of your heart and soul are important.”

“And what is it that you see there?” she asked quietly.

Marcus smiled. “I see someone who is bright and kind, with a sharp wit and sharper tongue. I see a strong woman who has made her way in the world well enough by herself, but need not do it alone any longer.”

Madeline raised up on her elbow, eye-to-eye with Marcus and lips nearly touching. “Ask me again,” she whispered.

“Marry me, Madeline.”

“Yes.”

Portsmouth, England. 1632 AD

WANTED: MEN AND BOYS FOR SHIPS CREW FREE PASSAGE TO AMERICA INQUIRE INSIDE

After glancing at the advertisement, Marcus opened the door to the small shipping company and walked inside.

“Are you still searching for crew?” he asked the desk attendant.

“Aren’t you a little old to be a ship’s mate?” asked the young boy.

“The advertisement said ‘men and boys’ did it not?” Marcus replied, raising his eyebrows.

“What does a grown man want with passage to America?”

“I have recently become a widower, and I wish to see more of the world to console me in my grief,” Marcus said quietly, his voice low and threatening. “Not that it is any business of yours why I choose to leave this continent.”

The young boy held up his hands in placation. “All right, all right. All you need to do is sign the register right here and show up the day after tomorrow,” he instructed, indicating a manifest on the desk. “If you do not know your letters you may make any mark on the line, here.”

Marcus nodded and signed his name.

The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are a learned man?”

“Is it your custom to ask this many questions?” Marcus asked, his voice sharp.

“I do not know of any other crew on this voyage who can read or write,” said the boy. “If you tell the captain, he may want more from you than just to be a deckhand.”

Marcus nodded and said he would do so. He left the building and walked along the water, looking out over the ocean. Time to move on.

Madeline’s death was still a sharp, stinging pain. Seventy-four years was a good life, but having experienced over three hundred years by now, it had barely felt like any time had passed at all since he first heard her laugh ringing out across the little tavern in Paris and had decided to go talk to her.

She had certainly filled the last few decades of his life with laughter and joy–and while the whole of it had been darkened by his knowledge that he would always outlive her, Marcus would choose many years of love and happiness over being alone every time.

Madeline was unable to bear him any children–a fact for which he was secretly grateful; the pain of losing Emma and Wade was still far too fresh in his mind to have any desire to father more. They lived a quiet, modest life, both of them having seen enough turmoil to last a lifetime–or, in Marcus’s case, several lifetimes. She gave up selling herself and began selling little portraits out of the same print shop where Marcus worked, and let herself be doted on by her adoring husband, who encouraged her art wholeheartedly and sat for a great many paintings.

Years into their marriage, as she fixed her hair in the mirror one morning, she had asked Marcus teasingly, “How is is that you remain unafflicted by the little silver hairs that keep showing up in my braid?”

Marcus’s eyes had shot up in alarm. So soon? He wasn’t ready to face the discrepancy of years shown on their faces as Madeline changed and he inevitably stayed the same. He wasn’t ready to try and explain why he would never age in the same way. He wasn’t ready to watch her fade as all other lives but his do in the end. He wasn’t ready for any of it.

Marcus could only pretend for so long–to brush it off as aging well or staying out of the sun. And of course, one day, she had asked him about it again: “Why do your eyes not wrinkle so?” and he had to try and explain as best he could–although he was no closer to understanding then than he was when he had demanded answers from the witch Sabine.

Madeline had reacted with suspicion, of course, but she could also not deny the uncanny youth in Marcus’s face as the years progressed. She had eventually professed that it must be witchcraft, and Marcus was inclined to agree–although he did not truly know–and she had sobbed in his arms at the unjustness–that she should age and die and that he would live on in pain.

He had begged her to let them live out her remaining days in peace, telling her that loving her and seeing her happy would be fulfillment enough. It stank of a lie and they both knew it–the loss of Isabella still caused him great pain, although he often tried to hide it–but both of them wished for a quiet, normal life despite the extraordinary nature of Marcus’s existence.

"Love again," she had ordered from her deathbed. "You are brimming with it; I beg you, share it with another."

Love shall be your downfall.

The words had come to him unbidden.

As Marcus boarded the vessel on the morning it was to set sail to America, they passed through his head again.

Perhaps the meaning of the witch’s words was that he could not seem to stop himself from loving others, and that each subsequent loss would eat at him until nothing remained.

It was certainly true that Marcus had given much of himself to lovers over the years. He loved easily and openly and it was many years ago now that he had realized it didn't much matter the sex of the person when it came to who he loved; but what was in his heart and theirs.

He would always seek companionship, no matter how devastating it may be when it came to an end. Marcus was meant to love and care for others, this much was clear to him. The years he had been alone hurt far more than those where he had someone to hold, someone to talk to, someone to walk with him through a little slice of eternity.

Would it eventually grow to be too much? Would a day exist when the pain was too great for Marcus to withstand, when he could no longer endure the inevitable loss that accompanied companionship and he'd have to spend the remainder of his days alone?

If that ever happened, Marcus resolved, as the ocean spray hit his face and the only continent he had ever known slowly disappeared from view, he would seek a way to end his long life.

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[edward-little]

If dnd miraculously existed in the 19th century which characters from the terror do you think would genuinely enjoy playing it? I think Fitzjames would enjoy it because it would let him self aggrandize, I also think Gore, Hodgson, and Goodsir would enjoy playing. Sir John and Irving would probably consider it blasphemous, Crozier would be to depressed to play I don't think little would have to much fun either, he'd overthink every possible action and it'd make him nervous.

eyyyy!!!!

hard agree on the fitzjames front-- he'd love playing characters, but i think he would have a good mix of obvious self-inserts made to gain approval by proxy and like, funny characters that he can play totally seriously but everyone else at the table cannot possibly keep a straight face with. high CHA characters across the board, though. lots of bards and sorcerers (my build for a fitzjames character is a variant human wild magic sorcerer with the lucky feat btw.)

fitz + gore + goodsir would be the dream party tbh. i get the feeling hodge would be a fun DM.

little would be too nervous to roleplay and would freeze up a lot but i think he'd be alright at combat if he picked a full martial character. fortunately i think he'd try to make a character with simple mechanics-- champion fighter is my guess. low CHA, decent WIS and INT, and then put more points into the physical stats. he'd be too nervous to enjoy the game but he'd want to be 1) included and 2) useful.

here's the thing: crozier would be too depressed to play. however. i think if a group mentioned needing a DM he'd be like "oh good luck finding one" and then let slip that he'd played a couple of campaigns back in the 80s (i know you said 19th century and i'm sorry i physically can't stop crozier from being a Dad) and it turns out "a couple of campaigns" means he was DM'ing on the regular and had a campaign that lasted five years AND that sir john had been in it for about three sessions before his character chomped it. his old group was him, sir john (for three sessions, playing a paladin), blanky, mcdonald, and jcr.

blanky definitely plays. he's played every class there is in every edition he's played, which is all of them except 4e. when he's approached to join a game he's already like a decade into a pathfinder campaign. he tends towards characters who are high WIS + one high physical stat-- rangers, monks, fighters, rogues, etc. he's the player who's always making the DM go "well i fucking guess you can."

mcdonald is usually up for a game, but due to his schedule he shows up every few sessions to play a character who sort of exists parallel to the party and intersects intermittently with them rather than a regular party member. he plays healers, because like yeah ofc. his longest-running character was a life cleric, and he likes to keep his character concepts simple and give them their depth and personality through roleplay.

dundy plays one of those backstory icebergs-- you know, like they're only ever a horny bard and sometimes they casually mention like "oh does this remind me of the sight of my destroyed village" and the players are like PARDON and he's like "anyway i'd like to roll performance to wink saucily." he could take or leave the mechanical aspects but lives for social encounters. hit him up if you've got a court intrigue campaign.

bridgens is another one of those used-to-play-back-in-the-80s types who's easily roped into a campaign (probably by peglar, maybe by goodsir though if he mentions they need another person at the table?) since he hasn't played in a hot minute and he's learning a new edition as he plays, he's a bit shaky on the rules (he's still on THACO, bless the guy) but he also pulls the most gamebreaking shit with no warning. he plays high INT characters and prefers spellcasting over hack-and-slash so he plays a lot of wizards, but my build for him is a lore bard.

collins is also new to the game, but joins because he's always up for communal fun-having. like little, he starts out with simpler martial characters, and opts for high STR builds because he likes to have the option to pick things (and people) up. he's the kind who likes grappling the level 20 necromancer so they can't cast spells with somatic components. as time goes on and he becomes more confident in his understanding of the game, he starts getting creative with multiclassing. he gets like 14 levels deep into his banneret fighter before multiclassing into shepherd druid. (my build for him is also a pretty neat multiclass if i do say so myself-- berserker barbarian/great old one warlock.)

i know we both mentioned hodge earlier, and i have a whole separate post about his character, but i think he'd enjoy the roleplay parts of dnd-- like dundy, call him if you're running waterdeep dragon heist or something-- but he'd freeze up during combat. it would be marginally better if he's playing a bard, because they know rather than prepare their spells and it saves him from having to read the entire class spell list at each long rest. he gets real creative with his bardic inspiration though, and enjoys picking songs to sing/play based on the character receiving the inspiration.

[awesomerextyphoon]

A Warrior’s Heart | Phase 1: Welcome – 3

A Hero’s Welcome?

Summary: When someone with a connection to Steve’s past dies, he’s reminded of the promise he made to Dr. Erskine and whether or not he’s failed. Can Ife help him see that he hasn’t?

Characters: Steve Rogers, Ifekerenma ‘Ife’, Abraham Erskine (mentioned), Marlene Erskine (mentioned), Nick Fury, Eliza Maza, Azeneth Ramirez

Main Pairing: Stucky x Black!OFC (Ifekerenma ‘Ife’)

Rating: 18+/Explicit

Word Count: 5,801

Warnings: Depression, Talk of Death, Slightly Cynical Steve, Politics, Smutty Thoughts

A/N: I’m sorry that this so long. I really wanted to try something different with Erskine and the time around CA:TFA. Also, I wanted to explore how Steve would be feeling right after AoU (little bit of a downer, but it will get better). Furthermore, this story will diverge a bit from MCU in terms of Steve’s and Bucky’s abilities. Feedback is welcomed and greatly appreciated. Dividers were by the lovely @firefly-graphics​. Thanks to @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ for the beta!

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Early June 2015

“What do you have to report, Ifekerenma?”

Ife pursed her lips together,”Wanda is doing well with her training. Djamila and Nazaret had some sung her praises during their first session.”

It took a few days to convince the team and Fury to let her friends train Wanda. Luckily Nat had her back and Wanda was able to show the compound how much she improved from what Ife was able to teach her. Unfortunately, Azeneth was unable to make it due to being tied up with a BNA mission and relocating to the NYC division.

“That’s good to hear. Have you made made any progress with the others?”

Ife’s eyes casted down in thought. Vision was a no-go for now. Pietro was warming up to her, but he thought she was still suspicious (wasn’t wrong). She didn’t want to try Rhodey yet (too close to Tony). Nat was..difficult; she’ll try again later.

“I’m going to try Steve next. He seems like a safe bet, even with the serum. Hopefully, he won’t catch before it’s time. I will need Erskine’s folder though.”

Eliza’s lips turned upward in a small smile, “Agreed. I’ll have it sent to you within the hour. Best of luck, Ife.”

And with that, Ife got dressed and headed towards the common room.

  Steve leaned back and clasped his hands together behind his head in thought and vexation.

The 21st century must be fucking with him.

Right after Operation ‘Captain Briar Rose’, Steve went to Brooklyn. He could barely find any trace of his old neighborhood. The apartment complex where he and his mother lived was now a ritzy condominium with a Starbucks on the ground level.

All of the places he’d go with Bucky were now soulless veneers filled with empty promises of ‘happiness’ or ‘self-esteem’.

He remembered the time Bucky bailed him out of yet another beating by Arnie and his gang back in 1928. His mother berated him for getting in yet another fight while Bucky’s mom laughed and treated them to ice cream from the local sweets parlor. Bucky’s sisters – Rebecca, Rose, and Annabelle – were making a fuss and bursted out in giggles when Annabelle got ice cream in Bucky’s hair. It was one of the best days that year.

A T-Mobile now stands in its place.

All of his friends and comrades save Bucky and Peggy are dead; he nearly bawled in the middle of briefing when found out that Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan died and had a cry alone in his quarters afterwards.

Felt shitty about the current state of the country. It seemed as though everything has gotten worse. He found out about the Gulf, Afghanistan, and Iraq Wars. How income and wealth inequality has somehow gotten as bad as, if not worse, than the Gilded Age. Corruption has turned DC and NYC into dog and pony show.

He was furious at all of the politicians and corporations that wanted him to endorse them or their actions. They wanted Captain America’s helmet and shield to mask their heinous acts. They were the same if not worse than Senator Brandt.

Some days Steve wished SHIELD let him stay in the ice. Even worse, there were days he felt that Captain America was for an America that never was.

Nowadays, he felt even more like an anomaly.

It started when he got out of the ice. He felt a lot stronger and faster; only Thor knew the extent of it and he has to hold back a lot when fighting for fear of government asking for more of his blood. Though he suspected Ife and Natasha might be onto him.

He was a lot hungrier than before he went on ice as well. Often time, he would have late night ‘dinners’ (now it's every night), To be honest, he was a bit embarrassed at how much he ate, though the thought of pinning the blame on Ife did cross his mind. It wouldn’t work due to Ife almost never eating with the team and Sam said that he would know if Ife was the culprit. Steve suspected that Ife has been using her connections to restock the food between when he retired to his quarters and before the rest of the team came for breakfast. Also, she kept leaving him fun pop culture facts and media recommendations for the night.

Steve didn’t feel he could go to Dr. Cho since he doubted she had anything to go on in his case.

He did wonder if Ife could help him. She seemed to like helping the team and she was knowledgable about Non-Humans. Wanda’s rapid improvement in her powers and control bolstered his decision.

Sighing, Steve sat up straight in his chair and picked up the letter he received that morning. Marlene Philomena Erskine had passed away and he was invited to her funeral.

It was sad to have yet another link to his past slip from his grasp.

  Steve was finishing up another book to fight off his jitters. It was the night before the operation and he needed to have a few moments of respite from the war.

He was so engrossed in what he was reading that he failed to notice Dr. Erskine entering.

Erskine, for his part, was eyeing several books in Rogers’ makeshift bookshelf: They Odyssey, Of Mice and Men, Murder on the Orient Express, Tender is the Night, Their Eyes Were Watching God, Homage to Catalonia, and To Have and have Not.

“What do you think of the book?” Erskine asked as he sat across the startled recruit.

“Just finished. Y’think it wise to get buzzed before a major operation, sir?” Steve noted when he saw the bottle and two shot glasses on the bed.

Erskine chucked, “Calms my nerves a bit. What did you think of the book?”

Steve pressed his lips together for a moment, “It was a good read. The book had a lot of good points for something written eleven years ago.”

“What truths?”

“Well, for one thing, how technology is used to make the populace happy, but not better. The World Government found a way to get people to willingly trade self-expression, self-awareness, and their happiness for cheap happiness and comfort. Makes you wonder if the US was next, you know?”

Erskine was taken aback by his answer. It was much deeper than most of commanding officers gave if they even read the book.

Though that last sentence was interesting.

“What do you mean next?”

“Isn’t that what happened in Germany?”

Erskine sighed, “Yes and no. Most people here think Hitler came out of nowhere, but he didn’t. Not everyone in Germany was for WWI. There was a 100,000 person march in Berlin, but it didn’t matter since the Social Democratic Party failed to rise to the occasion and went along with war effort. Many were scapegoated for Germany failure, Matthias Erzberger for instance.”

“What about the Weimar Republic?”

Once again, Erskine was taken aback by Steve’s knowledge, “Weimar Germany was a great place to be creative, curious, and make new discoveries. I met my wife, Greta, in Berlin during that time. I made a lot of friends, friends I had to leave behind.”

Erskine frowned as his face darkened,”The terrible thing, my friend, was not that Hitler was dangerous, it was that either people didn’t take him as the threat he was or they wanted to use him for their own ends. The cops and judges sympathized with the Nazi Party to get one over the Socialists and Communists. Industrialists wanted to make money off of the Nazis getting into power. Even the German and International newspapers didn’t cover him with the urgency required.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Ja, and it almost happened here, didn’t it?”

Steve nodded in reference to the America First movement and the German American Bund. He still remembers getting the crap beaten out of him by the Silver Shirts when he spoke out against them a few years ago.

“So why did you choose me?”

“I suppose that is the best question.” Erskine admitted while glancing at Steve’s bookshelf, “What do you think of the Odyssey?”

Steve shrugged, “The adventures were fun, but they were just fantasy.”

“They may not be, Mein Freund. How old do you think I am?”

“Uh, mid sixties?”

Erskine laughed, “You’re too kind. I will be 94 this September,” he smiled noting Steve’s shock, “Things are not always as they seem. I come from a long line of ‘healers’ dating back to before Rome. One of them was able to ‘make a man more’. They inspired me to go into this profession.”

“Making super soldiers?”

“Medicine and bio-chemical engineering.”

“Oh”

“Did you know that you will not be first to undergo this?”

“Who was?”

“His name was Konrad Jager. He was a lot like you: small, frail, but had a great deal of courage and compassion. He was willing to fight Nazis in the streets knowing he’d lose. One day in 1930, his parents begged me to save him as the doctors had given up all hope.

I was woking on a serum that would make the body impervious to all diseases rather than wait for the next outbreak to occur. I thought it would propel the medical field.

The trial worked and he was healed. He became much taller and broader in size as a result.”

Erskine pulled out a picture of himself next to a tall, well-built young man.

“That’s Konrad isn’t it?”

“Yes. I was able to help eight more people through the earlier version of the serum. All but one turned out well.”

“What happened to the one?”

“Ah yes, Eren Kant. He was a shy young man before the serum, but then became more like Hodge: a philander, arrogant, and bit of a bully with a temper. He ‘grew too big for his britches’ as one would say and was arrested by the Munich police. He let his arrogance blind him and he escaped in a way that intrigued Der Fuhrer and was taken to Berlin soon after. By this time, rumors had spread of my work and the Nazis were anxious to be the ‘best of the Aryans’. They were able to get my whereabouts from Eren and sent Schmitt to fetch me, but I was already on my way to Switzerland when he reached my home.”

“How did he get you?”

Erskine slightly jerked his head to the side and back, “A year prior to my attempted escape, I met a man in Geneva who warned of the dangers that lied in Berlin. He gave me his card if I needed to escape. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have waited so long before I made the phone call. I was tipped off by an old colleague of Eren entering Nazi custody.

Everything was set. My family and I were to enter Switzerland by crossing Lake Constance. We made it to Meerburg and the lake was in sight when Schmitt and his agents cut us off.

Schmitt believed that there was a power left behind by the gods. He believed himself to be a leader of a new race of men. He wanted me to ‘perfect the serum’, make him stronger than Eren. He had my children, Klaus and Marlene, taken to the outskirts of town as insurance implying that they would be sent to Dachau if I should fail.

I stalled for as long as I could hoping Schmitt would forget about me, but it was not meant to be. A few years after I was taken hostage, Schmitt stormed into my lab and pointed a gun to Greta demanding I give him the serum.”

“Did it make him stronger than Eren?”

“It did, but it had...side effects. The serum was not ready. Schmitt’s skin turned red and his face became so disfigured that Hitler called him the Red Skull. He killed Greta with his bare hands,” Erskine wiped away a few tears, “and ordered Marlene and Klaus to be sent to Dachau while I was banished to the dungeons.

Fortunately, Agent Carter and the SOE were able to save Marlene and myself. Though Klaus sacrificed himself when the agents could only save one of them.”

“Your son is a hero.”

“I only wish I could’ve told him that myself. But, back to your original question. I chose you because, like Konrad, you are a weak man. You see, the serum amplifies everything; good becomes great and awe-inspiring, bad becomes worse and a nightmare. Men who are strong their entire lives often do not value strength and abuses it. However, a weak man who is compassionate and brave will use it to help others. You were chosen because you had the aforementioned virtues and because you use your mind.

The world does not need perfect soldiers, look where that has gotten us. No, what we need right now are good men.”

Erskine poured out two shots and gave a glass to Steve.

Steve raised his glass, “To the little guys.”

The liquor was just about to touch his lips when Erskine snatched the glass from him, “What are you doing? You have an operation tomorrow. No fluids.”

Steve chuckled as Erskine bid him farewell and good luck tomorrow.

  Ife found Steve in the Common Room hunched over a chair with a letter in his hands. Emotional echoes of gloom came off in waves as she approached him.

“Whatcha looking at, Steve?”

When Steve didn’t respond, she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

Steve finally turned to Ife, “I received an invite to a funeral. It’s for Marlene Philomena Erskine, Dr. Abraham Erskine’s daughter.”

Ife nodded in understanding; he feels that he failed Marlene by not protecting Dr. Abraham Erskine.

But in fact, he didn’t fail her.

She lived quite the life for a human.

Not long after her father’s assassination, Marlene became a badass mechanical engineer and physicist. Her designs and schematics for transportation vehicles and energy storage/distribution gave the colonizer nations a fighting chance during the Wars Against Colonialism.

Though part of it was because the UA was a little cocky at that point. Marlene sure lit a fire under their ass! Ife can still hear her Aunt Eziamaka pouting at the news of one of UA bases nearly falling into their control.

Marlene’s assistance with the war effort didn’t last long as her gratitude towards the people who saved both her and her father wasn’t enough to overlook the Military’s treatment of some her colleagues.

Her life from there was pretty standard. She became a professor at MIT, got married and had a few kids.

BNA took her off the ‘humans of special interest’ list in 1971.

Thinking back on it, Marlene may have had a better life by her father not making it past WWII.

Though Ife thought it would be wise not to mention this to Steve.

“When is the funeral?”

Steve didn’t raise his head, “It’s in a week.”

“In that case, might I accompany you?”

“Yes...and thank you.”

“No Problem! See you later.” Ife wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug and went on her way leaving Steve slightly bewildered.

  Steve didn’t know what to make of Ifekerenma.

She was always asked the team how they were feeling at what seemed to be the right moment. Shoot, she even talked to custodial staff that few of ever acknowledge. Compassionate to nearly everyone, especially the child hostages during the last mission.

She’s nerdy to the point of Sam jokingly calling her a weeb (anime lover?) when she walked around in an oversized Cowboy Bebop t-shirt once. Wanda mentioned a ‘digital friend’ in her room and caught her mentioning how slow Stark’s tech was much to the amusement of team at Tony’s expense.

Steve’s certain Nat sent Clint a video of the whole thing.

Also, she was what Sam called a ‘Supreme Chef’. He contently patted his midsection remembering the feast she prepared for the team last night. Her cooking would’ve put some of Stark’s gourmet chefs to shame. She asked the team what they liked and she ended up having to create a dinner rotation. Steve was especially touched when she went to an antique bookstore for a recipe that was close to what his mother would’ve made for him.

Furthermore, she would leave out little homemade treats/ snacks at night. Pietro and Sam would sneak some when they thought no one was looking. She even giggled when he accidentally let out a huge belch after an amazing dinner a couple nights ago saying it’s a sign of thanks on her home planet, Avlenia.

