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mandoalorian · 3 years

Note

If you’re taking requests RN can you hit me with them fighting about something big and they think reader is gonna break up with them but then the reader is like uhm no it was a fight but I still love you and then they get all soft afterwards with Maxwell, Frankie or Javi? You choose I love them all equally (BTw if not that’s okay obvi)

follow up: “ (I meant Javier Peña from my last ask 🥰) “

Thank you so much for this request!! I’ve had a pretty lousy day but writing this for you was really the highlight so I hope you enjoy! I was going to write for Maxwell because he’s my number one favourite, but I thought I’d challenge myself with Javier since I haven’t wrote for him yet.

Lie To Me [Javier Peña x Reader]

READ PART TWO HERE

READ PART THREE HERE

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: mention of drug trafficking and general Narcos topics, blood/a little gore but not too much, angst anGST ANGSTTTT!!!

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

"I just can't believe you'd be so reckless!" you exclaimed, dampening the wash cloth and carefully dabbing it into your boyfriend's arm. Javier stayed silent, although it was hard not to hiss and curse in pain as you washed away the blood seeping from the deep cut in his bicep. "It's not like you at all Javi. I don't understand."

Your boyfriend had a history of being impulsive, yes, but ever since you became 'official' and started living together, he had changed. It was like this new experience had grounded him. Javier wasn't offering you any information about the incident which, truthfully, infuriated you. The cut was deep but everytime you brought up the hospital, he'd grumpily tell you he was fine. That he's had worse. After just a simple look over his wound, you knew he needed stitches. This was serious, and you knew he never really liked to discuss his work with you, but this was different. His whole demeanor had changed.

And this wasn't about work, really. Javier was closing himself off, shutting himself out from you. Once upon a time he'd make a habit out of this. He found that it was just easier to bottle away his emotions and not talk about them. But that was no good for either of you; not healthy at all. Javier knew this. He was trying to change for the better— improve himself, all for you. That's how he got in the entanglement in the first place. You didn't know this, but he was trying to protect you.

Javier was so sure his disguise worked. He wasn't a spy, he didn't often go undercover. He had very little experience; but he was so close to catching this kingpin, he just went with it. Lucky for Javier, he was blessed with the charisma of a criminal and could charm his way out of most situations if it became necessary. Unfortunately for him, the cartel was already one step ahead, playing along with his little charade.

"Javier Peña, DEA." the kingpin grunted, reaching into the pocket of Javier's leather jacket and snatching Javier’s ID. "You really thought you could fool us?" the kingpin chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. Javi's jaw ticked when he saw that his abrupt action had caused his wallet to drop on the floor. The kingpin picked it up and clicked it open. Luckily, Javier had nothing of value in there. Maybe ten dollars and a condom. At least, that's what he thought.

He watched the kingpin's face soften under the dimmed amber light as he adjusted Javier's wallet, tilting it in his hands. His eyes narrowed and a smirk wormed its way across his lips. Javi knotted his eyebrows together in bewilderment.

"Quite the pretty lady you scored here, Agent Peña," the kingpin snaked, gesturing for his lieutenants to come on over and take a look. The one on the left took a drag of his cigarette and wolf whistled when he caught an eye on the picture. "Nice tits too." The kingpin shrugged his shoulders, lighting a cigarette for himself. "Would be a shame if something were to happen to her."

His threat set fire to his heart and his job felt like it had just gotten a whole more personal. He had been working for the DEA for over a decade now; he knew how dangerous cartels and drug lords could be. He would not and could not ever let anything happen to you. He swore his life depended on it. But now he was standing before the Capo and his men, and in typical Javier Peña fashion, his first instinct was to fight.

He went to throw a punch at the kingpin, but one of the lieutenants grabbed Javier's wrist mid-air whilst the other one flicked open a pen knife, dragging the blade through Javier's bicep and ripping open the sleeve of his cream coloured shirt.