Ife always called him Steve; not ‘Captain’ or ‘Cap’ or even ‘Good ol’Century Virgin’ (damn it, Tony!). She never made light of him ‘taking an ice nap’ or asking him about the 1940s in a demeaning way like some reporters and ‘little upstarts on social media’. Somehow, Ife found out about his love of drawing and got him art supplies with a list of recommended artists

She made him feel more like a person and not a symbol or a far off figure who’s emotionless.

Steve felt warm whenever he was around her in a way not unlike Bucky or Peggy though much more like Bucky. She seemed to sense that he was desperate to truly be seen in way that only Sam and sometimes Nat has.

It also didn’t hurt that she was a total knockout. He had the, ahem, pleasure of seeing her out of her uniform and training outfits a few times. She usually wore clothes that were more on the modest side...except for that one time when she wore a Sailor Moon crop top and high-waisted shorts as a dare from Nat. Half of the compound was staring and Steve spent most of the day in his quarters nursing a hard on he was so aroused.

And yet, Ife was one of the toughest women he knew; even Nat was a little scared of her (at least, he thinks). She might be the strongest person physically and she doesn’t take shit from people who badmouth her or the team; Agent Roussel learned that the hard way.

All in all, Ife was...something else, someone he wanted to get close to.

  The day of Marlene’s funeral started out well enough.

Ife spent the early morning making Sam’s request of cinnamon rolls, sausage, omelettes, waffles, and hash browns since he won the raffle of Vision’s turn as he doesn’t eat.

She was handing out everyone’s first servings (didn’t care what happened afterwards) when she felt Steve’s emotional echoes of depression, melancholy, and despair noting how his eyebrows furrowed and how tense his body language was.

She just hoped she could get to him.

  Steve was walking to garage hoping his outfit wasn’t too much.

Nat somehow convinced him into wearing a Highbridge Black Custom Suit with an Eastley Dobbey Blue Shirt, a Black Solid Tie, a Navy Blue Pocket Square, and Ink Black Dress Shoes.

He ‘upped the swoon dial’ as Nat put it. Could’ve sworn he heard Sam snickering.

Steve reached the entrance hoping not to keep Ife waiting when he heard clicking of heels behind him.

He turned around to find Ife looking almost unearthly.

She was wearing a black Ankara (?) dress with a cape that was black on the outside and golden on the inside with various blue, silver, and khaki rectangle clusters. Her hair was mostly contained in a wrap with a few strands framing her lovely face. Her full, plump lips were coated in a Light Plum (?) Matte Lipstick and she wore minimal gold eye shadow.

Her outfit did a splendid job of hinting at her voluptuous curves without needlessly flaunting them like the women who throw themselves at him at press tours.

Ife smiled at him and asked which car were they taking.

Steve motioned to one of the Black SUVs and the two of them strapped in for the three hour car ride.

  Ife sighed and gazed out the window at the scenery. Neither one of them had said anything in the past twenty minutes. Steve wasn’t a fan of most of the music that’s on the radio despite Sam’s best efforts. Ife had to break out her puppy dog eyes to get him to let them listen to some instrumental music from her favorite movies.

It seemed that they weren’t going to say anything until Steve cleared his throat.

Ife, not wanting to suffer in silence, decided break it, “How did you know Marlene?”

Steve raided his eyebrows for a split second, “I didn’t. I just feel like I should pay my respects, you know? I mean, I should attend the daughter of the man I failed’s funeral.”

The last sentence struck a chord with Ife. Emotional echoes of despair hit her like a tsunami.

Tentatively, Ife continued, “How did you fail Erskine?”

“I-I don’t think I’ve fulfilled my promise to him. The country has changed so much since I was on ice. It’s funny; I thought that Brave New World would only have a one of two aspects come to life, but I didn’t see nearly the whole book being right.”

Ife didn’t argue with the last two points. The US was nothing but a never-ending commercial sometimes. People were too busy being ‘happy’ or trying to get the newest thrill to realize that they were living in a sham of a republic.

Though she was concerned about the first sentence.

“What was the promise you made to Erskine? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Steve turned slightly, “To be true to who I am; a good man, not a perfect soldier. To be more like Konrad.”

Ife nodded musing on his answer. Erskine would want everyone he helped to be a good person considering the dangers of such power.

Though she wondered if she knew Dr Abraham’s full history.

Abraham Erskine came from a long line of Homo Magis who specialized in Alchemy . He turned to science when it was clear that his magical powers would never manifest (being only 1/16 Homo Magi). Erskine started working on what would become the Super Soldier Serum in 1920 after the witnessing the horrors of WWI firsthand as a medic.

He made a breakthrough in 1927 when he found what looked to be an old power cell in the attic of his childhood home. Turns out it was a modified Atlantean battery dating back to the 1600s, but whatever.

Konrad Jager was the first of nine volunteers; most of whom went on to fight in the Spanish Civil War with the International Brigades and be part of the German Resistance’s Special Forces during WWII.

Needless to say, they were recruited into BNA’s European Division.

Only Eren Kant was deemed a failure in the end.

Ife shook her head at the info in Erskine’s folder.

Eren was pompous dumbass who broke himself out jail by bending/breaking the bars of his cell after getting arrested for being a player and bully by the Munich Police in August of 1935. His show of superhuman strength got Erskine’s work onto the Hitler’s radar. BNA had to send a cleaner to ‘handle’ Eren before he could get everyone in even more trouble.

She wondered if Konrad and the others would make an appearance.

“What do mean by not staying true to yourself?”

Steve sighed, “It seemed a lot easier to do so in my time.”

Ife wanted to go further, but she couldn’t. Steve was punishing himself up for something he couldn't control and it was tragic.

She hoped that she could actually help him, not for the mission, but for himself.

  They arrived at the venue twenty minutes early. Steve was trying (failing) to fix his tie while Ife was looking as glamorous and poised as can be.

Sensing Steve’s unease, she gave his hand a comforting squeeze, “You’ll do fine,” she whispered as she fixed his tie while not trying inhale his delicious natural scent like a creep (again).

“Let’s go inside.”

  Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing when they entered the venue. Though Ife had to hand it to the guests; no one asked Steve for an autograph or a selfie. She noted several BNA officials and a couple of Earth-based Non-Human big wigs in attendance.

Guess Marlene was popular.

“Ife!” Azeneth shouted as she strode over to from a corner and enveloped her in a hug.

“Azeneth, how are you? I didn’t think you would be back from Mexico City so soon.”

“Well, the mission was short and they wanted me in New York to accompany Eliza here. Now, who is this fine gentleman, Ife?” Azeneth queried while Steve started shifting uncomfortably.

“This is Steve Rogers, one of my new teammates and Ca-”

“Captain America. I know, Ife. I was jesting.”

Ife sighed dramatically while rolling her eyes, “Steve, this is Azeneth. She’s one of my best Earth-based friends.”

“Kickass friend.” Azeneth corrected, “How are you liking Ife? She’s not too much trouble.”

“Stop it, ‘Aze!” Ife playfully hit Azeneth’s shoulder, “Feel free to ignore her, Steve.”

“Hmm, no. I don’t think I will, especially after the stunt you pulled on the first day at the compound.”

Azeneth burst out laughing at Ife’s shocked expression and Steve’s sly grin. She probably would’ve kept goin if not for Eliza cutting into their conversation.

“Excuse us, Mr. Rogers. I’ll have to speak with Ife for a moment. My name’s Eliza Maza, by the way.”

  Once they were out of Steve’s line of sight (Azeneth was keeping him busy), Eliza activated a noise canceller.

“So did anyone die in the attack on the Magic Council?” Ife asked as she made sure Steve wasn’t looking at them.

“No one was harmed, but several books are missing from the library.”

“Shit! Okay. Well, would Dr. Strange be available to assist Wanda with her training? Wong and Nazaret are at the Sanctum and he said that he knew of some spells that could help.”

“I’ll look into it. I should have an answer in a week”

“Okay.”

“Ife, please give me a call when you get back to the compound.”

Ife eyed Konrad Jager, Gregor Eisenberg, Sonje Decker, and Lukas Denhart making their way to Steve. She hoped they weren’t going to drop an info bomb on him today.

“I will.”

  The service was short and sweet as Marlene didn’t want everyone to be bored to tears on her behalf. The crowd got a laugh out that joke.

Afterwards, Marlene granddaughter, Zahara, requested if Steve could stay for a bit. She gave him a beautifully wrapped package.

“My grandmother wanted you to have this. She saw you fighting in the Battle of New York and knew you would know what to do with it.”

“It would be an honor, Miss.”

  Ife thought about her earlier conversation with Steve on the say back. She realized what’s happened to Steve was heartbreaking.

Here was a man who gave up everything for a country that only wants him as a cudgel for their heinous deeds. Someone who, if he hadn’t fallen into the ice, would’ve probably been ruined by the same country he swore to protect. They would’ve labeled him as a communist and destroyed his good name for not immediately getting on board with the next war.

To be honest, Ife didn’t think much of Steve before joining the team. She thought he was just the banner boy for colonizers to feel good; he was the reminder of that brief moment when the US was totally the bad guys (totally being the operative word).

But now?

She saw the toll the helmet and shield had on him. Ife doubted he knew that he was going to be alive for awhile judging how neither Konrad or the others aged a day since they received Serum 1.0 and Steve supposedly got one that was at least 3x as powerful.

She wanted to comfort him somehow, but she was lost on what to do.

When she got back to the compound, she gave Steve a hug and went straight to her quarters to call Eliza.

“Eliza. I can’t do this by myself, and if we’re going to pull this off, I’m going to need some serious backup because the Avengers need some serious help.”

  Fury was going through some mission reports when he heard a knock on his door.

“Come in.”

Oddly enough, Ife was the one to enter the room and not Maria Hill.

“Good Evening, Fury. I have someone who would like speak with you.”

“Well, give me a name and contact info and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Actually,” Ife reached in her pocket for a disc, “I can do you one better.”

Ife tossed the disc into the air and a moon-door portal formed from it. Out came Eliza, Azeneth, and Angela in her gargoyle form.

Eliza gave Ife a quick nod and turned to Fury, “Good Evening, Nicolas Fury. My name is Eliza Maza and we’re from the Bureau of Non-Human Affairs or BNA. I would advice that you lower your weapon. It won’t do you a lick of good,” Fury lowered his gun,” Good. Put Maria Rambeau on speaker, we need to talk.”

  -Somewhere in France-

 Maeve was enjoying her brunch while watching the footage of Eliza officially making contact with new SHIELD and SWORD.

“Well, it looks like it’s time to ‘get the band back together’ as the kids would say.” She chirped to the woman across the table.

“That expression pretty much died in the 90s. No ‘kid’ uses that phrase anymore.” Koronis deadpanned.

Maeve scoffed, “Anyone born after 1800 is a ‘child’ to me. This is what I get for trying not to sound like ‘an old hag’ as you put it.”

“Well, is everything on track?”

Koronis, or Carol, closed her eyes for few seconds, “I see nothing standing in our organization’s way. However, we should have the meeting sooner rather than later.”

“Duly noted. Anything else?”

“The new variable, Ifekerenma, will be more useful to our plans than I originally anticipated.”

“Oh, I do love surprises! I mean, I know how it will end, but I still like to be at least a little surprised. I knew it was a good idea to let Klaue be discovered by Ultron in Istanbul!”

Another woman walked up to the pair,”You wanted to see me, Mistress?”

“Yes. Svetlana, call the others. It’s time to put our plan into high gear. Hell’s Moon is upon us.”

  Steve was having a shitty birthday.

The press was pestering him about the presidential election. Several outlets have called him a sellout and a coward for not endorsing anyone.

He was figuring out the best way to take a shower and hit the hay in less than 30 minutes when he found a beautifully written note taped to his door.

It said to come to Ife room wearing his best dancing clothes.

Ten minutes later, Steve knocked on her door and it instantly opened to reveal a modest dancing hall not unlike the ones he went to with Bucky before the war.

He was so lost in thoughts admiring the place that he failed to notice Ife hovering a few feet from him.

“Happy Birthday, Steve! How do you like it?”

Steve turned to see Ife in a knee-length golden yellow African Wax Print Ankara dress with cold shoulders, ruffled sleeves, and a v-neckline. He didn’t miss the modest view of her cleavage or how her legs looked oh, so smooth in the dress.

Ife, for her part, was super nervous about this. Nat said that people went to dance halls all the time in the late 1930s and 1940s and it took her five days to get the architecture, the music, and the lighting just right.

She hoped that Steve wouldn’t be angry with her.

Steve looked incredibly handsome in his simple dress shirt and slacks. His powerful shoulders, thick biceps, trim waist, and beefy thighs were accentuated by the lighting which made him look like he was glowing.

Ife would’ve drooled if she knew that he didn’t like it when most women would throw themselves at him.

“It’s amazing. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about the dress. I couldn-”

Steve raised a hand to stop her from going off on a tangent,”You look beautiful.”

Ife felt a flurry of warmth in her core at the compliment.

“So, what would like to do?”

Before Steve could answer, Duke Ellington’s Don’t Mean a Thing starting playing.

Steve stretched out his hand, “Would you like to dance?”

Ife took his had and they glided onto the dance floor.

“Where did you learn to dance?”

“Bucky’s mom made us learn when Bucky started getting attention from the girls at school. She thought it best that we knew how to treat them to a good time.”

“I see,” Ife giggled, “Then she was wise to make take the lessons. Though I’m more familiar with the jitterbug.”

Steve chuckled as they resumed swinging. He hummed a bit as they danced to Ella Fitzgerald, Caro Emerald, Jo Stafford, Billie Holiday, and Gene Krupa.

Ife was impressed with Steve’s dancing skills. What were those women thinking passing him up like that?!

After a couple more rounds of dancing, the music shifted to something more modern but not (it was Howl’s Moving Castle’s Main Theme) , the colors on the walls and ceiling brightened, and several chandeliers formed on the ceiling.

Steve gave Ife a slightly confused look and asked her if she would like to try a waltz this time.

The song lasted a little more than five minutes. Steve was somehow able to lead their movements in sync with the song.

Ife felt her body was aflame with gentle yet commanding touches Steve was giving her. He even lifted her a few times making her feel as though she was flying with how gently he held her.

They were absorbed in their own world they either failed to notice or ignored Nat and Wanda entering Ife room to see if they could have another spa day. Nat even got a few pictures of the two dancing.

Steve gave Ife one last life during the climax and pulled her in when the music came to a close. They were about to come in for a kiss when Ife pressed her lips together and back away.

“We should probably retire for evening. Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but left Ife’s room with a simple goodnight with Nat and Wanda in tow.

Ife frowned. She knew Steve wasn’t in the best place for a relationship and her conscience wouldn’t let her take advantage of that.

[dazaiswindow]

ikevamp oc: franz kafka (pt.2)

More elaboration on his background, general idea of how his route would be like and some random headcanons i have about him!

If you haven't read the first part yet, i would recommend reading that first before reading this one, as it would make much more sense

Part 1 // Part 2

By the way, i'll be using the tag '#ikevamp oc' '#my oc' and '#ikevamp franz' for whenever i'm talking or making a post about him!

Background (past life and relationships, why he came back as a vampire, etc.)

a/n: first off, i know cybirb don’t really delve too far into the suitor’s past life and doesn’t even bother to mention their families and wives and/or past relationships, but for the sake of this oc of mine’s story, i am going to mention some parts of the life he led before

In his past, Franz was a German-speaking novelist and short-story writer. His father was abusive and was a tyrant of sorts, with a wicked temper and little appreciation for his son's creative side. His father had a habit of dismissing anything that excited and inspired young Franz, invariably crushing Franz’s interest in pursuing anything.

The reason he agreed to the contract with Comte de Saint Germain in the brink of his death, to come back to live as a vampire in the 19th century Paris, was because he felt he hadn’t lived his life to the fullest, to truly do what he would have wanted to do without the pressure of his father’s oppressive presence in all of his life.

Much of Franz's personal struggles, in romance and other relationships, also came in part from his complicated relationship with his father. In all his first life, he had not known what it’s like to be loved, to be the object of affection, and it was the reason he spent his nights with some of the women of Paris, to seek a fleeting feeling of love and affection in the heat of the moment.

Although, due to the emotional abuse he received in his past life, he had withdrawn himself from emotional attachments, it's not like he's completely isolating himself, in fact he's quite sociable, however, he had sealed his heart from becoming emotionally attached to other people.

Sources: I // II // III

How his route would be like

At first, on the night when mc first arrived at the mansion, he thinks nothing of it, he felt indifferent towards her but still being nice to her out of courtesy, but although he's very kind and friendly towards her, mc could still sense the way he subtly puts a distance between both of them, it's like a transparent wall separating her from truly knowing who he really is.

Wanting to know him better, mc sets out to spend more and more time with him in hopes that he would be able to slowly open up to her and that they could form a true, genuine friendship between them. But with the more time they spend together, and the more he felt comfortable to let himself loose around her little by little, she soon fell in love with him and felt hopeless because she was sure that her feelings would in no way being returned, she never planned to tell him about her feelings and stick to her plan to come back to the time she came from, hoping that she would be able to forget him by doing so.

Little did she know that he also fell in love with her and that he felt conflicted because he's been in denial for the most part of it. He always told himself to stay away from emotional attachment and yet this one was inevitable to him, how very much of a fool he is! Now he feels so emotionally attached to her, knowing that she would soon go back to her own time. Not wanting to put a burden on her, he decided that he would never speak of his feelings and will let her go home without the burden of knowing how he feels towards her.

Of course, all of this plans were thrown out the window when one day, mc suddenly got kidnapped and very surprisingly... the man who kidnapped her turns out to be his own father. Hermann Kafka was supposed to be dead shortly after Franz himself and it was impossible for him to still be alive during this time period, and yet he had come back to life, as a vampire.

He claimed he was brought back by a figure who Hermann refused to tell the name. It was unclear what was the reason that he was brought back to life, but Franz did notice that there was something off about his father, the man in front of him was his father, but at the same time he doesn't sound like his father, it was like someone had took out some parts of him and replaced it with something else.

After some confrontation between Franz and his father, it eventually became clear that Hermann had originally agreed to be turned into a vampire on the edge of his last breath, because he felt that he had been a terrible father to his son, and that he had felt an immense guilt about it for all the time he was confined to his deathbed and wanted to ask Fran'z forgiveness for all his missdoings-- before being manipulated by the person who brought him back as a vampire.

Franz eventually forgave him, and managed to safely bring both mc and himself back to the mansion, where they confessed their feelings to one another in true sincerity and truthfulness, there was no more walls separating them now. Franz asked mc if she wanted to stay with him here in the 19th century, to which mc delightedly said yes.

"You have bring light into my life and saved me from my solitude, from the moment I fell in love with you I knew that I am a changed man. You're meine Schätze and I shall cherish you as such."

(please excuse my attempt at trying to be ✨poetic✨ rip)

Headcanons

This is where all the fun stuffs at! These are not at all related to Franz Kafka's real self and history for once 🤣

Franz likes to play chess and is actually pretty good at it, he plays a lot of games of all kinds with Arthur (board games, card games, etc.) but the only time Arthur had ever felt on edge is whenever they’re playing chess together (Franz has not beat him yet but Arthur is convinced that he could do it one day).

As i have mentioned on the previous post, Franz has a great amount of respects towards Napoleon, and he’s lowkey a Napoleon fanboy, sometimes he and Sebas would gush talk about Napoleon (in a good way ofc) together in their free time, it could vary between his legacy during the Napoleonic Wars or even something as simple as what has Napoleon been up to today.

Has a pet red fox which he named Robin (okay idk if the disney version of Robin Hood was already invented during the time in which ikevamp took place in —it was invented on 1973— but pls for the sake of this just pretend that it already was 😂).

In the previous post, i've also mentioned that he’s not really comfortable around Theo, tbh it’s mainly because he doesn’t quite know how to act around him, Franz tried striking a conversation with him once and Theo’s replies were short and snarky (tbh just how Theo usually talks lol), it ended up being so awkward.

He acts very naturally around girls, what i mean is, when Arthur's way of attracting girls is by complimenting and flirting with them, Franz is more like being abundantly nice and sweet towards them, like paying close attention when they're speaking, offer to escort them someplace, etc., it's not that he's manipulative, but he's just a genuinely nice and courteous person, and girls flock to him naturally.

He's very soft spoken, ok i know i don't watch a lot of animes but listen-- i think Yuki Kaji's voice when he's voicing Kou Mabuchi from Ao Haru Ride would be close to what i imagined his voice would sound like! That voice but with a little more light-hearted tone !!

He and Dazai sometimes exchange ideas about writings, or just recommend each other's a weekly book to read, both of their works tend to take on a more depressive themes, they really have a lot of ideas to exchange and talk about lol.

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 22

Previous: The Final Notice 

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x OFC

Genre: Secret AgentAU, Government AgentAU

Rating: PG15

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Abortion

Summary: Black Panther, Cricket and OT7 finally meet. 

Cricket & OT7: Return to Sender

Present Day

           “Why are you following me?” I ask, hands bound together, eyes blindfolded. The car has stopped, and whomever was driving has exited the vehicle in favor of opening my door and yanking me out. It’s silent, apart from my breathing and unavoidably stalky footsteps. I’ve never been able to walk on eggshells, perhaps it was my mother’s direction that stomping on them was far more impactful, that has led me to wear through every heel of every shoe I’ve ever owned. Now, it isn’t my saving grace, rather a rude awakening that I must sound like an ogre to the people who live below me.

           I arrived at the designated location, Jungkook trailing behind me. He refused to let me go alone but did compromise and stay in the damn car. He could see me, and I could see him. I was waiting for no more than a minute before promptly kidnapped. Not even chloroformed, just fucking grabbed and taken. Kidnapped, blindfolded and bound. Bound! Some knot a boy scout or aspiring I’m tossed in the back of a car, which, is how I’ve found myself willfully dragging my heels as they ever so gracefully force me in their desired direction.

           “Black Panther, why are you following us?” The voice asks. I know that voice, I’ve heard it before, I’ve heard that code name. Had it been referring to me this entire time?

           “Us?” I ask again, tossing my voice to see if it reverberates against anything, any sign that furniture or people are nearby.

           The man guiding me stops abruptly and peels off my blindfold. Empty spaces are their own kind of hell, and this is no exception. The panic of darkness arises as I close and open my eyes, ensuring they’re really open and not a trick of the mystery man’s charms. I jump softly as seven lights are dropped, one in each spot in front of me, a delicate row of halos waiting to be adorned. Five men step out of the shadows, the one holding me in place making number six.  Their pressed suits, cut from the finest cloth, each distinct in their pattern and style, garnish their bodies. As if on cue they cross their arms over their chests and glare openly at me.

           “Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung,” I rattle off, each man nodding as I speak their names.

           I know them all, tailed them, surveyed their homes, run into them at the grocery story and Mexican restaurants. All except fucking min Yoongi, but I know them. I know these men. I’ve spent the better part of what, two years, trying to understand them, trying to figure out how they’re related, and here they are. There’s space for another, and it takes me a minute to realize who it is that occupies that is supposed to occupy that spot.

           “There’s only six of you… where’s -

           “Jeon Jungkook,” His voice comes from behind me, goosebumps running up my spine as the heel of his boots hits the concrete. My body is awash in shock, anger, comfort and hope. My Jungkook. My, I have to come home to him, my north star, my sunshine on a cloudy day, my Bunny.

           I was fucking right all along, wasn’t I?

           “Welcome to the party.” Seokjin says.

           “Is this where you tell me that Euna is Hans Gruber and somehow I’m Sergeant Powell?” I question, by tone delicate against their stone expressions.

           “If anything, you’re Harry Ellis,” Yoongi says.

           “That’s so rude,” I retort. “At least let me be Holly Gennaro.”

           “Then who are we, McClane?” Yoongi snorts, the absurdity of my statement causing a brief moment of joy. “Bunny wishes.”

           “You’re interrupting our mission,” Namjoon states, pulling my attention to him. His broad shoulders give way to a tapered waist, round golden spectacles are situated against his face, and his jaw is locked tight.

           “Me? How the fuck – oh,” My eyes move towards the bulletin board against the far wall, in quintessential fashion there are pictures, string, maps and enough thumbtacks to secure the list of vets from the Vietnam Memorial. I can’t read it, but I can see it. “You guys aren’t the bad guys.”

           “No, we’re not,” Namjoon says.

           “The Lee family is,” Taehyung says. It’s odd seeing him this quiet and stoic, after all he’s the hottest librarian in the damn county. He comes alive within the confines of his books and stories, he comes alive. He has voices and characters and gestures to match each. Looking at him now, it’s wild to imagine him doing a full interpretive reading of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, or his most famed retelling, Peter and the Starcatcher, when he’s glowering down at me.

           “They are poison, seeking revenge on anyone who has worked on cases to bring them down,” Hoseok says.

           “So, you all, how did she find you?” My mind is moving too fast for me to form coherent sentences.

           “Cupid didn’t find us,” Jimin tells me, eyes still boring holes into mine.

           “You did,” Namjoon answers.

           “I did?” I ask, eyes wide.

           “Mm, your little stunts, your run ins, your photos. She gave you our real names and you-

           “Gave her our locations,” Taehyung finishes the sentence, eyes still trained on me.

           “You left the notes, and the photo for Euna to find,”

           “Yes, but unlike you, our move was intentional,” Yoongi says.

           “Codename Cupid needed to know there were higher stakes at play,” Hoseok tells me.

           “How was I supposed to know this was some larger conspiracy?” I demand, temper rising.

           “Did you not receive notes?” Hoseok asks, by his expression I can tell that he’s responsible for the code breakers that have arrived at my apartment and office over the last nine months. “Strange packages arriving out of nowhere, sent to your office, on the driver’s seat?” Hoseok pushes.

           “Yeah, but I’ve had some really sketchy clients in the past, though none of them preferred an ABA rhyme scheme,” I retort.

           “Do you know how we found you?” Yoongi snaps.

           “Yes?” I ask, genuinely confused, “Google my name and my office pops up. Anyone can find me.”

           “Your tactics are fucking bush league, Black Panther. They’re embarrassing,” Yoongi tells me.

           “You’re a P.I., not a cop, not an agent, you’re not in the Bureau, yet you’re overstepping into situations that you have no grounds being involved in. You are fucking playing with fire and we were about to be burned if we hadn’t –

           “Seokjin,” Namjoon’s voice is biting, harsh, a belt to the back as it cracks in the hot air.

           “She needs to know,” Taehyung responds for his hyung.

           “Cupid has been lying to you for months, leading you on, paying you over your asking to track us down for what? A few lies you don’t even believe to be true?” Jimin asks.

           “We embezzled funds from their charity organization? We reported her family to the IRS?” Taehyung asks.

           “We stole jewelry from her famed collection to sell on the black market?” Seokjin adds.

           “We’re trafficking high quality cocaine from Colombia into the upper echelon of society?” Jimin rattles off more lies.

           “We fucked her, broke her heart, and god – the worst one – we made her abort our child?” Yoongi spits on the floor, disgust flowing through his saliva like blood in the Nile.

           I stare at them, mouth agape as they recite words I’ve only spoken to one person. My vision becomes blurry as I try to breathe, in through my nose, out through my mouth, but my heart is pounding in my ears and I can’t breathe. The tears always sting before they fall, and my eyes land on him, tall, blonde hair, clear framed glasses, doe eyes.

           “You told them?” I whisper, the end of my sentence curling up into itself as the first tears start to fall.

           “I had to,” A whisper, feet frozen to the ground as he refuses to make eye contact with me.

           “You were using me?” I ask. “Look at me.”

           “I wasn’t using you,” He says, soft eyes meeting mine, the fire scorching the earth.

           “So how do they know?” I spit, the little droplets doing nothing to squelch the flames.

           “I had –

           “You told them information that I shared with you, in confidence, in my fucking bed, in my fucking homeJungkook!” I yell.

           “Cricket, can we talk about –

           “How dare you use my nickname to get me to calm down, I’m not a fucking child,” the sound of my cries reverberates against the warehouse, echoing violently.

           “I can exp-

           “There isn’t time for you to sort out your fuck up, Jeon. We have real problems to discuss,” Yoongi snaps. I can feel the tears dripping from my chin, falling to the concrete beneath my feet. The adrenaline pumping through my body as both a reaction to fear and a telltale sign that I’ve been embarrassed beyond repair. Not just embarrassed, eviscerated, betrayed. An hour ago, hadn’t I been deeply in love, terrified I wouldn’t return home to him?  

           “What do you want from me?” I ask. Jimin hands me a tissue, which I am grateful for as I attempt to gently blot my soaked skin. My mascara, never waterproof, comes off my eyes in dark splotches. How poetic.

           “Come, have a seat, Jungkook, get her a water,” Namjoon instructs. He strides towards the bulletin board and pressing a few buttons, the board sinks in the floor to reveal a hallway. The gasp that echoes through the warehouse is audible, and louder than I intend.

           “Sorry,” I say, feet guiding me past Jungkook, towards the corridor. There are no pictures on the walls, no signs that this space is used by anyone. The industrial style gives way to a door, bulletproof.

           Namjoon pauses, inserting his thumb into a scanner that gives way to a retina display, where he gently places his chin against the base. The machine works quickly before giving him entrance. I watch, amazed. Who knew in the 21stcentury that covert ops and me, a lonely P.I., would intersect?

           “This is, headquarters,” Seokjin says. He takes a seat at the long table in front of us and points to the chair next to Taehyung. I sit quickly, my eyes adjusting to the surprisingly bright space.

           “Oh my god the view,” I say, composure slightly recovered as I take in the expanse of greenery.

           “Yeah, benefit of being in the middle of nowhere,” Yoongi says.

           “Read your file,” Namjoon instructs.

           The file in front of me, manilla of course, is packed. “Why paper copies?”

           “Easier to burn,” Yoongi mutters. He’s taken out his computer and is busy typing away, no doubt pulling up a list of my infractions. Undoubtedly fucking an undercover operative is number one, though falling in love is objectively far worse than sex.

           Jungkook brings me a water and deftly cuts the zip ties around my wrist. His hand moves to sooth the indentation and redness from their grip, but I pull them away before his thumbs graze over the skin. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him retreat to his seat at the end of the table.

           “If you’re the top of the line, 007 should be shaking in his oxfords, can’t you encrypt it?” I ask.

           “Your encryption is only as good as your worst coder. We can’t take that chance,” Namjoon tells me.

           “First, I don’t think that’s the saying. Second, the government, who I’m assuming you work for, Interpol, MI6, etc. all use computer systems,” I counter.

           “Do you remember the election of 2016?” Yoongi retorts.

           “Point taken,” I nod. Of course, Russia. No one was ever safe. “But can’t you blame a lot of that on Zuckerberg and the higher ups at Twitter?”

           “Read your file,” Namjoon instructs again.

           I open it to find a rather aggressive breakdown of my work as a PI, both items that were on the internet and ones that only top-level government agents could have accessed, that is, unless the NSA has been tapping my phones. Details of my family life, my past relationships, my driving record, it was all here.

           “Why isn’t Jungkook on the list of romantic partners?” I ask, eyes looking from Seokjin to Namjoon.

           “Are you in love?” Namjoon asks.

           I don’t wait for a response from Jungkook, or to find the courage to say the simple three lettered word, yes. Instead, I busy myself by clearing my throat and loudly moving the pages about my life to a separate pile. Underneath is all my evidence, print outs of my documents, surveillance photos of me working. I stare at them, horrified.

           “How long have you been tailing me?” I question.

           “How long have you been working with Euna?” Taehyung asks.

           “Sixteen months,” I reply.

           “Ten months.” Taehyung answers.

           “You hacked my computer? Is that legal?” I inquire, knowing full well that it isn’t.

           “I can tell that you don’t understand who you’re dealing with, so let me put it this way. We’re the ones who knock. We’re the ones who cause dignitaries, presidents, whole countries to quake in their boots. It’s us.” Namjoon’s voice is calm within the storm, its resolute and baritone and every word that he utters is meaningful, impactful. He means what he says, and he fucking says what he means. In every interaction I’ve had with him, which frankly have been maybe more than he realizes, he’s been measured in his speech, only speaking when he has something worth saying. He is patient with himself, kind to others, except for today, when he clearly does not want to deal with me.

           “How very Heisenberg of you,” I roll my eyes.

           “You don’t want to be Jane,” Namjoon urges.

           “Okay first of all, in a Breaking Bad scenario, I’m clearly Jesse. Second of all, Krysten Ritter has had a very lovely career. Finally, this cannot be overlooked or underestimated, I’m Veronica Mars, bitch.”

           “Read. Your. File.” Namjoon’s teeth are clenched, his fist resting on the table, his patience going.

           I glance at Yoongi who is sniggering, Seokjin who is making eyes at Jungkook, and Jimin who is busy doodling along the margins of his file. These glimpses, these little hints at the weight of their souls, these are the men I’ve been following for nearly two years.

           It’s in staring at the remnants of my evidence that it hits me. “Jungkook gave you these photos.”

           “Yes,” Seokjin answers.

           “Everything you told me was a lie,” I say, eyes burning holes into the stolen images of my work.

           “Crick- Y/N, that’s not true,”

           “I knew you were connected, that day in the dog park, I knew,” I should’ve trusted my instincts, though they told me to trust him, maybe I should’ve run.

           “I didn’t lie, Cricket, I -

           “Look, I’ll work with you, whoever you are, but I’m not working with Jungkook,” I look at Namjoon.

           “That’s not an option, Black Panther,”

           “How did I get that nickname?”

           “Can you focus for ten minutes? Read your damn file so we can discuss the next course of action before you have to go meet Codename Cupid for your weekly meeting,” Namjoon bites.

           “Fine, do I have to go to that meeting if you’re, doing whatever you’re doing?” I question. “Seems a bit redundant.”

           “If you don’t meet with Cupid, she will know we found her, and our decade of work is completely useless.” Seokjin says, stepping in to mitigate the anger erupting from Namjoon.

           “What am I supposed to say to her? She knows too much already,”

           “She doesn’t know what she knows,” Yoongi answers. “Looking through her emails and texts, it’s clear that her family wants the seven of us dead for espionage, and for attempting to bring them down. All Cupid knows is that you found us, which she assumes is a fatal flaw in our plan, though she has yet to understand the plan at all.”

           “It’s completely intentional,” Hoseok adds. “Cupid only knows that we either worked for her company or dated her or a sibling. She knows our fictitious careers and lives but has no clue about who we truly are.”

           “Her brother, Dae-Seong, Codename Archer, is the one who wants us gone, eviscerated, eradicated. He’s the one driving this whole thing. Archer’s convinced Cupid that vengeance will solve her romantic woes,” Jimin tells me.  

           “But what about Jun-Seo? You left him the night of your engagement party, and Kwan-Min, you went on a few dates… Couldn’t this be about them?”

           “Codenames Bow and Arrow are less of a threat than Cupid and Archer,” Taehyung answers.

           “Cupid has been kept in the dark for the past, fifteen years, in regard to their business. The dark dealings of her company reside solely with her siblings and their parents. We want them,” Namjoon finishes.

           “Why not use Euna, sorry, Cupid, as the patsy?” I ask.

           “Who will run their company?” Yoongi asks.

           “Someone else?”

           “There’s too much evidence, nearly the entire company is dirty,” Jimin tells me.

           “So, you’ve been spying on them from the inside?” I question.

           “Sort of,”

           “It’s Nixon, Watergate extreme?” I ask.

           “What does Cupid know, and when did she know it?” Yoongi answers, his annoyance completely dissipating at my Watergate mention.

           “Why do you think she’ll believe me? She doesn’t have much faith in me as of late,” I question, the lilt of insecurity in my voice. Jungkook glances at me, eyes soft at the familiar tone, he tries to offer a smile, at least, it looks like he’s trying.

           “Yeah, because you fucked Jungkook and she found out. Before that though, she couldn’t sing your praises enough,” Namjoon’s calmed down, his frustration settling like sediment at the bottom of a pot. Adding an eighth person to the group was always going to shift the balance, move the power around and rattle nerves. But me? I’m burning it down. Though I can’t completely be to blame - Jungkook is also at fault.

           “Fine. What do I say to her?”

           “Haven’t we gone over this before? Lie,” Yoongi says.

           “Yoongi, if you’re going to be an ass, can you please direct it at someone else?” I snap.

           “Feisty,” He nods approvingly.

           “Black Panther, you have notes in your file about what we need from you,” Namjoon instructs.

           “You want me to end my relationship with her?” I question.

           “Yes,”

           “What about –

           “Either you end it first, creating an enemy, or she ends it with you which will not be helpful for us,”

           “I just,” I look at them, eyes finally glancing to Jungkook. He looks exhausted, and sad, so sad, his irises choppy waves searching for harbor. “Do I have a choice?”

           “No,” Namjoon answers, but Jungkook’s eyes tell me exactly what I need to know. I don’t have a choice, and somewhere along the line, he stopped having one too.

           “Fine, tell me what to do,” I flip to the page in my file, eyes scanning the words, mind no longer full of Jungkook my boyfriend, but of Jungkook, Operative, member of OT7. This is a job, a job that seemingly could make or destroy my career. I don’t have time or the emotional space to navigate his crashing midnight eyes. All I have now is focus, drive, determination, and hints of stubbornness. This is the same drive that in a weird twist of fate, has led me to this very conference room, with these seven mysterious men.

           I cannot fuck it up.

           I will not get a second chance.

Next: Black Panther Meets Codename Cupid  

[pearlsephoni]

When Immortal Meets Ineffable

Can also be read on AO3 

Rating: G 

Fandoms: Good Omens, The Old Guard

Pairings: Joe/Nicky, Aziraphale/Crowley (ofc)

Summary: Nicky's love for books has introduced him to many wonders, but he never anticipated meeting a pair of men whose existence seems just as impossible as his own. Or: a gay, immortal couple walks into an old bookshop owned by a gay, angel/demon couple. 

A/N:  The sign on Aziraphale's bookshop door is real, I copied the text from here lol And I owe my life to this 3D recreation of the shop Also this is my first time attempting to publish a fic on here, so pardon any formatting weirdness. More author’s notes can be found on the AO3 page!

Immortality was exhausting. It was impossible to build a normal life and settle down without sparking suspicion, so no single place could be “home” for very long. They couldn’t build a family, or climb the ladder of a career, or even build many friendships outside of their core group. 

Without the more…“standard” goals available to them, each member of the Old Guard ended up setting their own personal quests. Andy learned every language and style of martial arts she could. Booker challenged himself to try a new whiskey at every bar they visited. Joe was close to completing his goal of visiting every possible art museum in Eurasia, and would soon be expanding his scope to the world. And Nicky was determined to read as many of the world’s books as possible. 

But that wasn’t the only reason why he and Joe ended up seemingly visiting every bookshop in Europe. Living forever meant you had an infinite amount of time to lose and find things, and unfortunately for Nicky, his list of lost items included a near-first edition copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. 

Books didn’t hold the same appeal for Joe, but he was still always willing to join his life partner in his visits to bookshops. What caused him chagrin wasn’t the visits, but the seemingly futile quest to find such a rare copy of a classic book. So when Nicky immediately tugged his jacket back on to head into London, Joe was a bit more reluctant than usual. 

“Hayati, wouldn’t we have better luck looking in museums for something so rare?” 

“I’m not just looking for La Commedia, my heart,” Nicky reminded him with a small smile. “I need a new book to read, too.” 

“Of course, and that’s why you are going to Waterstones and not another small, old bookshop?” That small smile turned guilty, and Joe couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “Do you have a destination in mind, or will you be wandering again?” 

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” 

It wasn’t fair of Nicky to use his rare, broad smiles to win their smaller bickers, he knew it. But even a relationship with the love of his life wouldn’t have lasted almost a millennium without the occasional cheap trick. And it was so hard to feel guilty when his little tricks resulted in Joe’s hand warmly wrapped around his as they walked through London. 

As it so happened, he did have a destination in mind: A.Z. Fell & Co., an old bookshop that he remembered seeing on a random street corner in London. It had been closed the first (and last) time he tried to pay it a visit, all those years ago, and the sign on the door detailing the store hours simply raised more questions than answers for Nicky: 

Bookshop Opening Hours: 

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.) 

-A.Z. Fell, Bookseller 

“It’s a miracle this place is still running,” Joe muttered now, squinting at the wordy sign. Nicky was more interested in the sign hanging next to it, blissfully simpler and blessedly flipped to read, “Open.” The door was unlocked, and rang with a cheerful jingle as the immortals pushed it open. 

“Hello there! Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co!” 

Nicky had barely been able to fully take in the warm, crowded space of the bookshop before his attention was pulled to a small, pale man dressed in a white suit. He seemingly appeared out of thin air from behind a small desk next to a bookshelf to the left. He had a bright, welcoming smile, and looked positively cherubic with his light blonde curls and rosy cheeks. “How may I help you today?” 

“Oh, I-” 

“We’re just looking,” Joe cut in, giving Nicky a gentle nudge. It was a reminder enough not to draw attention with their unusual search. “Wanted to see what we could find in such a unique shop.” 

“Lovely! Well, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to ask!” 

“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a smile, before wandering over to the cluster of bookshelves on their right, pulling Joe with him. 

He always lost track of time in bookshops. Even Joe, for all he insisted that Nicky was the reader, could get lost in the trinkets and random findings to be seen in an old shop. Maybe that was why, for all their battle-honed instincts and attention to detail, they didn’t realize someone else had entered the store until a new voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Angel!” 

“Ah, Crowley! What a pleasant surprise! What’re you doing here?” 

“Just wanted to see what you’ve got in stock.” 

“Really?”

“No, of course not, I was going to ask you to lunch.” 

“Oh! Well...that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just close my shop in the middle of the day!”

“Yes you can, it’s your shop, if anyone can, it’s you.” 

“But I have customers! Like...like these young men!” 

Nicky, with a thousand years of life behind him, never thought of himself nor Joe as “young.” No matter how ageless they were, every year weighed on them, a burden that was only bearable because they didn’t have to weather it alone. So it didn’t occur to him that they were the “young men” the shop owner referred to, until the small, pale man suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Hello there! May I help you with anything?” 

A Genovese curse flew from his lips, followed by a grunt after Joe gently pinched him. Nicky smiled apologetically at the owner. “Sorry, ah...we’re alright, just looking.” 

“Yes, well…” The shop owner had a confused tilt to his eyebrows, at odds with his kind smile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but...was that Old Genovese you were speaking?”

“You recognize it?” Nicky blurted out before he could stop himself. It had been centuries since either of the immortals had met someone else who knew the language. 

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” A pink tint had risen to the small blonde’s cheeks, and his eyes now had a proud glint to them. “That’s very impressive, I didn’t think anyone spoke it anymore!”  

“No...neither did we.” He glanced at Joe, and was met with eyes that looked as disconcerted as he felt. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you need help with anything!” The shop owner cheerfully strolled back to the counter, where his friend - Crowley, Nicky remembered - was staring at him and Joe with what felt like suspicion, even through his sunglasses. The redhead murmured something to the blonde that made the latter glance back at them with another smile, one that Nicky returned before he quietly urged Joe behind another bookshelf. 

“What the hell?” Joe hissed as soon as they were out of eyeline of the shop owner. 

“Language, tesoro mio.” 

Joe’s words switched to old Maghrebi, but remained just as confused and indignant. “Nico, we haven’t met anyone else who speaks Genovese in decades, maybe even centuries, if we don’t count linguists.”

“I know.” 

“So how does an owner of an old bookshop recognize it?” 

“We’ve seen some books that are much older than what we usually see in a shop like this. Maybe he recognized it from a book?” Even as he uttered the words, Nicky knew the explanation was pathetic. The look of disbelief he received from his lover let him know he wasn’t alone in thinking that. 

“He said it’s been a while since he’s heard it,” Joe reminded him. “And he recognized it as it was spoken, not written down somewhere.” 

“What are you trying to say? That he’s another immortal? One we somehow haven’t dreamed of in all this time?” 

“No, of course not...but…” Joe peered at the shop owner and his friend through a gap in the books. “Maybe there’s something different about him. Maybe immortals aren’t the only strange people in the world.” 

“Even if that were true, Yusuf, don’t you think we would have run into one before? Our abilities have been noticed before, by people who didn’t know what to look for. We of all people would have noticed if there were other powers out there.” 

“Unless they do as much as we do to stay out of notice.” 

It was Nicky’s turn to peer at the odd couple through the books, except this time, the redhead, Crowley, was looking right at him. Or at least, in their direction. He jerked away from the bookshelf and immediately moved deeper into the shop, tugging Joe with him. “We can talk with the others about it later. For now, let’s buy something and leave.”

“Still determined to find your book?”

Nicky offered a sweet smile to Joe, but didn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes. “Of course, my heart.” 

He didn’t end up finding the book he was looking for, much to his disappointment and Joe’s quiet amusement. But he did find an old, old Italian Bible that stirred distant memories of a classroom reciting verses, and that was enough to justify the visit. 

Satisfied in his choice, he moved towards the cashier register, only to be pulled up short by Joe. Nicky furrowed his brows in confusion - for someone who had been so reluctant to come, Joe suddenly seemed very keen on staying. He glanced back at him to find those dark eyes trained on the men behind the counter, one finger to his lips. Battle instincts kicked in, and he obediently trained his hearing to the low muttering coming from the other men. 

“Now really, Crowley, it’s simply not possible! Even if the Almighty really did send spies after us, I would at least recognize them. I’ve never seen those men in my life!” 

“Then maybe they’re demons. We’ve always had better corporeal disguises anyway. Would explain why we don’t recognize them.” 

“Have you ever seen demons behave like that with each other?” 

“Like what?” 

“Oh come now, you must have felt it. The energy around them is downright bursting with love! It’s just like…”

“...Angel, like what?”

“W-well...like two people in love. Nothing at all like you demons behave.”

“‘You demons’? Might I remind you of who saved the most valuable books here, Aziraphale?” 

It could’ve been just another argument between an old couple, especially an old married couple. There was no mistaking the love and pure affection that drenched every bickering phrase between them. But where Nicky had thought “Angel” was a sweet nickname, the casual use of terms like “demons” and “the Almighty” stirred a deeper sense of suspicion awake in him...and a rush of exhilaration. The sensible majority of his mind told him there was no earthly way he was staring at an angel and a demon. Even if angels and demons were real, they wouldn’t own an old bookshop, or walk around dressed like a dandy or an aged member of a rock band. 