Javier groaned at the stinging sensation and his crimson red blood began to stain through the material. The kingpin laughed again, before tutting and shaking his head. "So, you have a soft spot for her? I expected better from you Agent Peña. Last I heard, your reputation wasn't one for commitments. But myself? I'm a family man too. I love my wife. Our kids. So here's the deal. I'll let you go, but you tell the DEA your so-called undercover mission was a bust. You go home, into the arms of your woman, and speak nothing of this. This stays between you, me, and my men. Do you understand?"

Javier was never one to follow rules— especially not ones made by cartel leaders, but he was outnumbered and he knew the Capo had an upper hand. Javier nodded, pressing his hand on the cut and applying somewhat pressure to stop him from bleeding out. "Can't go to hospital either," the kingpin told you with a roll of his eyes. "If that wasn't already obvious. No one can find out about what went on here. Agent Peña, I have thousands of falcons all over Columbia. They can find out where you and your pretty lady live. And I promise, it won't be pretty."

Javier gulped, not wanting to imagine and nodded his head. There was no need for anymore fuss. The kingpin popped Javier's wallet and ID back into his jacket pocket and pat him on the shoulder. "Agent Peña, I hope I never have to see you again." the kingpin narrowed his eyes before gesturing his lieutenants to open the door and let Javier out. Javi scoffed, but stayed silent. The situation could've gotten a lot worse. He walked outside to his truck, guided by the sicarios of course, and made his way home.

When Javier stumbled into your shared apartment, colour drained out of his skin and blood seeping through his fingers where he was holding his bicep. Your heart sank. His hair was stuck up in places from his cold sweat and he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. "Baby," he grumbled. "Could you- could you help me with this?"

"Javier what happened?" you gasped, a knot forming in your throat. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes when you took in the state of him. Sure, Javier had scars, and you didn't mind— but this was the first time you had ever seen him so injured. "I- I thought it was an office day." you exclaimed, holding him gently by his shoulders and guiding him into the bathroom.

"Was," Javier gritted out. "But you know how unpredictable work can be. We got a lead. So- I was sent out. But uh-, everything is fine now. I sorted everything out and erm-, you know." Javier gasped when you ripped open his shirt and pulled it off his torso, dropping it to the tiled bathroom floor.

"Jump." you ordered him, pointing at the sink. Javier obeyed and hopped onto the corner of the counter nearby the sink. He watched as you wet a washcloth under warm running water and padded it gently over his cut. As the faucet was still on, Javier leaned over and rinsed his blood stained hands from where he had been applying pressure on the open wound. "Javi, this cut— it's so deep. I think you need stitches." you said with worry, carefully analysing the depth of his injury.

"No." Javier spat immediately, the aggression and urgency in his voice making you jump slightly. He saw your reaction and placed a hand on your cheek, cupping it and taking a good look at you. You were his angel. He had done the right thing, and he wouldn't screw up now. He couldn't lose you. "No," he repeated, this time with conscious effort to sound less stern. "I'm a big boy, okay? Please just bandage me up."

Your eyes flicked from the cut to Javier, and you hesitated for a few moments. "Okay," you agreed quietly. You knew Javier well enough to know that there was no point in arguing with him. All of this sounded highly suspicious but you knew that you had to trust him. You kneeled down to the cabinet under the sink and took out the green first aid kit. Unbuckling it, you located some bandages, tape, and a tourniquet. "Shit Javi, it's still bleeding." you sighed, pressing the now ruined wash cloth back into his cut.

He choked up at the sudden pressure you applied. "It's okay," he reassured, running his free hand through his short dark hair. "Once I'm bandaged up, I'll be fine."

"Javier, who did this to you?" you frowned, carefully removing the washcloth and unravelling the tourniquet. "Who hurt you?"

Javier stayed silent. He wanted to tell you. He didn't want to have to lie to you, or keep secrets, but he was too caught up in the moment— he didn't want to risk your safety. His paranoia settled in. What if the kingpin's sicarios had followed him home? What if they were listening in? Javier's fists clenched around the cabinet he was sitting on, knuckles turning white. Between his injury, and the thought of losing you— he knew which hurt more.