But a small part of him, the part of him that had him wandering to a church on calm Sundays and uttering panicked prayers over Joe’s body in the middle of battle, felt a thrill at the idea that he was staring at proof. Proof that his centuries of faith, his short-lived livelihood in the church, wasn’t in vain. When he finally tore his eyes away from the odd couple to look at Joe, he was met with a small smile of understanding under an unsure gaze. Of course his love understood what was running through his mind, even without a single word uttered between them. 

Nicky took a steadying breath before he finally nodded at Joe, giving his hand a light squeeze. The shop owner and his...friend (partner?) were still bickering when they approached the cashier, and Nicky caught snippets of something about a church, a bomb, a satchel of books, before the argument was cut short by their arrival at the counter. 

“Ah, gentlemen, hello again! Did you find everything alright?” the small blonde man - Azira...phale..? - greeted them with a wide smile, while Crowley simply stared at them with an unnervingly straight face. His gaze prickled at Nicky’s awareness, despite his best attempts to ignore him and return Aziraphale’s smile. 

“I didn’t find the book I was looking for, but you have many rare gems here.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry you couldn’t find it!” 

“Don’t be. We have visited almost every bookshop in Europe in search of it,” Joe snorted with a grin. “At this point it’ll take a miracle to find it.” 

Aziraphale perked up at Joe’s response, and glanced eagerly at Crowley...who returned the blonde’s hopeful smile with a stony stare. A moment of silence passed before the redhead finally muttered, “Sounds like you won’t be finding it any time soon.” 

“No, but that’s alright. Seeing all these wonderful little shops offers a special kind of joy,” Nicky murmured with a reassuring smile to Aziraphale. “You should be proud of this shop. It’s a lovely refuge in this city.” 

The owner looked a bit crestfallen, but brightened at Nicky’s smile and words. “That’s very kind of you to say! I’ve had it for quite a while, so it’s turned into a home of sorts for me. I’m so glad it feels that way to my patrons as well!” 

Crowley’s attention was back on Nicky, and even though he couldn’t see the redhead’s eyes, he didn’t feel as burdened by the scrutiny anymore. It felt somehow softer now, more of a mild annoyance as the transaction was carried out. Crowley had been so quiet throughout their visit that when he suddenly spoke up, the surprise nearly made Nicky drop the small paper bag containing his book. “Just out of curiosity...what book were you looking for?” 

“Ah...an early edition of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian. First edition, if possible.” 

“...Dante’s Divine Comedy?” Crowley repeated, skepticism practically dripping off his words. “You’re looking for a first edition from the late Middle Ages?” 

Nicky could hear the rustle of Joe straightening just behind him, ready to defend his admittedly-futile quest. He shifted just enough to hook their pinkies together in reassurance while he shot a small smile at Crowley. “More just seeing if it’s possible to find outside of a museum.” 

Crowley nodded, but he still had a small frown of disbelief on his lips as he wandered towards the bookshelves at the very back of the shop. Aziraphale watched him meander away with wariness and hope lining his eyes, a combination of emotions that made Nicky wonder what kind of history the odd couple shared to prompt that kind of response. 

“Nicolo,” Joe murmured, pulling him out of his idle curiosity. “We should be going. Andy will wonder what happened to us.” 

“Right...yes, of course.” Nicky smiled again at Aziraphale, who suddenly looked panicked at their impending departure. “Thank you again.” 

“Oh, are you leaving so soon? A-are you sure I can’t help you find anything else? I have other first editions that might interest you!” 

“Really, it’s alright-” 

“Here we are.” Crowley was suddenly back at Aziraphale’s side, tossing a book onto the countertop with a carelessness that became alarming when Nicky realized what he was staring at: an old, worn volume, the cover made of what used to be red leather, but was now faded into a dull brown. Pressed into the leather, and traced with gold flakes, were the words “La Commedia.” Nicky reached out to brush the worn cover, gingerly lifting it to reveal the title page, where he could read the publication date: 1438. “This...this is…” 

“Not quite first edition, but about as good as you’re gonna get outside of a museum.” Crowley’s voice was casual, as if he had simply found any old book. But his smirk was smug, the gravity of his achievement definitely not lost on him, especially when Aziraphale was staring at him in what could only be described as adoration. 

“How...how did you find this?” 

“Call it a little miracle. How much does a little miracle cost, angel?” 

“Oh, ah...well, the best miracles are priceless, wouldn’t you say?” 

Nicky’s gaze jerked away from the book to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “No, I’m sorry, I cannot in good faith take this without paying you.” 

“No, really-”

“Please, I insist-” 

The shopowner was strangely reluctant to give Nicky a price, but with Joe’s help, they were able to settle on an amount. By the time they left the bookshop, it was even later than they had planned on leaving, but Nicky was in such a daze of disbelief over his luck, Joe ended up being the one to call Andy. 

“Boss, we know, we’re sorry, but you’ll never believe- no, trust me, even Booker will get excited over this. We’ll be there soon, it will be worth the wait, I promise.” He laughed as he tucked his phone away, shaking his head fondly at Nicky. “Well, my heart, I hope this find is worth Andy’s wrath. She is not happy with us.” 

“Yusuf...who were those men?” Nicky was staring numbly into the bag, still not believing the impossibly old book he held in his hands. 

“What do you mean?” 

He finally looked away from his new treasure to meet Joe’s eyes. “Do you think...that maybe…” 

“What? That an angel and demon helped us find a book?” 

“Stranger things have been true.” 

“Perhaps…” Joe’s arm wrapped around Nicky’s waist, tucking him against his body to drop a kiss to his temple. “Whatever those men were, they were kind. I hope the bookshop continues to do well.” 

“Mm...thank you for coming with me.” Nicky’s smile was full of adoration, and earned him another kiss, this time on his lips. 

“Of course, hayati. Anything for you.” 

“Anything? Well, there’s another book I’ve been looking for-” 

“Buuuuut Andy and Booker might not approve.” 

After almost 1000 years, he should have been able to better resist the effect of Joe’s cheeky smile. But after almost 1000 years, Nicky wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the little joys to be found in life, especially when they came from this impossible man. 

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The Guardian’s Oath, Part One

This is the first thing I’ve written in the “spirit of the season”. I've always been a huge Halloween geek, probably because it falls close to my birthday, so when I was little, it kind of felt like all this fun stuff was somehow related to me. 

I usually avoid writing for characters who are already popular in wrestling fan fiction because I figure that there’s already so many good things to read and I don’t have anything particularly new to offer, but this idea couldn’t have worked with anyone other than Finn Balor. I’m not claiming that this is incredibly original either because it absolutely is not. Anyone who’s read any classic gothic stories will recognize that this comes close to outright plagiarism in bits. Nevertheless, I started writing it to see where it went and this is what happened. Well, it’s the first part of what happened. This is about half of what I have written thus far and there is more coming. 

The setting is 19th century Ireland, about which I know precious little, so please forgive me any egregious errors. 

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC 

Word count: 3,706

Content advisory: Nothing other than that it’s a slow burn so some people are going to find this section a little flat (more fiction than fan content here)

It was one of the first warm days of spring when I arrived at Wynn Cottage. I was practically trembling with nervousness, waiting to meet my new employer. Although the education I had received from the church was a good one, the offer of a position as governess for a priest in the hamlet of Bray came very quickly after I was ready to work. Indeed, the offer seemed to have come from nothing, from a chance meeting of a deacon at my church with a parishioner from Bray. I liked to think that it was fate, that the position had come to me at the exact moment I was ready because this was where God intended for me to be. While the arrangements for my transfer to Bray were conducted mostly by the two churches, I had been touched to receive a kind and welcoming letter from my new employer, Reverend Feargal Devitt. 

He explained in his letter that he was a widower and that because the tiny protestant population of the county was widespread, his work required him to spend a great deal of time travelling from village to village. He needed a governess who could care for and help to educate his two young children, a boy and a girl, one whose faith was in line with his own.

I alighted from the carriage and took my case with all my meagre belongings from the driver and stepped through the gate into my new life. 

As he had promised, Reverend Devitt was waiting for me with his children. There was a slightly older woman, clearly a servant of the house standing with them like an equal member of the family. They made a lovely picture, standing before their quaint cottage under the dappled sunlight that broke through the apple tree just next to it. 

"Miss Miles," he greeted me warmly, "welcome to Wynn. I hope your journey was easy."

"Quite easy, sir. It was my first time on a train, so it made for a rather nice adventure."

He beamed and placed his hands on his children's shoulders, gently pushing them a step towards me. "This is my son William and my daughter Sophia. Children, this is your new governess, Mis Miles."

The children were an odd pair. I knew that the boy was eight and the girl nine but they gave the impression of being quite a bit further removed in age. The boy figured his father with his large blue eyes. His sandy hair was lighter than the Reverend's but I could imagine it would darken to the point where their resemblance would be quite striking. He was a little small for his age, although his fresh complexion and proud stature showed all the signs of perfect health.

His sister, by contrast, was tall, almost to my shoulder, and dark. Her hair and eyes were the colour of coffee and her skin a warmer, like the shell of a walnut. As she tilted her heart-shaped face in my direction, I was struck by the keen intelligence in her eyes, mixed with a hint of apprehension. I could not fault her for that and I only hoped that I could win her over. 

"This is Kate, our cook. She's been with us since before the children were born. Any questions you have about the house or the town, she'll be able to answer."

The woman gave me a smile, her round, pink cheeks pressing her eyes nearly shut. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"Susan, one of the girls from the village, comes by to help with the cleaning and upkeep and Mr. Jones is the gardener but they don't live with us. You'll meet them later."

It was only then that my eyes came to rest on Reverend Devitt and truly take in his appearance and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I did.

His eyes were bluer and clearer than any sky I had ever seen, the highlight of his handsome face with its squared jaw and neat beard, shaved in such a way that his full lips were still visible. He flashed me another smile and I felt my heart quicken in response. I had never met any man, or any person, who inspired such a reaction in me and, as rash an idea as it was, I believe that I fell in love with him at that moment. 

"Please," he said softly, "come in."

I picked up my case and Kate immediately moved to help me."

"Your rooms are in the garrett," he explained with a hint of embarrassment. "It's not too large and the ceiling is a little low but it's warm and dry and there is a window that gives a nice light. On clear days, you can even see the ocean."

"I am certain it's more than enough for me, sir. I expect I shall be spending most of the day with the children anyway. And I should very much like to see the ocean. I've only ever had it described to me."

The Reverend looked shocked. "You've never seen the ocean? At all?"

"Never in my life sir." I caught a look that passed between the children and looked down, ashamed. My situation had never permitted me to travel any distance from the inland village where I was born. It was not until I uttered those words, however, that I realized what an ignorant peasant I must seem as a result.

If Reverend Devitt saw the look on his children's faces, he gave no sign of it. He only gave me another of his thrilling smiles and said, "Well it's settled then. We shall go for a walk while Kate prepares dinner."

I felt my cheeks color at his words. This hospitality was far beyond anything I had dared hope for and I wondered if he would have been so congenial with anyone, or if it was possible that it was something he did just for me.

Kate and I carried my trunk to my rooms and while the light was strangely mournful in the late afternoon, the accommodations were better than I had been led to expect for a woman in my position. 

"You don't want to see the view?" Kate asked, noticing that I avoided looking towards the window. 

"I don't want to spoil the surprise," I answered shyly.

She gave me a smile that was every bit as warm, although not as beautiful, as her master's. 

"I hope it's not too forward for me to say, but I believe you'll fit in well here."

*

I was a little surprised that the shore was so close and so easily accessible. I had always imagined the coast to be a series of tagged cliffs towering above the wild water but here the land gently rolled down to meet the water, a soft stretch of sand the bridge between them. 

Reverend Devitt took my hand to help me down the last few steps to the beach and I had to turn my face away so that he could not see the effect it had on me. He kept my hand in his until he was sure my feet were steady on the unfamiliar surface.

The children walked ahead of us. William rushed off and started gathering stones and shells. 

"He collects them," the Reverend informed me. "For what purpose I'm not sure but he's done it for years." 

Sophia strolled on her own. She ventured closer to the water, which struck me as a very good thing to do. Many of the stories I'd heard of the ocean involved people being swept away into it. From time to time, her brother would call her over but each time she returned to the water's edge, as if it were only there that she was happy.

"I'm too indulgent with them," Reverend Devitt sighed, noticing how my eyes followed Sophia with concern. "I try to keep discipline but I find it hard. They lost their mother young and their father is off helping the lord's flock rather than his own."

"Well I hope I can set your mind at ease on that score, at least a little," I offered. 

He turned to face me, his smile a little softer and sadder. With the light behind him, it was like he had a golden halo. I had been delivered to the home of this angel of a man and once again, my heart rushed at the feeling I already had for him.

I was so much in his thrall that I was startled when both the children rushed up, to their father and to me.

"Look what I've found!" William cried excitedly. He extended his hand to reveal a live crab, its legs grasping at the air while the boy dangled it by his shell.

"It's a big one," Sophia added, a mischievous little grin spreading across her face.

"Put your hand out, Miss Miles," William goaded. "He can hold him. He won't hurt you."

"William, hush," his father tutted. "Don't ever speak to her like that again."

Both children had their gleaming eyes fixed on me, as if their father were no longer there, waiting to see what I did next.

I disliked the crab, finding it like an armored spider, and I shivered at the movement of its spindly legs, but something in me hated the idea that I might fail an early test from my charges, strange though it might be.

"No," I quavered, holding my palm out flat. "He can put it in my hand. I don't mind."

Not one of our group could have believed that I didn't mind. My hand shook almost violently as I offered it. Nevertheless, I nodded to William to proceed. I hated the sensation of the legs of my hand, too light for the size of the creature. And despite William's assurance, I felt certain that it would happily snap one of my fingers with its grotesque claws.

What should we do with it, Miss Miles?" William cajoled me. He and his sister leaned in closer, their eyes bearing in on me with even greater intensity.

"You take it back and put it back exactly where you found it," his father ordered without waiting for me to reply. "Now."

The two of them scampered off and I saw William toss the crab back, none too gently, into the rocks where he had found it. From there, they walked together, Sophia taking his hand in hers and pulling him close as they spoke to each other with animated expressions. I knew instinctively that they were discussing me.

"So what do you think of the ocean?" Reverend Devitt asked after a long pause.

"It's very beautiful."

I paused and took a deep breath, my nostrils filling with the briny scent. At that very moment, looking out on its endless expanse, I wasn't sure if I liked the sea or not. 

"I feel like it's all around me, even here on land. The smell and the sound and the mist in the air.."

He looked at me with a tenderness I had never known. "You get used to it," he promised.

We headed back to the house as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of flame and rose and indigo. He took my arm and rested his hand on my back as he helped be back up the path away from the beach and I felt the echoes of his touch as we took our dinner together, as I watched him read from the bible and a book of fables to his children, and even after I retired for the evening.

I had hoped that the air I'd taken in on our walk would make me fall asleep quickly but it was not to be. I felt I could not get comfortable, either hot or cold and the sounds of the house were different than I was used to. The thing that made me the most anxious, however, was that I could hear the waves rolling in the distance. It left me unsettled, as foolish as I knew that to be.

The Reverend stayed at home most of the next day before he headed out to visit the adherents of the faith where they needed him. I learned that he was normally gone from Monday afternoon until Saturday night and I had to hide my disappointment that I would see so very little of him. 

I reminded myself that I was a servant in his house and my role was to tend to and educate the children, not to pine after him. Although it was late for lessons by the time their father had gone, I did have both the children practice on the small piano in the drawing room before dinner. They did so without any resistance and paid respectful attention when I corrected their mistakes. 

After we had taken dinner, I was about to send them to bed when I was startled by the sound of something creaking and banging loudly from outside. My nerves were already on edge as a storm and blown in as darkness fell, the coastal wind being much wilder than I was used to, so I gave a startled cry at the sound.

Kate rushed in and her face softened upon seeing me standing, hand on my chest, my gray eyes wide with fright.

"I'm sorry, miss, it's just the back gate's come loose again. The Lock's needed replacing for a while now but Mr. Jones keeps forgetting to do it."

"We'll get it," Sophia cried, grabbing her brother's hand and rushing past the two of us. 

By the time I'd recovered my wits, I heard the back door close. I don't know what I thought might befall the children but I tore after them, practically falling on the wet grass as I rushed to the gate. 

Sophia stared at me as if I were a crazy woman and William laughed a little.

"What on Earth are you doing?" I panted. "You mustn't run off like that, especially after dark."

I wiped away the rain that slashed at my cheek and motioned for both of them to get inside. There was a wooded area behind the gate and with the wind up and the leaves blowing, I felt myself unnerved by the shifting shadows within.

"Don't be silly," Sophia reassured me with excessive sweetness. "It's just the gate in our own yard. Besides, you don't know the trick to it. If you don't know the trick, it'll just blow open again."

"And then you'll have to wake us to do it for you," William chimed in.

Each of them took one of my hands and steered me back towards the house, as if they were the adults and I the child. It wasn't until we were back inside and I had sent them to get ready for bed that it occurred to me that I should have asked them to show me the trick.

I went upstairs with the Bible in hand to read to the children on my own for the first time. I had thought of a passage or two that I believed would be instructive at their age but I still felt nervous. 

It was a great relief when they sat in their beds, poised and quiet, listening attentively. 

"Do you have any questions?" I queried, closing the book on my lap. 

They exchanged a  glance and Sophia spoke for both of them.

"No ma'am."

"I know your father read you stories from another book. Would you like me to do that?"

"We've heard all those stories before," Sophia sighed. 

"When Kate or Susan put us to bed, they tell us fairy stories," William added excitedly. 

"Oh, is there a book of those you'd like me to read from? I don't mind."

"Oh they don't read," Sophia laughed. "They just tell us the stories they know."

"They tell us about the creatures here."

I bit my lip. "I'm afraid I don't know any fairy stories from this area."

"What monsters are there where you come from?" William asked a little too sharply.

"Well I'm not going to tell you stories about monsters when you're going to bed or you won't sleep."

Sophia laughed as if I'd said something foolish. "Oh we're not afraid."

"Do you have Bog Maeve where you come from?" William pressed, his excitement only growing. "She's the old lady who lives under the bogs and pulls travelers under."

I felt like I had somehow lost control of the conversation and yet I found myself wanting to impress the children, hoping to overcome the impression left by my cowardice in the face of the storm. 

"I believe we have stories of something like that, but the name is different."

"What about ghosts? We have the White Man. He walks around the edge of the graveyard and leans against the church wall, crying for his wife."

"You mustn't carry on like that, William," I chided. 

"Tell us about a spirit from where you grew up."

"Well there are woods all around, so we mostly have stories about wood elves and sprites that inhabit the trees. But those are just folk tales." I gave a proud little smile to show them I was unaffected by such things.

"You mean woods like the ones behind the back gate here?" Sophia asked coyly. William giggled.

"I suppose they're a little like them." I felt increasingly desperate, like I was being drawn into some sort of trap. 

"Do you have Finn Bálor where you come from?" William asked.

"I don't think so. Or at least I don't know that name. What is he supposed to do?"

The two of them exchanged a quick look and began reciting in unison:

Finn Bálor comes in the dark of night

With his seal black skin and his eyes of white

He comes for the children and takes their breath 

Or spirits them off to certain death;

But even worse for the maiden fair

Who he drags away to his watery lair

And though her screams are still heard through the wind and rain

His maiden will never be seen again.

Sophia furrowed her brow. "They wouldn't have Bálor where she comes from."

"Why not?" William responded, as if he were reciting the script to a play.

"It says Bálor's lair is watery. So he must live near the ocean."

William made a soft noise as if he was disappointed.

"That really isn't a story for good Christian children," I stammered, a little shocked at the ugliness of their rhyme.

"Everyone around here knows that story," Sophia answered. 

"Well, I think it's time to stop the stories for tonight and for you to get some sleep."

"Just a little longer," William pleaded.

We won't sleep for the storm," Sophia cooed.

I didn't want to think I'll of a child but I felt like she was mocking me over my own nervousness about the storm.

"You don't have to tell us any more stories like that," she continued. "You could just tell us about yourself."

A little hesitantly, I settled back in my seat. "Very well. What would you like to know?" 

"How did you end up working as a governess?" Sophia prompted.

"This is actually my first position. I had just finished my education through the church in Killfoyle and they found this post for me."

"Why did your parents not do that?" William asks, his eyes so innocent I could scarcely believe this was the same boy who had recited that ghastly rhyme just minutes before.

I lowered my head, wondering how much of my story I should tell. "My parents have been dead for some time."

Sophia slid to the end of her bed and rested her hand on mine. "You poor thing."

The maturity in her voice was a little unnerving, but I nonetheless gave her a little smile before motioning for her to lie back down.

"How did they die?"

"William!" His sister snapped. "Don't you ask such things!"

"But I was lucky and my church took me in and saw that I was educated. They made sure I had prospects for a good life."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" the girl asked gently.

"No." I paused, feeling uncomfortably like I was lying. "I had a younger brother but he died when he was small."

"Did he die with your parents?"

"William stop it right now!" Sophia's dark eyes were furious. "I'm sorry," she said to me, composing herself, "he's a baby and he doesn't know any better."

"I'm not a baby!"

"You hush this instant! You're upsetting her! How do you expect her to like us if you act like that?"

"Oh but of course I like you!" I insisted. "You're lovely children. He's just speaking rashly because he's tired."

Sophia's expression was skeptical. "He had no business speaking to you that way."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please don't be angry."

"I'm not angry. But now I really think you must sleep."

I stood up, wondering if I should give them a kiss but deciding against it.

"Miss Miles?" Sophia said primly. 

"Yes?"

"I hope that you will be much happier now that you're here."

"Thank you, Sophia. That's very kind of you to say."

I knew that the children hadn’t meant to hurt me, but my heart felt heavy as I retired to my room for the night. Thinking of my family was always harrowing for me. It reminded me how narrowly I had escaped a miserable fate. Although my heart soared being here, living under the roof of such a beautiful man and his precocious children, I knew there would always be a part of me that lived in fear that everything good could be taken away from me as it had been before. 

I spent another fitful night, unable to clear my head enough to sleep, my mind a turmoil of memories and uneasy thoughts of the sinister Balor and the chilling rhyme the children had shared, set to the sound of the crashing waves in the distance.

[princess-of-riviaa]

Little Lady: Chapter 3

Prologue/Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Pairing: Clark Kent x OFC (Vix/Melanie)

Series Summary:

Chapter Summary: Melanie wakes up, hurt and confused, and receives answers that are hard to swallow.

Author’s Note: My sincerest gratitude to @yespolkadotkitty for being my beta on this series! Love you!

Warning(s): none

Word Count: 1,734

I’m surrounded by an endless, unforgiving cold. I don’t know if I’m dead or somewhere between life and death. All I know is I don’t like this darkness, this emptiness, this coldness. A distant whisper of a voice draws me out of the darkness, coaxing me towards the light. It hurts. Everything hurts. I stop for a second. The darkness pulls me back in, pushing out the pain as well as the light. The voice calls to me again. I turn towards it--only to feel that same flash of pain. I hear my name. My real name. This voice knows me somehow, and I need to know who it belongs to. So I swim through the darkness, ignore the pain as best I can, and move towards the light--towards that voice.

***

The first thing I see when I blink my eyes open are brown eyes staring down at me. They’re eclipsed by a beautiful sea of warm olive-toned skin. It’s a woman. It’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I know her--that fact is planted deep inside of me--but I can’t remember her name. I reach out to her--

Only to find that I can’t move. My entire body is stuck, frozen, immobilized. I begin to panic.

“It’s okay,” she assures me, her foreign accent thick and soft as butter. “Just breathe, Natalie. You’re okay.”

Her words manage to calm me to the point of breathing steadily again. But I still have so many questions: Who is she? How do I know her? Where am I? Why can’t I move?

“You’re in a state of temporary paralysis,” she explains. “It should wear off in an hour.”

My eyes widen. “Temporary… paralysis?!”

She opens her mouth to say something, then pauses. Finally she asks, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

I blink, fishing for my most recent memory. Heat. That’s what I remember. My most recent client--what was his name? Collin? No--Clark. Clark Kent--lit a fire in me, just under the surface of my skin, and I lost the ability to breathe as he kissed me. I’ve never felt like that just from kissing a guy before. It’s never been that intense.

“Clark?” the woman guesses, seeing the blush on my cheeks.

Oh god--had I talked about him while I’d been out? How else would she know who was making me blush like this?

I nod.

“Do you remember what he did to you?” she asks hesitantly.

The memory hits me like a train--grinding against his raging hard-on, desperate to chase my own high, and his mouth latching onto a sensitive spot on my neck. His teeth latching onto a sensitive spot on my neck. I try to raise a hand to my neck, where I know there will be a deep scar, but again--I can’t move.

“Yes.” I swallow, the memory making fear rise in my chest until I want to vomit.

“She’s afraid of you,” the woman says, and after I frown in confusion I realize she said it to someone behind me.

I struggle to see them out of my peripheral vision, but barely make out the familiar shape of a huge man in a nice suit. Clark. He’s here. Is he going to hurt me again?

The woman must notice the fear in my eyes because she grabs my hands and gives them a reassuring squeeze. I can feel her touch but I can’t respond to it. “It’s okay, I won’t let anything happen to you,” she assures me.

I give her a grateful smile before looking back at Clark. He’s as stunning as ever, though he looks a lot more relaxed now than he did in Lilith’s.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he tells me.

I frown at him. “You bit me, you freak! Of course I’m afraid of you!”

“I can explain,” he says, holding out his hands like he’s trying to tame a wild animal. Funny, considering this wild animal is currently paralyzed.

“I can’t wait to hear this.” I roll my eyes.

“I’m a vampire,” he begins.

I glare at him. “If you think you’re being funny--”

“I don’t.” His tone is too calm for someone who’s pulling a prank. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“Vampires don’t exist,” I argue. “I’m not an idiot.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” the woman says.

“One thing at a time, Diana,” Clark barks at her before returning his attention to me. “Vampires are real. Every magical creature you’ve ever read about is real. I could prove it to you, but it would be a lot less of a hassle if you just took my word for it.”

“Say vampires are real,” I say. “Say you’re one of them. Where’s the pale skin? The red eyes? The weird accent?”

Clark raises an eyebrow and smirks, amused. “You’re thinking of Dracula. He was one of the first; our kind has evolved since then. We’ve adapted and grown smarter. We now have the ability to walk in the daylight, hence the lack of pale skin. And our eyes are only red right after we’ve eaten. The color returns to normal after a few hours. Dracula had an accent because he was European; I’m from Kansas.”

“Okay fine,” I huff. “Say I’m crazy enough to believe you. Why did you come after me? What did I do to you?”

Clark exchanges a look with Diana.

“I’ll just be in the other room for a minute,” Diana says casually as she stands from the couch I’m lying on. “Shout if you need me to break his neck.”

Clark waits until she’s gone from the room to answer my questions. “What I’m about to tell is going to be hard to swallow.”

“Harder than you being a vampire?” I laugh.

He nods.

My laughter dies quickly.

“We’ve met before,” he begins. “We’ve known each other for five years.”

That’s impossible. I didn’t know this man before last night.

“But that was back in 1946,” he adds.

I’m too dumbfounded to laugh at that ridiculous statement.

“You’re a time traveler, Nat. We met in 1901. We dated for a few months before we had a big fight. You disappeared in time before I could make it right. I thought you were gone forever--but then, two decades later, I found you on the streets of New Orleans, dancing in a speakeasy. No matter how well you managed to change with the times, your dancing was always the one constant. I somehow convinced you to forgive me. We married in ‘28. But then you disappeared again on a mission to kill Hitler; it didn’t go as planned. I managed to find you again in 1945, just after the war ended. And then, at the end of that year, we found out that we’re… god, even after all this time it’s still hard for me to say it. I honestly can’t believe it still.”

“We found out that we’re what?” I press.

“That we’re soulmates,” he finally says.

I resist the urge to laugh at him. “You say that like it’s a real thing.”

His eyes flash, angry that something so important to him is being challenged. “It is. In our world--in our crazy, magical world--soulmates are an actual thing. It’s not like with humans, how they say someone they care a lot about is they’re soulmate. Magical creatures experience a bond with each other that no human ever will. It’s undeniable--once it clicks into place, there’s no going back from it. The universe chooses your soulmate for you and not even the strongest man can resist that kind of magic.”

I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around a single thing he’s said in the last two minutes. “You realize that, even if all of this is true, I’d be insane and incredibly naive to believe it right away.”

He nods solemnly, as if this is a fact that he hates but can’t ignore. “I know. But I want to give you the truth. You deserve at least that much.”

I frown, suddenly remembering something. “I’m still confused as to why you bit me.”

“It’s part of the soulmate ceremony,” he explains.

I stare at him blankly.

“In order for the bond to be complete, both people have to drink a drop of the other’s blood. I tried drinking your blood in ‘46, but I went too far. I couldn’t… I’d been denying myself the taste of your blood for so long that when I finally felt it on my tongue, I lost control. You almost died--I-I almost killed you. But you managed to escape to a different time--time travelling has some sort of weird healing effect on the traveler--and you regained your strength.”

“And last night was the first time you saw me again,” I guess, “and so you tried to complete the bond again.”

Clark nods, his eyes shining as I finally begin to understand.

“Is it? Completed, I mean.” I realize with a start that I’m starting to sound like I actually believe all the bullshit he’s feeding me. But I’m curious enough to play along. It’s curiosity, I assure myself, not belief.

“We won’t know until the effects of my bite wear off,” he says.

Diana said an hour. That was… what, fifteen minutes ago? Time will tell whether Clark is telling the truth or if he should be put in a mental institution.

“How did you know to go to Lilith’s?” I wonder.

He smiles to himself, as if appreciating a joke. “I saw a poster for you--for Vixen, I mean. I knew that name was yours. I had no doubt about it. That’s what I used to call you when we… when we were intimate.”

Well, he definitely talks like someone from the first half of the twentieth century.

“You know this all sounds insane, right?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Maybe to you. I’ve had several centuries to wrap my mind around it.”

“What happens when I can move again and I realize you’re feeding me a bunch of bullshit to excuse your blood kink?” I ask.

He moves to the couch and takes a seat on the other end, careful not to touch me like he can sense how uncomfortable I am. “When you can move again, and you realize I’m not feeding you bullshit, we can talk.”

And until then, we wait.

***

Tag Squad:

@agniavateira​ @hnryycvll​ @littlefreya​ @celestial-vomit​ @lestersglitterglue​ @watermeloncavill​ @honeychicana​ @penwieldingdreamer​ @mary-ann84​ @elixasays​ @buckysgoldenheart​ @noz4a2​ @trippedmetaldetector​ @omgkatinka​ @lunedelorient​ @aphrodites-punch​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @sweetybuzz25​ @iloveyouyen​ @deathonyourtongue​ @utterlyhopeful​ @wondersofdreaming​ @tsukuyomi011​ @the-soot-sprite @desperate-and-broken​ @jayismz @emelinelovesjc @palaiasaurus64​ @wolvesandhoundshowltogether​ @henrythickcavill​ @secretlyactivated​ @madbaddic7ed​ @persephonehemingway​ @geralt-of-baevia​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @thedarkplume​ @spookypeachx​ @pensieveforyourthoughts​ @aletheladyinred​

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from my taglist!

[concussed-to-pieces]

Devotion

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Drew McIntyre/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Heard through the grapevine that my boy Drew might have done the Lord’s work recently. In honor of that momentous occasion, I dusted off what was originally meant to be part of @hardcorewwetrash ’s Summer Writing Challenge (because, you see, I am a terrible person and never managed to get my act together for that, I KNOW YOU’RE SHOCKED). So now for Valentine’s Day you get old gods, boardroom meetings, wilderness excursions and past life reminiscing. Basically, my brand. 

Enjoy!

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For mild ’breeding kink’, graphic violence and death. Stay safe!]

[!WARNING!: Rife with historical inaccuracies. This also may be considered religiously offensive, for which I apologize and advise you to proceed with caution.]

.........

The devotion was what caught his attention in the beginning.

Truly, the fact that he had solidified on 'he' in the first place spoke volumes. Take one of the faithful. Always prodding at him, making him toss his head in dismissive annoyance. Take one of the faithful. 

The incense was lit in the chapel for yet another vigil, another plea. He tasted iron when he appeared, the atmosphere thick and stifling with the whine of the fair-weather faithful hoping for their fortunes to improve. Godhood was barely above a burden and the Higher in the pantheon well knew his grievances. 

He was Actaeon, ruler of forests and wilderness, his domain stretching from proud mountain peaks to secret moors that man had yet to tread. It fell on him often to mediate in this modern age, where the incense was few and far and boardroom meetings broke untold hours. Greedy men overreached again and again, hand over fist in a mad dash to their own demise.

He had settled on the name Drew McIntyre, and through it all Drew sat. Certainly, he had traded the gilded pauldrons and breastplate for a razor sharp suit, but his story was lauded as a cautionary tale and little about him looked tamed despite that. His piercing blue eyes still glowed when his irritation reached a boiling point, his mouth set in a grim line that was about as hospitable as a kodiak's roar.

I will give you nothing, said those cold eyes, and it will be far more than you deserve. 

Hunter, the man who had once been known as Hades, was at the head of most conference tables. Always clad in some kind of glamour that hid his true form, flanked by his loyal Persephone Stephanie and Cerberus split into three bodies. 

Back and forth they went, Actaeon halting progress and Hades or Zeus or Dionysus or whoever demanding more from him. More land, more resources, more more more. Drew took sadistic pleasure in entangling the god-moguls and their flunkies in red tape, dangling fertile rainforests in front of their noses only to snatch them away due to easily-overlooked technicalities.

After the Fyre festival fiasco at least Dionysus (calling himself Dolph these past few centuries, who knew what the next would hold) was humbled, twiddling his thumbs and staying relatively quiet during meetings. Drew got the feeling that it boded ill though, since it meant that the reveler was actually listening. Possibly. Cerberus, or rather, the three men that Cerberus had become, always confiscated all cell phones before their meetings commenced, so Dolph (and anyone else for that matter) had no distractions.

Whenever Zeus was involved, the shouting matches kicked off quickly. At Hunter's behest he grudgingly went by the name Vince, though even after all the years he still sometimes failed to respond to it. He was not nearly as powerful as he once was, of course, no one believed like they used to, and he clung to the old ways while Hunter struggled to reason with him. All the eldest god wanted to do since he and Hera had become estranged was lift weights and watch professional wrestling; it was a miracle that he even made appearances anymore. 

…

The ruler of Hell always put Drew up at the same damn hotel chain every time he managed to drag the belligerent patron into their meetings. Hunter didn't lack devotion. His contract with old man Vince involved such incredibly far-flung stipulations that for all intents and purposes, every exchange of goods in human hands netted him some percentage of adoration. Hades operated by the philosophy that 'absolute power corrupts absolutely, but slightly less than absolute couldn't hurt, could it?' 

The chain of hotels was one of those oxymoronic minimalist-yet-decadent types, decorated sparsely with furniture that boasted too many sharp edges. Drew always felt uncomfortable and he was certain that was the intention. Hades was all about subtle threats. 

You're on my turf, wild god. Better remember that.

Drew was on a first-name basis with most of the concierge staff in every location he frequented, accepting his room key with a roll of his eyes and some tired comment about how he was back in town for business. 

Running into an animal not in the lobby was...unprecedented. 

He stared down at the cat. The cat stared back up at him, licking her chops while she lounged in the middle of the hallway. Her muzzle was speckled with the remains of whatever she had eaten last and Drew immediately extended a hand for inspection. 

He wasn't as well-respected amongst the more domestic animals and the cat took her sweet time meandering towards his fingers. Once she reached them though, she was all purrs and apologies. Lost, she hummed, her whiskers tickling his arm. Help me?

"Where's your keeper, little miss?" Drew asked in a gentle voice that most humans hadn't had the privilege of hearing. 

The cat offered him a look that was a shrug, shaking her body to jangle the tag on her harness pointedly. 

Drew chuckled, picking her up and cradling her in the crook of one arm. "We will do our best then, won't we?"

…

They didn't wait in the lobby for very long. Fifteen minutes maybe, Drew sprawled indolently in a chair that wasn't quite large enough for him. The cat purred away in his lap, happily kneading and getting white needle-like hairs all over his expensive suit pants. Not that Drew cared, he'd sooner rip the whole damn suit off and saunter back to the wilds where he belonged. 

Patience, Actaeon, he reminded himself with a heavy sigh. A few more days in this brimstone nightmare.

One of Aphrodite's own appeared before him looking attractively distraught and his breath hitched, sending the large man into an embarrassing coughing fit. The woman gestured at the cat in his lap and Drew hurried to stand, floundering with the slumbering feline. "Ah, I had no idea that-" He began, somewhat confused that she didn't seem to recognize him.

"Thank you so much for finding her!" The woman said fervently, grasping his hand.

Drew received no supernatural warmth from her touch, just mortal worship so heartfelt it hit him square in the chest. She wasn't one of Aphrodite's? How could someone so beautiful simply...exist? Surely, there must be some mistake. What was this feeling of deja vu that threatened to overwhelm him?

"She was no trouble." Drew assured, "Came right up to me when I got out of the elevator. I'm Drew, by the way. Drew McIntyre." He raised an eyebrow pointedly. 

No realization of his true identity seemed to be forthcoming, the vision in front of him introducing herself in turn as Lyssa. The name alone sent another jolt through him, much to his chagrin. Her smile was like the sun and Drew wondered if she was possibly one of Apollo's creations. Apollo had no real touch for beauty, though. Hephaestus? 

"Can I get you a drink or something? I'm only in town for a conference, so I'm a little booked as far as breakfast would go." She sounded self-conscious, fidgeting with the cat's fur instead of making eye contact. 

"How about dinner?" Drew asked, startling himself with the ease of his own suggestion. "Maybe tomorrow night, depending on when you fly out of here?"

He needed to talk to Aphrodite. Immediately. 

…

Alicia took one look at him and tried to shut the door in his face. Drew barely caught the edge with his hand, giving her a smile that bordered on a sneer. "You've improved your craft, love." His tone was half impressed, half dangerous. "Setting one of your beauties on me? One who doesn't even know who I am?"

"You've got some real nerve coming here at this hour." Aphrodite muttered, the flawless woman clutching at her silk bathrobe. 

"It is noon, woman."

"Never mind that, what the hell are you talking about?"

Drew shoved his phone in her face, startled when she immediately looked (of all things) jealous. "I'm talking about this one. She's got a cat. And she's been crafted by you."

"She's not one of mine. Hera above, I wish I could take credit for that." The goddess replied crossly. "As far as I can tell she's the real deal." Drew was speechless and Alicia seemed to realize, a smirk turning her mouth up at the edges. "You're infatuated, aren't you?"

"No." Drew said firmly. 

"Mm, you're really going to lie to me about matters of the heart?" Aphrodite crooned. "It's been millennia since your little incident with Artemis. Still sensitive? I would have thought you'd forget."

"I was torn apart by my own dogs. Sensitive doesn't begin to cover it." Drew fidgeted with his phone, closing out the Instagram page. "I dinnae what to do." He admitted.

"Take her out, knock her up, tell her the truth or don't, and welcome another litter of demigods into the human world." Alicia said in a deadpan tone. "You really are so boring sometimes. It's no wonder you're the one who always gets your memory stripped, you're practically mortal levels of boring."

"I…" Drew hesitated.

Aphrodite softened, her sharp contours glowing ever so slightly in the dim hallway lighting. "You deserve adoration just like the rest of us, Actaeon. I know you've basically appointed yourself as nature's protector and as such have decided to distance yourself from humanity's praise, but humans need gods like you. Ones who don't play games with them." She said gently.

"If I do this, she...Aphrodite, mortals are so…"

"I know, they are short-lived. It's better to take your happiness where you can find it though. Don't live a lie, Drew." Alicia tapped her fingers to her lips and then pressed the kiss to his cheek. "For luck and nothing more. I know you wouldn't want my help anyways." Her laughter was a merry sound, bright even in its falsehood. 

…

It's better to take your happiness where you can find it.

The goddess of love's words haunted Drew while he prepared for this little...appointment  with Lyssa. 

Don't live a lie.

Was that what he was doing by shutting everything out? The whole debacle with Artemis, while indeed millennia past, still turned his stomach. His own fine hunting dogs tearing him apart would never leave his long memory, regardless of how many times Zeus humbled him and cast him to Earth with no recollection of who he was. Was he hiding? Was he really so afraid that something like that would happen again? He had traded his mutts in with his pauldrons, but he still occasionally felt echoes of their presence. As though he could turn around at any second and see them all eagerly awaiting his orders.

Drew huffed at himself, squaring his shoulders while he retied his tie and struggled with his top button. He wondered vaguely whether it would still be so difficult if he had picked a more feminine-presenting form as opposed to masculine, though he liked the form he had settled upon. Perhaps a bit too much. The broadness of his shoulders could be a little...difficult to fit into the dress shirts he was made to wear, so the battle of buttons was a familiar one. But that same broadness emphasized his physique and catered to his not-insubstantial pride. He had lasted this long, and what was the point of even having a form if you weren't content with how it appeared?

His reflection studied him from the mirror, blue eyes clouded with rumination on his past. His neck strained at the highest button with every swallow and so finally Drew sighed and left the offending button undone, carefully slipping his tie out of his collar after a moment of thought. Better to seem casual than tightly-laced. 

…

"So, to business, if this is something you want to pursue." Lyssa folded her hands. "I'm not looking for anything serious at the moment. If you're married or romantically involved, I'm not interested. I can't afford to be pulled into a pissing match, not with my career at stake.  That clear enough?"

"Crystal." Drew chuckled, appreciating her plain speech. "Games like that don't yield fruitful results. I'd rather be trusted." 

"Well my cat trusted you, so that's a step in the right direction." She smiled at him and Drew nearly choked on his drink. "You already have my number and I have yours from the cat debacle. What's your schedule look like?"

"I am free this evening, if you have the time. When does your flight leave tomorrow?"

"It's an eleven o'clock. I'm already packed, so I guess tonight will work fine." Lyssa sounded for all the world like she was planning a meeting. 

"Come with me?" Drew requested, rising from the table and offering his arm. She took it without hesitation or shyness, strolling to the elevator with him. "I understand the anonymity of this setup may be what you find most appealing. Rest assured, you will hear no questions from me unless you wish them asked." Drew deliberately kept his tone light. 

"I appreciate that." 

His own rising apprehension aside, Drew did his best to relax. It would do him no good to display the tension he felt. It was better to keep this as businesslike as possible, for his own comfort as well as hers. If they continued on in this manner, maybe he would learn why he felt like she was so damned familiar.

...

It was always attached somehow. He had never really noticed it before Lyssa, but now it gnawed at him. He wondered whether this hunger was why Aphrodite had been so glib about him spawning a litter. Did she know? Did she put the fire there to begin with? 

He knew he was being irrational. Aphrodite couldn't come close to his control, time beyond time having passed since the carefree days of his youth. Actaeon had failed, but Drew McIntyre would not. This arrangement didn't have to sour with reproductive ruminations. It didn't have to, but…

There was no harm in fantasizing about it. The desire to take Lyssa's unwitting worship and make it something...real.

She had, of course, been very up front with him. She was on medication, he would use protection, it was all standard procedure as they were both responsible adults. There was a relatively low risk involved and honestly Drew wasn't particularly keen on raising a brood in the first place, just being involved in the creative process. The notion excited him much more than it should have: the idea of coupling with her, breeding even, until she was overflowing. Being a god, it was far from an impossible task. Drew wasn't ashamed to admit he could behave more like an animal than a man, this fallible flesh doing him in time and again. At least she could keep up with him when it came to sexual appetite.

She would text him occasionally even if they hadn't planned on meeting up. Hell, even if they weren't in the same state. Just little snippets or questions about his day, maybe a picture of her cat.  Drew found himself slipping into the habit of checking his phone regularly, coming to learn that she frequently went hiking when she wasn't involved in business. She claimed to love the woods more than anyone and the God of the Forests had to suppress a roaring laugh at her declaration.

Not even Zeus himself could have rid Drew of his grin when Lyssa casually mentioned that she wouldn't mind some company on her next camping trip. He had been having a terrible day, but that message lifted his spirits instantaneously. He pondered at that for a split second, somewhat confused. Since when had he become so attached?

"Is that a smile?" Dionysus queried from across the boardroom, his eyes wide over the Greek salad he had ordered for the lunch break. "It is! What happened to brighten you up, Doomsday?" Dolph practically bounced around the table to plant himself in the currently-unoccupied seat beside Drew, batting his eyelashes at the large man. "Aw c'mon, you were so chipper a second ago!" The blond whined.

"I have a migrating headache." Drew said dryly. "It comes and goes. Seems t' increase whenever you're around." 

The reveler's response was an ear-to-ear grin and he leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand. "Do tell." He purred. Roman (the largest portion of Cerberus) looked up curiously, as if he sensed the shift in the atmosphere of the room.

"No." Drew snapped, already inches from wringing Dionysus' neck. "Whatever I'm pleased about has nothing to do with ye an' yours. Dinnae try my patience." 

"Psh, ever since Artemis you've been so-" Dolph didn't even get to finish his sentence before Drew was towering over him. 

"Actaeon." Hades' glare was smouldering at the edges. "Not in the conference room. You know the rules."

"Easy now, boys." Vince chimed in, clapping his son in law on the shoulder. "We don't want anything getting out of hand, do we?" Outside, the clear sky rumbled threateningly. 

Hunter sighed in annoyance. "Old man, you know you can't do that shit anymore. It upsets their meteorologists."

"I am Zeus! Why the hell should I give a crap about their silly weather men?"

"Enough. And you, Actaeon-"

"Dionysus never takes me up on my offers." Drew's teeth were bared in an infuriated grin. To his right, Alicia clicked her tongue as if to voice her disapproval.

"Whoa, whoa! I'm more of a lover anyhow, you know that!" Dolph looked wildly uncomfortable, like he had just realized that maybe pissing off a person who stood head and shoulders above him was a bad idea. 