"Are you just going to ignore me?" you puffed out, folding your arms across your chest in annoyance and looking at him in the eyes. Javi looked down at his feet, not saying a word. "So that's a yes?" you questioned further. Still no response. You shook your head and finished bandaging up his injury. Javier hopped off the counter and followed you into your shared bedroom where you opened your closet.

You threw him a clean shirt and he mumbled a 'thank you' before pulling his arms into it, careful not to disrupt his now bandaged bicep. You rummaged deep into the back of your wardrobe and pulled out a duffel bag, unzipping it and throwing piles of clothes into it. T-shirts, jeans, socks and underwear. Javier watched you, bewilderment written all over his face.

"Baby, what are you doing?" he asked eventually, standing with one hand on his hip and watching you intently.

You didn't respond. If he wanted to ignore you, fine. But two could play at that game. You zipped up the duffel bag and hung it on your shoulder, grabbing your car keys from your bedside table. As you left the bedroom and walked to your front door, Javier raced after you. "Hey- where are you going?" he demanded, panic coursing through his veins.

You couldn't leave. What if the sicarios were outside— watching for you. Waiting for you. Javier grabbed your arm and for a second you felt the slightest touch of empathy when your gaze met his anxious blown eyes. You quickly washed away that feeling. If Javier wasn't willing to be honest in your relationship, you weren't willing to stick around.

"I just-" Javier took a deep breath. "Figured, um- please. Please stay with me," Javier begged, dropping his hand to your hand and intertwining your fingers. "I'm sorry. Can we just forget what happened? We can go to bed, order take-out, watch a corny movie? I need your comfort." Javier compromised.

The idea did sound appealing but you wanted to know what had happened. It drove you insane. You sighed and shook your head. "No Javier," your gaze was cold and empty. "You're a big boy, right? Comfort yourself." And with that, you left the apartment, slamming the door behind you.

Javier raced to the window and watched as your truck pulled out of the driveway. He looked up and down the street for any suspicious cars that might be stalking you or following you, but thankfully, there was nothing. Nevertheless, he cursed himself for letting you get away. That was the last thing he wanted. He kept the information from what happened with the cartel a secret from you because he didn't want to fill you with worry.

Luckily, Javier knew that there were only a handful of places you could go in Colombia. You weren't too familiar with Bogota and so he ran with the first place that came to his head. Connie and Steve's. He raced to the phone that hung on the kitchen wall and dialled their home number.

"Hey, Con? Is Steve there?" Javier asked in panic. He didn't really want to talk to Connie about this because there was a very good chance she'd take your side over his. And, rightfully so. There had been plenty of times Steve had kept work business away from Connie in fear of hurting or worrying her. But she always found out in the end.

"He's with Olivia," Connie replied. "Javier, what's going on?"

"Uh," Javier ran a hand through his hair in stress. "Listen. I think y/n is on her way over. We had a fight. She's not talking to me. Everything is a mess. But, I'm on my way too. She took the truck so I'll have to walk but- I'm coming, okay? So just, keep her there. Keep her safe."

Connie scrunched her nose up at Javier's words. "Safe?" she repeated before lowering her voice. "Javi… what did you do?" she asked sternly.

"I'll explain everything when I get there." Javier promised and slammed the phone back down on the hook. Not even bothering to grab his jacket, he raced out of his apartment and ran to Connie and Steve's.

Of course you were first to arrive. Javier can read you like an open book. He knew you'd be going to see Connie. You let yourself into their apartment and flopped down on the sofa. Connie, who had of course been expecting you, entered the living room to greet you with a cup of hot tea. You didn't even know she was already brewing a coffee for Javier and Steve in the kitchen. You took a sip of the herbal drink and smiled appreciatevly.

"So, what brings you here this evening?" Connie asked, raising an eyebrow with inquiry.

You sighed, nursing the mug in your cold hands. "Javier." you mumbled, as if that one word was enough of an explanation. Connie nodded her head understandably when Steve stumbled in.

"I put Olivia to bed," he announced before his eye caught on you. "Oh hey y/n."

You offered Steve another smile.

"Javier's being a dick again," Connie rolled her eyes and Steve shook his head.