Actaeon exhaled hard, forcing himself to take a step back from the situation. "Later." He said finally, entertained by how Dolph's face paled beneath his fake tan. 

…

"I needed this more than words can express." Drew breathed, his hands carding through her hair in an oddly affectionate way. Well, oddly affectionate when he considered the position they were in. Lyssa's nose pressed to his pelvis, throat flexing around his cock, every swallow making Drew grunt or snarl. "You are too good at this." 

He knew he had to keep his voice down. They might have parked the rental a good distance away from other vehicles, but it would do them no good if a passerby noticed her face in his lap. Drew half-groaned at the idea of being interrupted, feeling her tongue bathing the base of his cock as best as she could. 

"I'm close Lys, can I…" He trailed off, gritting his teeth when she pulled off his cock and started stroking his shaft with her hand. She rested the engorged head of his dick on her tongue, maintaining eye contact as she did. Drew had to remove his hands from her hair, one gripping his thigh and the other clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles ached. "I'm coming, love, I-" He choked his words off as best as he could, trying to stay silent. 

Drew was not a particularly quiet individual, especially during lascivious activities. He liked to think it was part of his charm, the blunt and brazen honesty of his own failable flesh. Lyssa certainly seemed to appreciate it, if the way she squeezed his thigh while she swallowed down his release was any indication. 

He went boneless in the driver's seat, panting a little. She rested her cheek on his thigh, smiling up at him in a manner that was wholly self-satisfied. Drew chuckled, running his fingers through her hair one more time. "How is it possible to enjoy you as much as I do?"

"You're just easy to please." Lyssa teased, giving him a soft bite on the inside of his thigh before beginning to straighten herself out. 

Drew followed suit and then stepped out of the small car, stretching his arms overhead with a drawn out hum. A deep inhale filled his lungs with the fresh forest air and he sighed happily. Nothing better than that smell. 

Her forehead bumped between his shoulder blades and she stayed there for a good minute, her arms around his waist. Drew felt something stir in his body, satisfaction, contentment and he cleared his throat, resting his hands over her own on his stomach. "Thank ye for invitin' me. I promise it'll be worth it." He murmured. 

"Mm, I'll hold you to that." 

After collecting their backpacks from the trunk, the two of them set out down one of the many trails. Not that Drew particularly needed a trail, but he knew that bushwhacking on their first outing into his domain might set her on edge. 

He let her lead the way and they made quiet conversation as they hiked, Drew keeping an ear out all the while for any nearby beasts. She seemed entranced at the way the birds drew close to them, a hummingbird boldly zipping back and forth in front of her nose at one point. 

Drew laughed at the obvious plea for attention, extending a finger to the tiny creature. "Feisty today, aren't we?" He asked softly once it had landed. "You eat well enough with all the feeders around." 

The bird voiced its grievances with hummingbird feeders, much to Acaeteon's amusement. In the meantime his hiking companion shrugged out of her backpack and shuffled closer, her eyes fixated on the complaining bundle of feathers. "How did you do that?" She whispered.

Drew tilted his head. "They come to me." He replied nonchalantly. "This one wants me to grow him more red flowers. I am no miracle worker, little one."

"Oh sure, yeah. He's talking to you. I'll bet." Lyssa gave him a smirk. 

"How else do you think I got your cat back to you so simply?" Drew asked, raising an eyebrow. "She is a headstrong beast."

"Well so am I, but here we are."

"True enough." Drew shooed the bird off and sidled up to embrace her from behind. A teasing finger toyed with the fabric of her t-shirt across her chest, making her laugh quietly and tap his hand away. "Not nearly stubborn enough to resist me." Drew continued, his voice low and gravelly while he pressed close and palmed her breasts. 

Lyssa gasped, her eyes darting back and forth as if worried that someone might see them in this predicament. "Drew-" Her indignant hiss of his name tapered off into something a little less stern than she probably would have liked. Her nipples woke under his circling assault, pressing hard against Drew's questing thumbs.

"What's wrong, Lys? You've gone quiet." Drew whispered raggedly, "Did you see something? A beasty, come to devour you whole?" His left hand slunk past the waistband of her hiking shorts, questing blindly downward for what he sought.

"You're not being fair, you got off in the car." Lyssa protested, her voice cracking slightly. "Don't tease me, Drew-"

"I'm no tease Lys, I intend t' deliver on any threats I make." Acaeteon mouthed at her ear and reveled in the way that she went pliant against his body. Her worship was sweeter than all the praise of humanity, her trust in him explicit and heady. "With just my fingers, lovin'? The first of many, we'll say." Drew promised.

"I'd love to see you try."

Drew's strong fingers tweaked one of her nipples at the same time that his other hand found sanctuary in her underwear. "Naughty girl." Lyssa sighed and writhed back into him, blissfully ignoring that they were still very much out in the open. "I love how quickly you change your tune when you want somethin'." Drew chuckled, fingers stroking and then spreading her slick folds open. 

When Acaeteon took on a task he deemed important, he poured himself into it wholeheartedly. Not many things outside of his interactions with Lyssa really warranted that level of commitment. 

"Lys." He breathed while she choked on her breath and shuddered through an orgasm. "You are not making this easy on me."

"I asked you to come with me for a reason, Drew." She panted when she could talk again, whimpering quietly after he withdrew his fingers and licked them clean.

Drew kissed her fiercely, tongue licking into her mouth to give her a taste of herself. "And what reason might that be?" He asked once they had parted again.

Lyssa stared up at him in a daze for a good few seconds before snapping out of it. "What? Oh! Oh God. Um, later. I'll tell you later. Look, we still have a long way to go!" She floundered, struggling to get back into her pack. Drew rolled his eyes but remained silent, choosing instead to help her put herself to rights and buckle her straps.

...

The campsite she had picked was conspicuously secluded, which Drew made a mental note of. Lyssa seemed excessively nervous for someone that Drew had already been intimate with, the young woman getting their tent poles mixed up several times despite her familiarity with said tent. 

"You seem tense, Lys." Drew teased once she had finally gotten everything squared away. "I hope I didn't wind you up too much."

"Drew, I…" Lyssa trailed off, sighing. "I want to ask you for something. And I'm sorry if you think it's weird or...like, if I make you uncomfortable. I promise I would never want to make you uncomfortable."

Drew raised an eyebrow. This sounded more serious than he had anticipated. "Speak your mind, love. Whatever it is, I'm sure I can handle it."

Lyssa looked so pensive that Drew was legitimately concerned, the smaller woman taking her time to settle into a chair beside the fire pit. They hadn't lit the fire yet as the summer weather was warm even in the evenings, but Drew had made certain to find a small amount of dry firewood for safety's sake. "This is super dumb and if you want we can just forget it." She announced firmly. 

Drew couldn't help but laugh, doing his best to mask the anxiety gnawing at his gut. "I think I'll be the judge of that, love. What's this turrible question of yours?"

"I kind of...I mean I've...look." She exhaled and glared up at him with a strange ferocity. Drew's pulse quickened at the intensity of her eyes. He felt like he was being appraised, but also, strangely, like he had done this all before. "I've got this...thing that I like."

"Ye. Bit difficult t' miss, love." Drew grinned and she buried her face in her hands, groaning loudly until he apologized and promised not to make any more jokes about his thing she liked. 

"This is hard to talk about so please, just let me talk." Lyssa said sternly. "This isn't something I've told anyone else and I've never acted on my...urges...before." 

Urges. Actaeon's mind raced. Mortals had very few urges that they catered to, what on earth could she be talking about?

"I've always had this...kind of...thing for. Um. Someone having multiple orgasms. I-In me." Lyssa had actually closed her eyes to say it, her knuckles white with the grip she had on her trekking pole. "Like sloppy, barebacking I guess? Breeding? I dunno. I've seen some stuff and I feel like I'd want to try it out, but I've never met anyone that I trusted like that u-until you of course and I really didn't want to get gangbanged so like it's really cool that you can do multiples, your stamina is insane-" 

She carried on rambling as what she said rang in his ears. Breeding. Drew was upright before he realized, stalking across their campsite with a certain, single-minded intent. "Lys." He said hoarsely, kneeling in between her legs. She kept her eyes closed, like she could ignore him somehow. Her face was all red and Drew wanted to laugh, to ease her worries and make light of this, but he couldn't find the ability. "I will do whatever you need me to, lovin'." He murmured. "If it's breedin' you want, it's breedin' you'll get."

Lyssa peeked at him. "What, seriously? J-Just like that? You don't think I'm fucked up for wanting something so weird?" Her faith in him was like warm sunlight after winter. 

"I wish ye'd told me sooner, truthfully." Drew admitted, "could have saved a bit of trouble for the both of us." He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "How much preparin' do you want?"

"Pre...Preparing?" 

"Ye. Do y' want to eat? It'll be a long night. "

"I-I mean we already ate lunch--" 

"That we did." She was adorably flustered about this whole thing. "What will you say when you want me to stop, love?"

"I'll say...um, I'll say." Lyssa glanced around. "Tent?" She suggested.

"It has to be somethin' you'll remember. If you'll remember that an' use it, absolutely." Lyssa nodded jerkily and Drew exhaled hard, rising to stand once more. "Alright." He muttered, stripping off his shirt. "Up."

"Up?" Lyssa squeaked.

"Ye." Drew lifted her from the chair, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. The large man buried his face in her neck, littering the sensitive skin with kisses and chuckling as Lyssa squirmed in his arms. Her little gasps spurred him on and he fought with the drawstring of her shorts, settling for lacing his fingers at the small of her back to support her while she struggled to undo them herself. 

"Drew, you gotta' put me down-" Lyssa began. 

"This is takin' too long." Drew interrupted, itching to rip the shorts clean off. He sulkily dropped into a crouch, letting her stand so she could actually slide the shorts off and save them from the terrible fate he had planned. "Underwear too, come on."

"So impatient! Guess I should be happy I'm not the only weirdo around." Lyssa teased breathlessly, obliging him with the underwear.

"Bra. Unless you want it ripped."

"Don't you dare."

"I will. Get it gone, love."

Lyssa grumbled, "fine, but I'm leaving my shirt on. Last thing I need is someone coming across us totally naked."

Drew was relatively certain that he was sliding into an Old God headspace, his mind running wild with the idea of reveling naked in public like Dionysus. In the meantime, Lyssa put her hands on a nearby tree trunk and just looked back at him as if to ask what he was waiting for. Drew growled a little louder than he meant to, the telltale sheen of slick on her inner thighs more than enough to stir his blood. 

"I will fill you until I'm empty." The wild god assured softly, fingers dragging through her hair. "Until I am entirely spent. Over and over until your hunger is satisfied."

"You sure do make a lot of nice promises." She replied faintly, arching her back. 

"I'm going to breed you, love." He warned. 

"I certainly hope so?"

"Excellen'." Drew unzipped his jeans and freed his cock, loving the way she shivered. "To business. You remember what ye say if y' need me to stop?"

"Y-Yeah, yeah, tent." Lyssa nodded.

"Very good." Drew slid his cock along her entrance, the heat of her taking his breath away. She was already soaked, ready for him, and he permitted himself a momentary loss of self control. Drew kicked her legs a little further apart, roughly shoved his hands up underneath her shirt to cup her breasts, and then sheathed himself in one steady motion.

Lyssa panted out his name as he started to move, the wild god feeling her worship wash over him. It had never been like this before. There was always the catch, the desire to be granted something in exchange for their meager adoration. But here, now, in the sanctuary of the wilderness, Lyssa gave freely of herself to him out of sheer faith that he would be able to fulfill her.

It was intoxicating, heady and rich like his first breath of mountain air atop Sgùrr Alasdair. Drew inhaled sharply and proceeded with his task. He had promised to breed her, and so he would. 

"Lys," he murmured as he sank onto his haunches and took her with him, settling her into his lap more firmly. "I will need you as close to me as possible, love. Don't want to waste a drop."

Lyssa barely managed another nod as his hand wrapped around her throat to hold her steady, her own hands grasping hungrily at his still-clothed thighs. Drew rocked his hips up against her, jolting her entire body with every thrust. His other hand yanked her shirt up over her breasts, baring her to the world. He was enjoying this, he realized dimly, this salacious act stoking something long dead in him back to life. 

His first orgasm struck at the same moment as hers, Actaeon grinning fiercely at the way she arched and crooned to him. But he ached for more. She had asked to be bred and Drew would oblige.

"I want you to grind against me until I paint your insides again." Drew snarled, his shoulders taut. "We will sire demigods, lovely and terrible as the sun."

"You say such nice things it's not even fair-" Lyssa protested, making him laugh breathlessly. His release trickled down his shaft, further slicking her needy body. Lyssa's moaning rang in his ears and Drew bit down softly on her shoulder, laving the spot with his tongue afterwards. 

He would give her exactly what she had asked for. Until he was spent. Until he gave out. In the face of such freely-given worship, what else could he offer?

...

The dream bled in slowly, firelight the first thing she noticed...

"Lady Lyssa?" The voice of Sir Drew roused Lyssa from her musings and she looked up from the fire. The large knight was studying her, his curiosity bordering on impertinence. "Pardon me, Lady Lyssa, but yer hem is smoking."

Lyssa squeaked and frantically floundered back a pace from the small fire. Digging her fingers into the dirt beside her, she smudged out the lazily-smoldering lace on her skirt's hemline. "Thank you, Sir Drew." She sighed sadly, holding the now-ruined lace up to the light of the fire. "Just one more thing I've lost, I suppose."

Drew bowed. "I am n' longer a knight in your father's employ, m'lady. I have nae such title." His rich brogue washed over her, giving her the peculiar feeling of being warmed from the inside out. 

"You're leagues more of a knight than that scum my father was willing to sell me off to." Lyssa huffed in aggravation, hugging herself for warmth. "You're still Sir Drew to me."

"Your kindness is, as always, a beacon of light in dark times." 

"I'm not being kind, I'm being honest." She muttered. 

Drew fidgeted with the penannular brooch on his shoulder, sliding the ring to loose the needle and unwrap the thick folds of his tartan. In a few moments, the heavy woolen garment was draped over Lyssa like a shawl. "There's no need for you to be close 'noigh to the fire that y' hem is burnin'." He said gruffly, now clad more plainly in his armor alone. "I can't have you catchin' your death."

Lyssa buried her nose in the tartan, the durable fabric worn soft in patches from years of use. "Thank you, Sir Drew."

"I am sworn to keep y' safe to the best of my ability, Lady Lyssa." He puttered around the fire, snapping a few branches over his knee to feed the small blaze. "The chill from the moors can get into a man's bones. God-fearing country it might be, but I wager that there may be older gods roamin' these lands at night." Drew mused quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself.

Lyssa pursed her lips and clutched the tartan a little tighter. 

Drew seemed to notice her discomfort, turning to offer her a quick grin. "Afeared of the dark, m'lady?" 

"Not of the dark, but what's in it. And you saying unsettling things like that is hardly helping." 

"You've naught to worry about while I'm here, Lady Lyssa. I'm much more fearsome than whatever ye could think up." The knight assured her, his eyes unnaturally blue even in the golden light of the fire. 

Far off, a wild creature howled. Lyssa tried not to jump, she really did, but there was no hiding her flinch.

"It's just a wolf, Lady Lyssa. They'll stay away from the fire." Drew soothed, one large gauntlet hovering above her shoulder. She found herself wishing that just once, the knight would drop his polished veneer and hold her.

"I'm sorry, Sir Drew. It has been...these are trying times. I don't mean to be so fragile." Lyssa mumbled, shame catching her words in her throat.

"It is nae easy feat t' leave hearth and home behind. There is no need t' apologize." Drew assured her. "I only hope we can get y' safely t' the coast."

"I have no doubt of that with you at my side, Sir Drew." 

"I must confess, I am a bit concerned about what y' father and betrothed will do to me once yer safely away, m'lady." Drew placed his hand over his heart. "But my own fears are naught in the face of yer peril, and so they will be laid to rest in as timely a manner as I can manage when yer safe." 

"Drew, do not say such terrible things!" Lyssa protested. "As if you would not be accompanying me!"

"Yer father took me in when I was but a lost stripling wanderin' the moors, Lady Lyssa. He gave me a purpose, a goal. I cannae easily forget that." Drew murmured. "Not even for you."

Dismay gripped Lyssa's throat like an iron claw. "Surely after all these years of faithful service, you've earned a moment of selfishness?" She felt at that moment as if she would have made a deal with the Devil himself to keep her devoted knight by her side.

"Aye, true enough that might be." The blue-eyed man allowed, a rueful smile touching his mouth. "But one often leads to another, as the sayin' goes. I'm loathe t' leave ye all the same."

"Is what I want not part of your plans either, Drew?"

"Lady-"

"It's bad enough to be treated as if I am being unreasonable for not wishing to be auctioned off with the summer home as an attractive virginal decor piece, but to have you spouting such ridiculous platitudes is-!" Lyssa sputtered furiously, her words failing her in her rage. Drew merely sat there in silence while she stomped her feet. "It's outrageous to assume that I could get far on my own. I've barely ventured off the estate since my father acquired his lairdship."

"Are y' sayin' ye would go willingly to that mon, trot yerself off t' market?" Drew challenged, "If I wasnae here, ye'd lay down for some elderly laird to further yer sire's plans?"

"Never." Lyssa barely suppressed a horrified shudder at the notion of sharing her wedding bed with the repulsive man her father had chosen for her. Drew's blunt, honest way of speaking had her all flushed in the face. "I don't know what I would have done. Perhaps I would have died." 

An ugly oath left Drew's lips at her flippant words, the large man muttering an apology for his rough language. "'Fraid I'm showin' my hand a bit, Lady Lyssa. Y' shouldnae say such turrible things." 

"Would you miss me, Sir Drew?" She teased, the laughter leaving her tone when she saw the way he was looking at her. 

"Like the moon misses the moors, Lady Lyssa." Drew had never been one to use flowery terms, so this unexpected foray into almost poetic territory left her a bit breathless. 

Lyssa clutched the tartan, his tartan, even closer. "It is rude to jest so, Sir Drew."

"I am not a jesting mon, Lady Lyssa." Drew's eyes had softened. Normally they were sharp and calculating; the knight took his duties very seriously and it was rare to see him at ease. Not that he was particularly lax at this moment. His sword was still belted to his hip, though he had left his claymore on the ground beside the fire.

"I know. I am grateful for that, Sir Drew." 

He leaned in closer, improperly close, and yet she felt no need to scold him. He often wore his long brown hair braided while he rode to keep it from impeding his vision, but a few enchanting strands had managed to work themselves free during their hurried flight from her father's estate. They gave him an air of dangerous sensuality, the unfamiliar sight of him even slightly unkempt enough to send Lyssa's imagination running wild. 

"I would miss you more than I can articulate." Drew sounded sincere, his voice dipping slightly. "The idea of...the idea of you sufferin' under someone y' do not love and didnae even choose, it is." He paused, obviously searching for the right word. "Intolerable." His burr rolled the word thick, sending an indulgent shiver down Lyssa's spine. "I am naught but a lowly mon who's broken his vows of service t' yer household, Lady Lyssa. But I swear on my life that you shall be free as a bird from this," He gestured vaguely, "nightmare y' been trapped in."

Lyssa rested against his shoulder, the firm press of his armor cool on her burning cheek. "Sir Drew, you are no longer in service to my father. You agree, yes?"

"Aye. Much as it pains me, I've betrayed my master." Drew sighed. 

"And I am fleeing from my title, my lands, everything I once held dear, yes?" Lyssa's grip on the plaid whitened her knuckles. Drew's reply was a slow nod, the knight's brow furrowed in confusion. "I would very much like to do something then. As one soul to another, without the concerns of titles or birthrights getting in the way." Quickly, Lyssa leaned upwards and pressed her lips to his slack mouth. 

Drew started, grabbing her arm to prevent her from retreating after her unwisely bold choice. Lyssa was certain her cheeks were even rosier than before, squirming under the intensity of the look he was giving her. "Y' can flee from yer title an' lands, but I willnae let ye flee from me." Drew murmured finally, cupping her face. "Why would ye torment me so, Lady Lyssa?"

"Just Lyssa, my dear Drew." Lyssa took a deep breath, "I can think of no other way to convince you to stay with me. I have no dowry now, no land, no-" Drew kissed her roughly, the fondness in his expression when he pulled back catching Lyssa even more off guard than the kiss. "Drew, I…" She swallowed hard, nerves twisting her words into a tight little ball. 

"The kiss wasnae t' yer likin'?"

"No! No no, the kiss was perfect. I'm all out of sorts." Lyssa confessed, "I had not realized that you, er, reciprocated my feelings. That should make what I'm about to ask of you a little simpler, but…oh dear, I had not thought out how I would do this."

"I will do my best t' aid ye however y' need, my lovely Lyssa." Drew replied firmly.

"I'm certain you will, and from what I've heard this is not a particularly unpleasant task. F-For someone like you, anyway!" Lyssa felt like she was drowning. "Drew, I would implore you to grant me this one request. I will never ask for another thing as long as I live."

"Speak your mind, Lyssa. Whatever this request is, I'm certain I can fulfill it." 

"I need you to deflower me." Lyssa blurted out in a rush, then buried her burning face in the tartan spread across her lap. "If that...issue is removed, I'll be of no real use to my father and he may let us continue in peace." She soldiered on, her words muffled by the fabric. 

Drew made a sound in his throat that was distinctly foreign. "I...dinnae think I heard ye right. Did you say-"

"Oh, don't make me say it again!" Lyssa begged, thoroughly humiliated. "This is all so embarrassing, Drew, please-" 

The tartan was tugged from her unwilling grasp, Drew's heavy gauntlets somehow deft enough to fold the sturdy fabric. "Many's the night I thought of such things, Lys. 'Tis nae shame in it." He assured her, a teasing smile on his mouth. 

"Maybe not for you." Lyssa retorted. One of the aforementioned heavy gauntlets tucked beneath her chin, tugging her eyes up to meet his own. 

"I am deadly serious, Lyssa."

"Yes, well, so am I." The young woman huffed, feeling thoroughly foolish and exposed without the warm drape of his plaid to shield her. 

"I hate that y' come to me with this request out of necessity. I had hoped…" Drew trailed off, shaking his head. "I suppose it doesnae matter now. I will serve ye in this manner as well, my love."

"Love? Drew, this i-is a matter of...you don't have to--I assure you I don't need to be coddled-"

"Hush, Lys. I want to." He murmured. 

His enthusiasm was evident in the way that he swept her up into his arms and carried her to their humble shelter, in the way that he didn't seem able to stop kissing her. The large man appeared to get himself out of his armor by swearing alone, his mumbled apologies doing wonders for Lyssa's nerves as he fought with the various buckles and latches. 

She couldn't help but get caught up in it all, hungry for the new sensations he graced her with after he abandoned removing his greaves in favor of other activities. Drew was, of course, miles more experienced than her, his rough touch equal parts soothing and maddening.

Lyssa had been warned about the pain by well-meaning housemaids, unable to keep from cringing when Drew finally settled in between her legs. "I...Drew, please just…" She struggled to get the words out, making him pause.

"Shall I stop, Lys?"

"No, no. I have to do it. I just know it will hurt." 