"No," you replied. That felt unfair. "He's just being distant. Shutting me out."

"Well that's Javi for ya," Steve shrugged, sitting on the arm of the sofa and taking a box of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"No but— we had gotten better," you explained. "I mean. We talked a lot. He'd finally started opening up."

Before you could say anymore, the front door to Steve and Connie's door burst open. Javier stood at the doorframe, heaving and panting like he had just ran a marathon. Steve looked confused, but Connie just smiled, knowing that he had sprinted over just to try and fix things with you. You didn't know how to feel. Javier's chocolate brown eyes were sparkling with unspent tears and his heart blossomed when he saw that you were safe. That no hard harm had come to you.

He approached you and fell to his knees. You placed your mug on the coffee table and let your boyfriend take both of your hands. His thumb rubbed soothing circles into your wrist. Once again, Javier was speechless— just wanting this moment to last forever. Wanting you to be safe and healthy in your arms.

Connie nudged Steve who cleared his throat. "Uh, we'll give you two some privacy." he said before dragging Connie out of the living room and into the kitchen.

The second it was just you two, Javier dropped his head and his heart broke. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed, warm tears falling down his cheeks. You shuffled off the sofa and fell to your knees, facing him, and pulled him into a hug.

"Don't cry," you hushed. "Javier… I just wish you could be honest with me."

"When you left earlier, shit, I thought I had lost you for good. I thought you were never coming back." he admitted, his voice croaking as the ache in his heart intensified. Your face softened at his revelation. "I know it might not seem like it, but everything I do, I do it because I love you."

You ran your fingers through his hair and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I worry about you Javi," you whispered. "And seeing you so injured today, it really scared me. You weren't telling me anything. Do you understand how that might make me feel?"

"I do," Javi promised, squeezing your hands tight. "When I said the DEA sent me out on a mission… that wasn't exactly true. I found a lead myself. And I didn't tell anyone. I went out to pursue the lead and got in an entanglement with the Capo himself. He saw the photo of you that I keep in my wallet and he threatened to hurt you. He said if I told anyone about my findings at the cartel, he'd get his sicarios to hunt you down and… listen, my love. They do bad things to pretty girls like you. And I couldn't risk it. I was so afraid."

Javier felt ashamed. Ashamed for lying to you, and also, he didn't want you to see him as weak. But you could never think such a thing of your boyfriend. He was the strongest man you knew. So brave and compassionate. And after this revelation, you saw a whole new side to him.

Your finger gently brushed over his bicep. "The capo did this to you?" you whispered, feeling your cheeks burning with rage at how a drug lord had gaslit Javier into staying silent by making threats over your safety.

"No, but one of his men," Javier explained. "When, when they mentioned you. I got so mad. I raised my fist and-"

"Oh Javi," you whispered, wiping the tears that filled your eyes. You pressed your forehead against his. "You could've just told me."

"I wish I had now." Javier admitted. "I really thought you were going to break up with me."

You pulled away from your boyfriend, but your hands were still resting on his shoulders. You looked deep into his dark eyes and found nothing but guilt and remorse plastered over his face. "No," you shook your head and offered him a small smile that immediately eased him. "We had a fight, but I still love you."

Javier smiled back, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. "I love you too." he grinned. "Come on, let's go home." he said, taking your hand and pulling you to your feet.

"Okay," you hummed. "Cuddling up in bed with take-out and a corny movie sounds great right about now." you reflected back on Javier's previous compromise and Javier let out a hearty chuckle, pulling your hand up and brushing his lips delicately over your knuckles.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." he professed, his eyes sparkling. "So please baby, there's going to be times I fuck up- but please don't leave me."

"Whatever the future has in store for us, we will get through it together." you assured him with a soft kiss on his lips.

Permanent taglist:

@goth-topic @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria

#javier peña #javi peña #narcos #javier pena x reader #javi pena x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #request

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mollymauk-teafleak · 3 years

Note

“don’t do that. don’t shut me out.” + Jupeter

I wrote this for @spiky-lesbian because she’s had a rough week so here’s some angst babe, go figure

----------

“I’m getting too old for this.”