"You could lie to yer father, if ye are truly afeared of this. I willnae do anythin' without y' wishes." Drew assured her, smoothing her hair away from her face. "I won't tell a soul about what has already happened."

"We must do it." She insisted, frowning fiercely. Her hands clenched into fists on the sheepskin beneath her. "I am prepared, Sir Drew."

"I would give my damned life to have our first time together be out of newlywed affection, Lys. It wounds me than I cannae give y' any better than this." Drew sounded distraught about the whole thing, and that was enough to get Lyssa's undivided attention. 

"You...want to marry me?" She asked softly.

"Christ woman, I don't know how much more plain I can be." Drew shook his head, smiling sadly. "I would marry ye in a heartbeat. Tis' bittersweet, this act, stealin' away what I would have wanted y' to give to me willingly."

Lyssa sought a kiss which Drew gladly delivered, the young woman whimpering into his mouth. "I will be brave for you, Sir Drew." She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I leave myself in your care."

Drew returned her embrace, sliding one hand beneath her body to cradle her against his chest. Lyssa felt him prodding at her entrance and she turned her head away, too scared to watch. He was patient though, gently coaxing her to ease into the motion of it so that when he did finally breach her, it was as if he was coming home. "Gods, Lyssa." He choked, shifting his hips to settle himself. 

Lyssa felt hot all over her body, the pain melting into pleasure that seared her core and left her panting for breath. She was wet enough that her slick ran down her thighs, coating Drew's groin with her arousal. The knight groaned. "Is it alright?" Lyssa asked shyly, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. In reply, Drew exhaled an oath and she felt him tense.

"Perfection, Lys. You are Gods-given perfection." He said hoarsely.

The distant sound of an approaching horse was what roused the two from their post-coital drowse. Lyssa was unsure if she had truly been sleeping, or simply lazing beside the large man. The contentment leaked away, leaving her cold and wishing wistfully for more time. 

She rolled onto her stomach, stretching. Drew kissed her forehead and then draped his tartan around himself, securing it with his brooch at the shoulder. He had never actually removed his greaves; they rattled slightly when he stood. "Stay here, my love." His smile was tight.

The instant he left the tent Lyssa was hurrying to redress herself. A terrible feeling came over her, almost as if she was having a premonition. Fear and despair waged war in her heart while the galloping hoofbeats grew ever closer. 

"Ho there, Drew of McIntyre!" 

Lyssa squeezed her eyes shut in dismay. That voice belonged to the son of the laird she had been promised to. The flaxen-haired man was not an overly intelligent individual, as made abundantly evident by his lonely arrival. 

"Greetings to ye, Dolph." Lyssa was immensely jealous of how calm Drew sounded; why had she not insisted that he gird himself properly in all of his armor? "What brings ye to my humble hamlet?"

"You can drop the act, you shameless Scot." Dolph announced pompously. "The very notion that you thought you could get away with this-"

"I'm afraid I've no idea what yer on about, Dolph." 

"My father's betrothed! The audacity of you, stealing the poor girl away in the night like you're a damned highwayman." Lyssa lifted up the rear of the tent and slunk out, risking a peek around the corner. Dolph had dismounted to thump a finger into the center of Drew's broad chest, the blond looking disheveled and annoyed. "You must return her at once, or I'll-"

"Aye? You'll what." Drew growled. 

Dolph squinted suspiciously up at the taller man. "Drew, I see no reason for you to be so heinously uncooperative. Unless…" The blond trailed off. "Oh. Oh ho, McIntyre! It's to be like that, is it?!" He yelled, his hand flying to the guard of his rapier. "Your crimes will be punished tenfold, baseborn, if you do not produce Lady Lyssa!"

"Ye would attack an unarmed mon, Dolph? I knew ye were a coward, but this is a bit too rich for me." 

"Pick up your blade then, you cur!"

Lyssa inched backwards to the small copse of birch trees where their horses had been secured, her hands shaking nearly too hard to untie her mount. The gentle mare nudged her sleepily, nosing at her dress' pockets for a treat. Lyssa pressed her forehead to the animal's side, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm her frantic heartbeat. It will be fine.

The ringing of steel on steel and a scream of outrage from Dolph shattered her attempt, the young woman wheeling to face the campsite. 

Drew and Dolph were trading blows beside the fire, their swords gleaming in the hellish light. "Drew!" Lyssa cried before she could think better of it, covering her mouth a second too late. 

The larger man glanced towards her, distracted, and Dolph seized the opening. The blade of his sword pierced the unarmored man's chest and stabbed deep. The two men froze, Drew staring at Lyssa and Dolph staring at his sword as though he couldn't believe what he had just done. 

"I…" Dolph began warily, jerking his rapier free and taking a step back. The blade was brilliantly red. Drew collapsed to his knees, dropping his own sword to press the folds of his now-ruined plaid against the mortal wound. Dolph's face hardened and he readied his blade once more.

Lyssa bolted forward at the blond man, not entirely certain what she was about to do. She had no weapons of her own. All she had was her body. "No!" She screamed, flinging herself between Dolph's sword and Drew's hunched form.

The pain was real, tangible, no dream. It stole the very breath from her chest. Yet she clung to Drew even as Dolph's blade slid home between her ribs.

"Lady Lyssa…" Drew whispered, a shaking hand coming up to tenderly cup her face and wipe away her tears. "Dinnae fret, my love. We will meet again." His other hand grasped in the disturbed dirt around the dying campfire, landing on the pommel of his faithful claymore. "I swear it."

He gripped her tightly and with a roar of exertion, he swung the large blade one-handed. All Lyssa could recall was his eyes, fearsome and brilliant in the dark of death that enveloped her. 

God-fearing country it might be, but I wager that there may be older gods roaming these lands at night...

…

Lyssa jerked awake, uncertain of her surroundings. For one terrifying moment her dream seemed like reality, the tent overhead the tent that she and her knight had-

"Drew?" She called, fumbling out of her sleeping bag. "Drew?" He wasn't in the tent beside her. Lyssa rushed to pull on her socks and boots, half-frantic now. 

She poked her head out of the tent, squinting in the pastel blue light of dawn. The forest was lively around the tent, birds having their morning chatter. Drew's boots were missing from the shelter, as well as his towel and grooming kit. Perhaps…

Lyssa struggled upright, flushing a little at how difficult it was to just move. Delicious memories warmed her from the inside out, stirring her blood. She felt almost guilty, giddy and still panicky at Drew's absence. 

It turned out she hadn't needed to worry. Drew was perched on a smooth rock beside the river, tiny travel mirror in one hand while he carefully shaved. A small turtle had taken up residence on the rock as well, basking comfortably in the first warm rays of sunlight. 

"...and I said that of course, of course I'm goin' to have an issue with him litterin', it draws the bears in. And do ye know what that fuck said t' me?" Drew paused, like he was waiting for a response. "Nae, he said 'why should I care, I'm here for a day hike and bears only come out at night'. Truly, the mon wanted to die." The large man sighed, another sure stroke of the razor ridding his neck of stubble. "So then-" 

"You two enjoying your conversation?" Lyssa teased, deja vu striking her hard when Drew turned to give her a quick smile. It was as if she had done this all before, but how could that even be possible?

"Ah, I see I'll have to work harder next time. Ye can still walk!" Drew jibed, making her blush hard.

"I had the weirdest dream, then I woke up and you weren't there."

"Oh? Do tell, love. I'm not quite done here anyway."

Lyssa settled onto the riverbank alongside the rock, pulling off her boots and dipping her feet into the chilly water. She didn't speak for several minutes, just listening to the river and the quiet scrape of Drew's razor on his throat. "I dreamed that we were in Scotland."

The razor noise stopped abruptly. 

"Old Scotland, though, not like modern day. You were a knight and I was some sort of nobility. I guess...I think I'd been promised to an older guy? Like an older guy wanted to marry me and you were helping me run away because I didn't want to marry him." Lyssa hugged herself, pointedly staring down at the water in an attempt to avoid the look she was sure Drew was giving her. "It was so real, less like a dream and more like a memory. I could feel it, how scared and uncertain I was, as though I had really gone through that experience."

"You dreamed of Scotland?" Drew's chuckle sounded strange, forced. "Dinnae realize I had that effect on folk."

"I don't think I've ever even seen a picture of Scotland, but somehow I know that's where it was. I'd bet on it, I'm that sure." Lyssa insisted, still staring at the water.

The large man cleared his throat after a minute and moved to splash some water onto his face. Lyssa noticed that he had nicked himself while shaving, the blood blotting his neck. Drew didn't seem particularly concerned about it though, scrubbing roughly at his face to rid himself of any leftover residue. "In your dream, was I still Drew?" The question was posed casually, like he was asking whether she had seen his keys or phone.

Lyssa smiled, feeling oddly wistful. "You were, one hundred percent."

Drew's shoulders relaxed slightly, the planes of his back becoming less pronounced. "Good."

…

McIntyre.

Lyssa's heart sank at the list of pages that came up just by searching that one name. Motto Per Ardua, dominion over Glencoe, Hebrides, a clan that kept to itself for a majority of history...maybe she would have better luck researching their tartan. Something to confirm her suspicions.

However, the very first image had her staring wide-eyed at the screen. There it was, plain as day, a background of forest green and navy shot through with bands of red and white. She remembered the rough and worn patches of it, the way the white bands were more prone to snags than the red. How could she have known that was their plaid?

She reached for her phone, but then paused. Drew had been strangely standoffish since they had returned from their camping trip, still eager to engage sexually but not so much in conversation. If anything, it was almost as if he was sexually frustrated. Lyssa felt weird about the whole scenario, flattered by the attention but unable to forget that incredibly realistic dream…

Speak of the devil, her phone vibrated. 

-I know this is tactless of me, but there's rumors of a spot opening up at HHH. Still looking to jump ship from your current endeavor?

Lyssa laughed aloud, picking up her phone and typing out a reply.

-Gods you're mean. I miss you too.

-im serious Lys.

She raised an eyebrow at the missed capitalization. Normally Drew was fastidious about his texting. 

-I think you'd do well in this position. When can I see you again?

-Why? Is it because you liiiiiiiiike me? Do you miiiiiiiiss me?

-I thought THAT was fucking obvious.

…

"Dolph!" Drew roared, his hands around the reveler's neck before he had finished saying his name.

Dolph squawked, eyes bulging slightly. "What?! What did I do?"

"You killed her, that's what you did!" Drew snarled. "Ye miserable, low-lyin' scum!" His blood was boiling, brogue tar-thick in his mouth. He was certain he must sound like a raving lunatic.

"Drew, please." Alicia said quietly, touching his shoulder. "I didn't explain things so you could fly off the handle-"

"Trust me, love, this ent flyin' off the handle." The large man seethed, "you prick. You prick!" 

"I'm still very confused-" Dionysus managed to say.

"Actaeon, he wouldn't remember either. Both of you had been tossed for some crap you pulled. You were just acting out your mortal roles, it's no one's fault."

"He's about to shuffle me off the mortal coil-!" The blond squeaked, thrashing in Drew's iron grasp. "Aphrodite do something!"

"What the hell are you idiots doing?" Hunter asked incredulously as he emerged from his office. "Can you two stop fucking with each other for five minutes?" 

"I am about to make an opening in this company's ranks. We could use a new social media director." Drew replied curtly, as though he wasn't choking the current social media director to death.

"Not like that, you're not!" Hades snapped. "We have interviews, paperwork. That kind of shit. We play by their rules, Wild God, otherwise we get pantheon gaps and that crap ends well for no one."

"I resign--!" Dolph gasped, waving his hands in the air. 

At those words, Drew slacked his hold slightly. "Swear it on yer soul." He demanded. 

"Yes, absolutely, whatever you want." The blond wheezed. "I'll fill out the forms Hunter, I don't care, just get me the hell away from him!"

Hades sighed, rubbing his temples. "Dare I ask who you have in mind for the position, Actaeon?"

Drew's grin in reply was slow to come, his dimples displayed prominently for a brief moment. "Oh, ne'er ye worry. You'll meet her soon enough."

…

“You've got some explaining to do, McIntyre.” Lyssa said firmly, her hands on her hips. Her cat undermined her authority thoroughly by winding around Drew's ankles, purring loudly. “Why am I having Renaissance faire dreams, accurate ones?” Your family plaid, the moors... She bit her tongue and waited impatiently for his answer.

“Would that I could explain, Lys.” Drew looked pained, “I doubt that ye would even accept the explanation if I gave it.”

“If I'm going to be working at the same company as you-”

“Ah, ye. See, I'm not the only one there with a little...oddness about them, love. I'd warn ye not to pry, but I know that's a damn lost cause.” Drew rested his hands on her shoulders, blue eyes searching her own. “All I ask is that ye are careful. Old...older...er, people work with us.”

“Just like the old gods that wandered the moors at night?” Lyssa challenged. Drew closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in an exasperated gesture. “How long are you planning on lying to me, McIntyre?”

“Christ woman, I'm not lookin' to get ye killed again!” Drew snapped, then swore under his breath. “Look.” He finally said fiercely, “You died in my arms once. You gave me everythin' you had, down to lettin' me thieve yer fuckin' innocence away on a filthy sheepskin. I was supposed to keep you safe. Instead, we bled out together, 'twined in plaid and cinders.” Drew pressed his forehead to hers. “I can't do that again. Please...don't make me.” He begged, his voice cracking.

Lyssa sighed, folding her arms but not pulling away. “Am I going to regret taking this position, Drew?” When he hesitated, she puffed out a breath. “Okay, fine. At least answer this: are you planning on telling me what's going on?”

“Gods, Lys, you have no idea how much I want to.”

She patted his elbow, then pulled away. “Great! I'll make us some tea and start to fill out that transfer paperwork. In the meantime, you can get started with that explanation you owe me.”

“Now wait a minute,” Drew began to protest, catching her hand before she left the living room. “Lys, ye know I cannae-”

Lyssa tapped his nose, barely stifling her laugh at how his eyes crossed momentarily to track her finger. “You can, and more importantly, you will.” She gave him a peck on his slack mouth and then slipped free of his hold to head for the kitchen. “Love you!” She sang.

...

After she left the room, Drew touched his lips, the dark-haired man still a little bewildered at the abrupt turn the day's events had taken. “I...I love ye too, Lys.” He said softly, probably too softly for her to hear.

It was better that way. Less complicated. Yet as she pored over the forms he had brought and attempted to pry scraps of information from him, Drew couldn't help but feel at peace. Brittle, fragile, intoxicating in its novelty, her trust in him stole his breath and her questions kept coming.

He would tell her the truth in its entirety someday. For now, however, he would let her spin whatever wild ideas she wished. It was better that way, after all. Mortals were so short-lived, and it was better to take his happiness where he could find it.

[cherryonigiri]

10 questions for me

tagged by @akakeiiji​ SAGE BABY THESE TAG GAMES ARE GIVING ME LIFE 

1.) What is your least and most favorite thing about your star sign?

Uh I’m an August leo, but I don’t really know much about star signs in general? But my chemistry teacher in high school used the mnemonic “LEO the lion says GER” to help us remember redox reactions (Loss of electrons = oxidization, gain of electrons = reduction) so I guess that’s my favorite part about being a leo? Sorry I don’t really have a better answer, my inner science/chemistry nerd jumped out. Hopefully no one who reads this hated high school chemistry too much.

2.) What time do you usually sleep and wake up?

Sleep: 3:45 AM 

Wake up: 9:50 AM

Extra nap: somewhere in between 3-6 PM.

If you all couldn’t tell my sleep schedule is not great. 

3.) What odd, totally random childhood memory stuck with you throughout the years?

When I was really young, my family travelled to China to see friends + relatives. When I was there we visited the Great Wall. I managed to climb to one of the peaks/towers in the wall, but I was super scared of heights and thought I was gonna fall off so when we had to climb back down I sat down and butt dragged myself down each step. 

4.) If you could write a book, what would it be about?

I get asked this question a lot (because I help out with first-year orientation at my university and we play a lot of icebreakers). honestly my answer changes each time but I think I’d write a “gratitude book.” I’ve had this idea for a while but basically at some point in my life I want to write and self-publish/publish a collection of letters to the people who have changed/influenced my life in a significant way. I have a list on my phone that is just people I want to write a letter to: parents, brother, teachers, friends, ex-boyfriends (I’ve had amicable breakups and I’m still in pretty regular contact with people I’ve dated), mentors, etc. I just want the people who know me to understand how much they mean to me and that they are amazing individuals. 

If I can’t do this then I’mma write a book about the history/development of fan culture/fandoms and fan generated content in the 21st century. I hate it when people demonize fan culture or mock it. Hands down some of the best writing I’ve ever read has been fanfiction/fan content. There are so many talented artists/writers/singers/creators who don’t deserve the “mindless/deranged/dumb fan” narrative that mainstream media pushes. I don’t understand how mocking/belittling/de-legitimizing the passion, enthusiasm and talent of fan creators helps anyone and I will fight anyone who says we’re only just “dumb fans” like FOK YOU TOO fandoms have some amazing and brilliant people who create safe + accepting spaces while generating complex and interesting content. And you bet your ass I will write a whole book that pushes back on the deranged fan stereotype --thank you for coming to my ted talk.

5.) Who was your first anime/fictional crush? Why that particular character?

Saito Hajime from Hakuouki. I mean, have you seen this man??? Like - he’s so graceful and a badass when fighting, not to mention that he takes advantage of his left handed sword handling to throw opponents off. Also I was in peak teenage angst phase, so ofc I was obsessed with the ‘dark and silent’ type character. Anyways this man is fine AF and i have rewatched Hakuouki multiple times because he’s is still *THAT* handsome.

6.) If you could put yourself in any fictional universe, which one would you pick? Why?

The universe of Kekkai Sen Sen (Blood Blockade Battlefront). Listen. The way this universe execute magic realism/urban fantasy so well I cannot. Like - it’s such a wacky and crazy world, and of course Hellsalem’s lot is probably like one of the most dangerous places to be ever but like -- I don’t mind? Honesty, as long as I had powers of my own I would be okay (i think?). I just love how there are mundane magic things that happen but also really wacky/chaotic things like having a giant materialize in downtown New York City. I mean there’s literally a flying hospital with a magic doctor who can split her self up into min selves to treat more patients like please send me there TODAY. Anyways if I ended up in that universe I would want to have some kind of healing/shielding/defensive superpower because a lot of innocent everyday residents get caught up in the chaotic/violent supernatural hijinks of the city and I want to help out in any way I can. In conclusion, I would like to be transported to Hellsalem’s Lot for the sole purpose of meeting Steven A. Starphase because that man is damn attractive and a badass and I am such a simp for him.

7.) What’s the last compliment you received?

I don’t remember Uh, I actually really can’t recall the last compliment I received but I remember a really memorable compliment I got was that I’m really easy to talk to? The person said that when they first met me I had a “disarming friendliness” that made them feel a lot less anxious and more at home + they felt like I was very genuine and invested in getting to know them. Uh idk if that’s true but hearing that made me really happy :) 

8.) What is the one thing you miss the most during quarantine? (Asides from being with other people, ofc)

Dancing + music. I’m part of a dance group at my university + I love attending free workshops + classes in my community. I really miss going to practice with my friends and having fun with them in the studio. :( I also play flute for the university orchestra and we probably won’t be allowed to meet/rehearse at all for the next school year (bc social distancing/quarantine) so I’m sad because I miss being involved with art stuff.

9.) When/where do you feel most content?

By myself, sitting on my bed while sunlight is shining into my room through the windows.

10.) What is a food that you hate with burning passion and will never eat?

Eggplant. ISTG I am allergic to that shit like every time I ate an eggplant dish (because my parents forced me too as a kid) my tongue gets super itchy but I’m allergic to peanuts/tree-nuts and it’s not the same feeling as when I have a reaction to to them??? so I’m not sure but either way i hate those purple vegetables.

Not gonna tag anyone because I don’t think I can come up with 10 meaningful questions right now but HEY HEY HEY if anyone who see’s this wants to join in feel free to use the questions I answered :) 

[gccdnews]

Did you see JESSICA DREW from MARVEL walking around Limbo? The CISFEMALE looks like ALICIA VIKANDER, and is NINETY SEVEN years old. I’ve heard she can be VIRTUOUS & WITTY but also COCKSURE & REACTIVE. When I think of them I think of HELPING THE INNOCENT BY HOSPITALIZING THE GUILTY, RAISING SPIDER-BABY, THE GREATEST QUIPS OF ALL TIME BITCHCAKES. They’ve been here WITHOUT their memories as an PI & FIGHTER at BAKER STREET INVESTIGATIONS & UNDERGROUND FIGHT CLUB for SIX MONTHS. I heard they’re seeking a sanctum.

// whew. jess has a history™. it's long af and spans nearly a century so im not gonna go into crazy detail, but it's still lengthy. and i'm also gonna modify just a bit to fit in with the mcu for plotting reasons and stuff. if you don’t really care about her full history then there’s some bullet points toward the bottom.

she was born in england in 1924 and brought as a small child to the transia (it's a small, fictional slavic country) where her father was conducting research. unfortunately due to her being a small child, she contracted uranium poisoning from her father's work and had to be placed in a cryogenic chamber and treated with radiation and a highly experimental serum derived from the blood/genes of various species of spider.

she spent decades in stasis, educated subliminally with special tapes. when she was finally awakened she had only aged into her early teens, but she'd developed superhuman abilities.

grew up, moved away, met a dude, fell in love, then accidentally killed him with her powers. so yeah that kinda torments her still to this day. well, when she still remembered it anyway.

got recruited into hydra who she was led to believe were the good guys, had her memories suppressed, was told the high evolutionary basically a "god" figure, idek evolved her from a spider into a human woman, had an agent pretend to fall in love with her, etc etc. basically got gaslit and brainwashed into becoming a high ranking member until she was put out on a field assignment and told to assassinate nick fury. during the mission he told her what hydra really was and she dropped their asses.

got her memories back from mordred the mystic, then lived in a shitty apartment in london for a while. ended up breaking into a convenience store across the street at one point to get some food, but got noticed by shield agent jerry hunt who pretty much hounded her until she dyed her hair and created a secret identity to hide from him

did the hero thing for a while, moved to l.a., dated jerry, became a bounty hunter, moved to san francisco, became a p.i., superhero'd some more, met carol danvers 😍

went on a mission to finally take down longtime archenemy morgan le fay, and did so, but not before some morgan did some magic shit and separated her soul from her body ?? so she goes to the sorcerer magnus and has him cast a spell to make everyone who ever met her forget she existed.

not long later she was found and revived by two hero pals, breaking the spell, but she was left comatose. dr strange gets involved, abra cadabra, jess ain't a cadava'. but she is however, powerless.

continued working as a p.i. until an encounter with the new spider-woman mattie franklin somehow restored her powers, which came back slowly and were very unstable. meets jessica jones, accidentally zaps tf out of her, then works with her to save the new spider-woman.

eventually struck a deal with hydra to spy within shield so she could get her powers back but the skrull queen veranke was behind it and manipulating her so she could learn to perfectly impersonate jessica. jess ended up held captive for two years aboard a skrull spaceship while veranke took her place.

she and the rest of the captives got saved but because of the havoc veranke wreaked, she didn't exactly receive a warm welcome back.

spent some time rebuilding her reputation until she was invited to join the avengers (for avengers 1 in the mcu, let's say). they did some good work and she eventually fell for clint/hawkeye. they dated a while but things went sideways when he cheated on her (but obvs that's subject to change depending on who picks him up, just leaving that in for now bc it seems kinda noteworthy).

skipping comic spider-verse stuff bc how does that work with the rp, idek.

left the avengers after that and mostly stayed out of their business so she wasn't around for ultron or civil war and instead got back to her roots with some good ol fashioned p.i. work. may have crossed paths with the defenders and other street level heroes during this period.  

then of course, came the snap. jess was one of the ones that vanished. using this instead of her death during secret wars in the comics. when everyone came back she joined all the others to fight thanos and damn right she was part of that moment with all the female heroes like she should have fucking been irl.

when things settled down after y'know, dying, she realized that she wanted to be a mother and raise a child, and almost never got that chance. instead of waiting, she got herself artificially inseminated. which was good too tbh because like, look at her luck with men and imagine getting stuck in one of those relationships she'd been in so far. way better off doing it on her own smh

got invited to an alpha flight maternity ward by her captain marvel but when she went there it ended up getting overrun by skrulls and being super fucking pregnant she called carol for help, but the maternity ward was apparently in a black hole?? bc ofc it was lol. so jess protected all the women there, had an emergency c-section to give birth to her son gerry, then popped right off the table to finish kicking skrull ass. carol got there just in time for jess to collapse into her arms after the fight. headcanon — there was always a crush there but this was the moment jess fell hard.

had a liiittle teensy falling out with carol tho so she ended up kissing roger gocking/porcupine right in front of her during a battle that ended up repairing their friendship. then she went on to have a party announcing she and roger were dating but lbr she did most of this sub/consciously hoping to get a rise out of carol. but her spider-baby ended up crawling out a window and roger was the one to find and save him and there were some actual feelings there too, so. complicated. she kind of distanced herself from everything else to focus on p.i. work and raising her son.

not much later, jess realized her radiation immunity was gone and her powers were killing her, so she had roger take gerry to an upstate farm in case her condition could potentially harm her son, then set out on the search for a cure. that search of course, leading her to limbo city, nevada.

upon her arrival however, her memories quickly started to fade and by the time she woke up the next morning she had no specific recollection of memories. just innate and instinctive knowledge like her emotions toward people she was familiar with, emotional trauma that manifests mostly in her dreams, maternal instincts/yearning, her abilities both physical and learned, her interests and likes/dislikes, etc. things that come naturally to her, for the most part.

interestingly though, the town’s magic seems to have cured her??

gonna say she speaks english, romanian, german, hungarian, symkarian, russian, bulgarian, polish and spanish fluently, and knows a bit about a number of other languages.

incredibly intelligent, she is after all the daughter of a genius, raised among scientists conducting research, and her knowledge/intelligence was only maximized by her stasis education tapes.

exudes a high concentration of pheromones that can attract or repulse people, to put it simply. and ignore the original heteronormative connotations bc women aren't typically the ones she wants to repulse, and men arent always the ones she wants to attract. it's difficult to control but she learned over the years. even now without her memories she has innate control over it, but if she manages to work up a sweat (which isn't all that easy for her tbh) or misses a shower or two, well… it's gonna kick in.

she probably can't do it anymore in limbo because she can't remember how, but with her pheromones she learned to control them so well she was able to elicit fear, anxiety, attraction, hatred, pleasure, etc. and even used them to convince the hulk to make her a sandwich once.

fucking loves butter. she's been known to eat the stuff straight up. and a lot of it. lucky thing she has a spider-metabolism.

hc: she loves making puns, especially spider related ones. she also likes to annoy her spider-friends by spider-throwing the word spider in front of everything though it's obviously a joke, unlike in her cartoon where im pretty sure she was dead serious lol

hates rats. so much. she will tear down a whole skrull army but if one shapeshifts into a rat it's over okay, she already lost.

allergic to flerkens. which is great for visiting her bestie/crush, and her pet flerken chewie.

still has her suit but hasn’t worn it yet in limbo. she found it under her bed a couple days after “waking up” in limbo but put it right back because she figured it was probably some weird sex thing and maybe wasn’t even hers so, gross, yknow?

[obaewankenope]

"I read a fic a while ago that had Az and Crowley painting the bookshop and when Az rolled up his sleeves, Crowley was "tempted" and now I cannot stop thinking about the concept. Az tempting Crowley? Entirely on accident? On purpose? His temptations being more gentle than a demon's and has a lovedrunk affect? Him using it to get Crowley to do absolutely anything (after getting full consent ofc)? My new kink" -retyped by fucker so you can respond properly to an incredible prompt

Okay, thank you fucker for resending me this. To the original nonnie, my sincerest apologies for tumblr fuckery. Now onto the prompt! [AO3]

.

Thebookshop needs painting. Well, it doesn’t. The paintjob it’d had in the earlytwentieth century is still good—in Crowley’s opinion—but it seems thatAziraphale feels it needs a little updating[1]. Crowley’s suggestions ofcolours are all clearly ignored by the angel who putters about the bookshop,arranging books here and there so they are out of the way of the paint. Aroller and some rather nice looking brushes are on a small side-table with twotubs of paint in shades Aziraphale refuses to allow Crowley to see just yet.

Crowleyis seriously considering a miracle to find out the colours because come on all ready angel! You’re takingforever when Aziraphale does something rather unexpected.

Heremoves his coat.

“Angel?”

“Hmm.”

“Whatare you doing?” Crowley is rather proud of the way his voice doesn’t catch orwaver and is exceptionally thankful he’s still wearing his sunglasses—thanksomeone for the sunshine today—because he is rather shamelessly staring atAziraphale calmly placing his coat on the back of a chair.

“WellI can’t exactly decorate with my coat on now, can I?” Aziraphale gives Crowleythe look one usually receives when the person they’re talking to thinks they’veasked a rather stupid question; one with a clearly obvious answer that doesn’tneed stating aloud. “I’d hate to get paint on it.”

“You’rean angel, you can literally miracle it away,” Crowley points out, shifting onthe sofa he’s claimed as his ever since the bookshop opened.

Aziraphalefrowns at him. “But I’d know the stain was there,” he says and that’s a pout onhis face, the same pout Crowley has seen on Aziraphale’s face when the angelwants something but won’t actually ask Crowley for whatever it is. It’sthe Please Indulge Me pout and Crowley hates loves it fiercely.

Crowleylets his head flop back so he can’t see Aziraphale anymore, the gesturehopefully conveying to Aziraphale that Crowley is done with his behaviourrather than overwhelmed by looking at his angel without his coat. It’s- it’s-it’s obscene really. Aziraphalewithout a coat on. The soft beige tone of his overcoat is something Crowley hasactually found rather pleasant to see and he’s long grown used to Aziraphalealways wearing it.

Withoutit, the angel seems—if Crowley were ever to admit it aloud—rather vulnerable.Meek. Mild. Things that Aziraphale must assuredly is not.

Hestares up at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Aziraphale makinghis way about the bookshop, the noise of the roller in the paint-tray, thescrape of paint-bristles on the wall. They blend together in a gentle sort ofmelody, a calming tune that has Crowley relaxing into the sofa more and moreuntil his body does that thing where it twitches in an awkward way and bringsyou right back to alertness.

Crowleylifts his head, easing the ache in the back of his neck from having his headback for so long, and looks in the direction of the working melody he’s beenlulled by. He’s greeted by the sight of Aziraphale standing on a small set ofladders, the type with only two steps, body stretched as he reaches the edgesof the wall and spreads paint along the top—cutting in, humans call it.Aziraphale is, for an angel, not quite as fit as he probably ought to beaccording to Gabriel the fucking archangel who thinks the perfect form for anangel is himself. Crowley finds Gabriel to be actually quite repulsive. He’s ademon, he can sense sin and Gabriel—oh so mighty and bright and Holy Gabriel—isbrimming with sins both big andsmall. It makes the archangel repugnant for Crowley who is of the opinion thanan angel should be—well—Holy and goodand kind and strong. All the things that Aziraphale just so happens to be[2].

Butback to the view Crowley has of Aziraphale right now. It should be fine—it’s a view Crowley can somewhat appreciate with thesafe distance of being on the sofa away from the object of his gaze, securethat at least he won’t make an utter fool of himself with his gawping—but unfortunatelyfor Crowley, it seems that the universe has decided to both tempt and destroyhim in one swift act. Namely, Aziraphale with his shirtsleeves rolled up to theelbow, wrists and forearms naked for all the world to see, and two top buttonsof his shirt at the neck undone to allow him to breathe better without hisbowtie in the way. It is, Crowley can admit, a mesmerising sight, but it isalso a sight that has Crowley hissing out at the flare of Desire that flashesin his body, making him want to reach out with his long fingers and touch thatlovely revealed skin.

Suchbehaviour is most unbecoming of a demon but very typical for Crowley and,thus, the demon known as Crowley is stuck staring helplessly at a decadent-lookingprincipality who has no idea the affect and effect he has onsaid demon.

Orthat’s what Crowley thinks at least.

Outside of the perspective of Crowley, thedemon from hell who is a serpent and creator of original sin, it is much easierto witness the fact that Aziraphale, principality and guardian of the easterngate of Eden, is very much aware of the effect he’s having on the demonCrowley. It is, to put it bluntly, very entertaining for an all-seeing,all-knowing being to witness. A good way of passing the time that unfortunatelyhad to be made in order for mortality to be a thing.

Theonly thing the omnipotent and omnipresent being is missing is some popcorn butcreating popcorn out of nothing can be a bit hit-or-miss[3].

Dueto the demise of Crowley’s only braincell, it is easy for the demon to miss theway Aziraphale subtly glances at the reflection of said demon in the window tothe angel’s right; a window that provides a fantastic view of Crowley on thesofa at an angle it otherwise shouldn’t be able to provide. But that’s whatmiracles are for, aren’t they?

Aziraphale,meanwhile, is seriously contemplating calling for Crowley’s assistance justmoments before he has to stretch a little further to reach a little higher withthe paintbrush. The principality had considered simply miracling the bookshop paintedbut had, ultimately, decided otherwise after one evening at the Ritz when he’dnoticed Crowley’s rather distracted focus on his wrist when Aziraphale had spilthis wine and fussed over the ruined cuff of his sleeve. Crowley’s eyes,actually on display for once due to Aziraphale’s insistence, had been quitedilated—almost like a cat’s actually—and the golden ember colour bled beyondthe usual limits Crowley allowed it.

Aziraphale,that evening, had come to a series of conclusions regarding Crowley that haveled to this moment in the bookshop wherein his dear friend is currently a uselessheap of feelings on the sofa while Aziraphale steadily redecorates his bookshop.It is, considering everything, a case of “two birds, one stone” consideringAziraphale has been fretting over how to broach this Issue with his long-timefriend and… something else, but has dithered rather typically over the natureof how and when.

Removingseveral layers, rolling up his sleeves, and undoing buttons at his throat hasbeen remarkable effective in leaving Crowley in such a state that Aziraphale iswondering if it was a good idea to possibly rile the demon up so with so littlewarning on his part. But then, of course, the principality turns his head andcatches Crowley’s gaze—even through sunglasses, Aziraphale always knows when heand Crowley are looking each other in the eye—and makes the split-seconddecision that yes, yes it is a good idea and no, no he shan’t stop any timesoon.

Fromthe tertiary perspective here, we can witness the exact moment Aziraphale makesthat decision and the rather lustful tint to those angelic blue eyes that hasCrowley’s body burning even more than it was before although Crowley himselfconsciously misses the lustful tint. The benefit of having a subconscioussmarter than you, apparently, is that it reads cues and responds accordinglylong before your singular braincell is capable of even noticing said cues.

Itis a good thing Crowley is the curious sort by nature lest he be even moredysfunctional than he already is. And it is also a good thing that Aziraphaleis just enough of a bastard to recognise this fact and utilise it at the mostopportune of moments.

“Crowley,you know you could help,” Aziraphalesays, loudly and pointedly, with an arched brow and Crowley—dear, awkwardCrowley—makes a rather amusing sound that has Aziraphale wishing to smile. Hedoesn’t, but he does quite wish to, if only because Crowley has such a look on his face and it’s ever soamusing. Endearing, even.

“I-uh- angel,” Crowley says, as though that is a coherent response although,considering it’s from Crowley, that is acoherent response. Either way, it forces Aziraphale to roll his eyes at Crowleywho seems to find the act something else to make sounds over. “Right.”

“ReallyCrowley, what has gotten into you?”Aziraphale asks innocently. He’s not at all innocent or apologetic but it isentertaining nonetheless to pretend he’s oblivious to the effect he has onCrowley. “You seem all out of sorts dear.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphaleraises an eyebrow. How fantastically eloquent of Crowley. Truly.

“Asalways, dear, I’m in awe of your commend of the verbal word,” Aziraphale drawlsand he sees the moment Crowley’s brain kicks him, recognising he’s being insulted,and the angel bites the inside of his mouth to avoid smiling. Trust Crowley tocome back from wherever his mind has wandered off because of an insult.

“Oi!I’m- I’m plenty good with words, angel!” Crowley sits forward on the sofa, shoulderblades up, chest arched, head positioned in the way Aziraphale has witnessedsnakes do in the past. Predatory posture. It’s ever so enticing for Crowley to dothat—makes Aziraphale’s own instincts flare a little.

Crowleyhas his tendency for all things serpent but Aziraphale has a certain fondnessfor all things avian. It makes their relationship all the more surprising and endlesslyfascinating. Any omnipresent and omnipotent being would find themselvesnaturally caught up in examining and analysing such a connection even if saidconnection weren’t between an angel and a demon who helped thwart the end ofthe world.

“OldShakespeare wasn’t anywhere near as gifted as them historians like to think!”Crowley scoffs. “Gave him half his bloody sonnets myself.”

“Oh.”Aziraphale gives him a look, purposefully pausing in his painting to lower thepaintbrush and he’s very aware of how Crowley’s eyes follow his arms, the waythe demon’s chest heaves a little harder than it typically does and the angel smiles. “I don’t believe you evermentioned that.”

“Well-uh-” Crowley fumbles. “I- didn’t think you’d be interested,” the demon finisheslamely.

“Iam.”

Aziraphaleplaces the paintbrush on the tray, a minor miracle ensuring it won’t get allpainty on the handle or dry out and descends the little two-step ladder. Theangel crosses the space of the bookshop, intimately aware of how Crowley’smouth opens a little, tongue barely darting out past those teeth of his andAziraphale remembers reading about how snakes smell. They use their tongue.

Witha thud of his heart, Aziraphale sits down primly beside Crowley who shiftsautomatically, instinctively, to accommodate the angel beside him. A snap offingers and they both have a cup of tea each—Aziraphale is uncertain that winewould be a good idea at the moment; though he is tempted.

Crowleygulps the tea while Aziraphale politely sips at it, the angel watching the waythe demon goes at the cup like one would go at water when dying of thirst. Hewaits just long enough for Crowley to gain some measure of control over himselfbefore purposefully reaching out and laying a hand on Crowley’s arm, a little bitvindictively pleased at the way Crowley shudders beneath his hand.

“Shareone of those sonnets that are yours?” He asks though it’s more of a commandbecause Crowley—for all that the demon insists he is a demon and evil and thusobeys no one—has always caved to Aziraphale’s demands; usually with somewhining and complaining but seldom has Crowley refused him. Now is another timewhere Crowley caves to Aziraphale and it probably has more to do with the wayAziraphale’s thumb is stroking lightly on the smooth material of Crowley’ssleeve, his golden-pale skin offset beautifully against the dark black ofCrowley’s clothes.

“’kay.”

Thisis the point, readers, where things Change with a capital C for both angel anddemon. Perhaps it’s the metaphorical dropping of a penny, or some other metaphorthat conveys the sense of realisation, but both Aziraphale and Crowleyrecognise the Shift in their relationship at this very point in time. It is apoint that they will both think back on in years to come and smile rathergoofily. At this precise point however, we have Crowley beginning to blush,fingers fidgeting with the fine bone china cup in his hand, while Aziraphalestares at Crowley’s face and his thumb continues to stroke the soft fabric ofCrowley’s sleeve. It’s an intimate, emotive scene and ever so suited toadmissions through poetry if I do say so myself.

“Devouringtime, blunt tho the lion’s paws,

Andmake the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluckthe keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s Jaws,

Andburn the long-lived phoenix in her blood.

Makeglad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,

Anddo whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time.

Tothe wide world and all her fading sweets.

ButI forbid thee one most heinous crime;

O,carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nordraw no lines there with thine antique pen.

Himin thy course untainted do allow

Forbeauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

Yet do they worst, old time;despite thy wrong

My love shall in my verse ever liveyoung.”

.

.

[1]Considering how out of date Aziraphale himself happens to be, it’s no stretchof the imagination to assume he means a slight change in the shade on the wallsto update it by a ten year margin or something else equally out-dated in theeyes of the modern world today.

[2]Gabriel’s hypocrisy when it comes to the Ideal Angel Form is no where moreapparent than when you look at Sandalphon who is short, snivelly and lessappealing to look at than a sack of rubble dumped in the Tiber. Crowley hasstated this to Aziraphale before, multiple times and rather directly, over somewine and thus has witnessed the amazing sight of Aziraphale spitting out hiswine and laughing himself silly. Crowley isn’t quite sure what is quite soamusing about his derision of Sandalphon but it amuses Aziraphale and he’s okaywith not quite understanding when Aziraphale is happy.

[3] Last time there was the matter of an accidentalearthquake and we wouldn’t want that to happen again now, would we?

[godofplumsandthunder]

Matters of The Mind - Prologue

Pairings: Bucky x OFC, OFC Main Character

Warnings: Abusive relationship (Mild in this chapter), Talk about Corpse (Job related), Swearing

A/N: This is the first chapter of the fic off for @marvelgirl7​ This is also what you get when you mix a quarantine and pain medication together. Hope y’all enjoy.

Auburn leaves cover the grounds where Lacy Garcia, a rising star in the F.B.I, stands. It struck her odd that the FBI was called out for a murder in New York City. A city with such a cosmopolitan was bound on having a higher murder rate. That was simple statistics. To say that Lacy was disgruntled about her assignment would have been putting things nicely. She was an up and coming star of the FBI, eyes set on becoming the youngest director. So a trivial murder case wasn't what she wanted. She needed something big, something drastic. But, Lacy was an agent, and that meant following orders. As she made her way to talk to the forensic team, she was already thinking about her next case. Maybe she could take down a Nazi cell, that would make for some good press. Lacy's thoughts were interrupted by one of the forensic scientists.

"Agent Garcia! I think you should see this. In my 15 years with the NYPD, I haven't seen anything like this."

Laying face up, naked, was a man, probably in his thirties. A clear, crisp cut marked his throat. But perhaps the most remarkable wound was on his left arm. A generous chunk of flesh was missing from the man's arm. Bite marks encompassing the well.

"What kind of animal did this?" Lacy asked, her mind now intrigued by the case.

The forensic scientist, with a grim and solemn look, etched on her face replied, "This was no animal. Those bites were made by a human."

This wasn't the average murder. This was something bigger. Much bigger. Something that would change Agent Lacy Garcia's career forever.

On the other side of Manhattan, in a 19th-century mansion, sat Renee Stark, daughter of the famous Howard and Maria Stark, and brother of Tony Stark, a.k.a Iron Man. She always had big plans for her life. She, like her brother, was incredibly brilliant and talented. At the young age of 11, she not only became one of the youngest master graduates in the world, but she also designed her first nano bit controlled prosthetic limb, which would change the lives of thousands of amputees. Now 28 and in an abusive relationship, Renee is shocked at how her life has turned out. Dating Captain Steven Grant Rogers should have been a fairy tale. He was America's golden boy, flag bearer of all things good and righteous. He would most defiantly treat a dame with love and respect. And that's how things were in the beginning. Steve met Renee at one of the infamous Stark gala's. Her own brother, Tony, introduced her to the Captain, clearly giving his blessing. And for the first month, things were going well. But, things started to turn to the worst when Steve decided to move.

"Come on Renee, I feel like this would do us a whole lot of good. We're too cramped in here with everyone else. I found this place on the lower east side of Manhattan. It's perfect for us." That's the story Cap wove, to get her alone. Renee relented moving, but Steve's argument did have some reason for it. So, with hope in her heart, Renee decided to leave her home, to start a new one. And with her bending, phase 1 of the Captain's plan was completed. Next was the cleaning.

"Renee, don't you see how dusty this place is? Don't you know how bad my allergies get?" This seemed like an odd argument for Renee. Doesn't he have the serum that gets rid of all of that?

"Then why don't we hire someone to come clean?" Renee argued back. That's what she grew up with and she came out perfectly fine. But the Cap didn't agree with that.

"Can you stop being a stuck up, rich, and snooty bitch? I don't want some stranger to clean my house. I want MY woman to clean it." Renee gulped, scared, and she silently relented to his wishes. Her complacence opened the flood gates of this darker, meaner side of Steve.

This side of Steve seemed to flourish in this social isolation. He wouldn't let you go to team events, saying that you were under the weather. He installed a blocker on your phone, giving him the power to chose what texts and calls were sent and received. All while being a two-faced coin.

Renee could feel her health slipping. Not her physical health, no, Steve wouldn't allow that. He needed her health, to carry his seed. No, it was her mind that was slipping. She would find herself slipping in and out of consciousness. Losing track of what she was doing. She could no longer focus on her tech work, hell, she could barely focus on a conversation. Like today, Steve was ranting to her about how Secretary Ross was being a pain in his ass, and how things would go a hell of a lot smoother if he was out of his life. During all of this, Steve's voice starts to fade out, her vision goes out too, and next thing she knows is that Renee is in the study, a book in hand, and no memory of how she got there. This was happening more often. Renee was losing control, and that was scaring her. How can someone not know what they are doing? Is she even safe to be around anymore?

Lacy Garcia sat in her hotel room pouring over the evidence from today. There had to be some M.O. in this case. If it wasn't for the bite mark, she would have written it off as just another mugging gone wrong. But Garcia was convinced that those bite marks meant something. They had too. She was starting to fall down the rabbit hole, caught between her desire to sleep and to work when her phone went off.

"Garcia," she replied as she listened to the caller. "Yes, I'll be right over, sir." Another murder, this time outside of Brooklyn. She gathered her badge, pistol, and was headed out the door.

At the crime scene, Lacy is met with a flurry of FBI and NYPD officials all shouting orders. The scene looks like total pandemonium. She flashes her badge and makes her way to the victim. This time, there was a privacy tent, and officers fending off members of the press. Lacy thought that this was odd. A murder in New York never gets this much press coverage. It was when she saw the body, she understood the media coverage.

Staring right at Lacy was the body of Secretary Ross, with the trademark bite marks and missing flesh on his left arm. This was the second murder in less than 24 hours, with the same M.O. Clearly, the killer was becoming more confident in their ability to evade police. This made them even more dangerous. But when people become cocky, they become reckless, they become easier to catch.

And Lacy Garcia was determined to catch them. Not to advance her career. This was something much bigger. If their unsub would target such a prominent figure, all of New York is in danger. Something was brewing, Lacy could feel it. Something bigger than anyone could have expected.