Juno was pretty sure PIs were supposed to think that sort of thing when they were doing something cool and dangerous, like leaping the gap between the cars of a moving train or ducking behind crates at a harbour to avoid laser fire.

Rather than crawling on their stomachs to get their pet sewer rabbit’s favourite ball out from behind the sofa. But hey, it was his day off.

Then again, Small Fry did look delighted when he straightened back up with a loud groan and the cracking of some vertebrae, whiffling her nose and hopping excitedly, shaking the floorboards of their little apartment. Smiling fondly, Juno threw the ball off down the hallway so she could chase it, squeaking happily.

“Next time that happens I’m not getting it out for you! You can go make goo goo eyes at your daddy for a change,” he called after her, brushing dust from his curls and his shirt. But the smile didn’t fade from his face, even after she had rounded the corner to go and cause mischief somewhere else. Anyone who said keeping a massive sewer rabbit in a modest Hyperion apartment was a bad idea was just too afraid of cleaning up the occasional broken lamp or gnaw marks on the walls.

He was about to straighten back up and go back to the book he’d been reading, he got so little time to do things like that these days but his husband was still at work, the boys were asleep and Bianca was happily playing in her room, giving him a rare hour or two to himself that he didn’t want to waste. He was mildly tempted to crack the lock on the drawer where Nureyev stowed away any case files he brought home so he couldn’t continue working himself ragged outside of his own office but, contrary to the size of the lock and the dedication with which his husband hid the key, he really was getting better at giving himself time off.

After all, it had been a hell of a long time since work was the only thing he had to keep him going.

He was about to do that when something else behind the sofa caught his eye, something that wasn’t just a toy of Bee Bee’s that she’d forgotten or one of Small Fry’s hordes of left socks that she liked to build nests out of. He was about to sigh and mutter something about the wonders of having three kids being that you’d find trash in the weirdest places but something wary ran its way down his spine. Something that was maybe instinct, maybe his detective brain putting pieces together and proving yet again that the years spent theoretically on the other side of law and order hadn’t dampened his skills.

Whatever it was, it made him reach out, once again feeling the twinge in the base of his spine, using his hip to nudge the couch further out so he could snag it and bring it out.

It was a small bag, something designed to be inconspicuously held at the waist or over the shoulder, dark in colour so it wouldn’t catch the eye. Juno frowned, the wariness growing stronger as he sat on the couch and opened it up.

He recognised the precision and fastidiousness immediately, like it was rolling off it in waves like too much perfume. It was in the way everything was crammed in so tight there wasn’t a spare inch of space, everything chosen for its shape and size so it would go in seamlessly like a game of tetris. It was in the items themselves, every possible scenario accounted for; dried rations, iodine pills to purify water, vouchers for shuttle tickets that would take you anywhere in the galaxy, tightly rolled stacks of genuine honest to god Earth currency to take you even further than that, no questions asked, clothes folded so tightly they looked like napkins at first. And, in an even more closely concealed pocket on the inside seam, fake documents, fake IDs, fake cards loaded up with fake creds.

And a knife. If Juno had been entertaining any doubts, any lingering threads of uncertainty, then seeing his tired reflection in that razor edge snipped them neatly away.

He sighed, long and low, filing through the emotions rising in his chest, sending away any that he knew weren’t helpful or were just offshoots of his anxiety, counting backwards from ten like Buddy had shown him until all the messiness sorted itself out.

He didn’t pick his book back up. He watched the clock and waited for his husband to come home.

Nureyev really enjoyed working at the salon. He kept waiting, expecting to get bored or frustrated with it all, but it hadn’t happened yet. He just laughed at the conversations with his colleagues more and more, got more familiar with the smell of hairspray on his clothes and felt a small spark of pride at the ache in his ankles at the end of a long day.

It was enough to make him feel something approaching hope.

He slid off his shoes, not wanting to track any dust from outside into the apartment. Living on Mars had meant needing to get used to the fine red silt clinging to his soles every day and turning up in the most inconvenient places, no matter how careful he tried to be. Juno, the Aurinkos and Rita barely even seemed to notice it. Nureyev assumed that came from growing up with the stuff.

The apartment was surprisingly quiet, enough that he was already getting ideas before he walked into the living room and saw his wife sitting on the sofa.

“What exactly have you done with our children, my love?” he grinned, “Bought us some alone time?”

Juno started a little at his voice, even though he should have heard him come in, the door closing, his keys rattling into the bowl. And when his eye lifted and met Nureyev’s, it was immediately clear that his ideas had been far off the mark.

“Yeah, Rita has them,” Juno’s voice was even, not full of scowls and snarls as usual, not in any way a ‘we’re in serious trouble’ voice but Nureyev’s veins still flooded with adrenaline as he rooted to the spot, a discordant clashing in his ears, “I did want to have some time with just you and me.”

“And yet you’re still dressed?” Nureyev was a little impressed with himself, how his tone came out still perfectly light and joking, like he wasn’t completely gripped by panic and his brain wasn’t scribbling blue prints behind his eyes.

It would seem hairdressing hadn’t lost him all of his skills.

“Babe, listen,” Juno sat forward, eye gentle, “Just come and sit with me, okay? Nothing’s wrong, nothing bad has happened or anything like that. I just want to talk.”

Nureyev frowned. Maybe he had lost his skills a little. Or maybe they’d just never worked on Juno.

But he did sit, stiffly, still braced for something awful in spite of his wife’s reassurance. And when Juno wordlessly produced one of his getaway bags and set it on the coffee table between them, he was ready to run.

But Juno didn’t let the moment build, he didn’t keep him hanging. He simply sighed and reached across the gap between them to take his hand.

“Peter, I’m sorry.”

“What?” Nureyev looked up, certain he must have misheard.

But Juno’s expression was firmly set in penance, mouth turned down, brow fallen across his eye which was soft and sad, “I never once asked you if you were struggling to adjust to the way our lives are now. I never thought to check in with you. I let you down in that and I’m sorry.”

“I...what?” Nureyev was well aware he was falling short of his usual articulation but no more words were coming in to fill the blank gap in his mind, “You’re not...you’re not upset with me?”

Juno frowned a little, shaking his head, “No. No, why would I be?”

“Because…” Laughter, of all things, raw edged and disbelieving bubbled up in his chest, “Because the only thing to take from this is that I’m insane or I was going to leave you?”

“Are either of those things why you’ve got these bags?” Juno asked evenly.

Nureyev winced, “You found the others?”

“No but I know you enough to assume.”

Nureyev took a shaky breath, “I’m not leaving you. And...and I don’t know whether I’m insane or not, honestly.”

The sadness in Juno's eye deepened and he squeezed his husband’s hand, “I don’t think you are but we need to talk about this. What exactly were you trying to prepare for with these?”

“I...I don’t know…” Nureyev didn’t like this one bit, this reversal of their usual roles, Juno being so calm and collected and even while he sat here struggling to leash his emotions, “Nothing! I...I wasn’t…”

Juno exhaled, something cracking through his calm, “Don’t do that. Nureyev, please, don’t shut me out. That’s the one thing I need you not to do right now.”

Nureyev felt his throat close and he couldn’t have said anything if his life depended on it. He didn’t want to shut his wife out, he really didn’t, but it was so hard to unlearn something that had been your first line of defence since childhood.

But if there was anyone who understood that, it was Juno.

“Listen, Nureyev, there’s no answer you can give me that will make me angry with you or upset me. I just want you to feel safe here with me and with the kids and...finding this, it’s just made me worry that you don’t?”

Nureyev forced his lungs to pull in air and turn it into words, determined to not be the man who had shut Juno out for years, the man who had packed those bags.

“I do feel safe here, I am happy here,” he promised, feeling the truth of it and drawing strength from that, “It’s just been so long since I stayed in one place, since...since I could feel safe. And sometimes it feels like another cover I’m wearing for a little while, like something’s going to change and I’ll have to run again. And I guess I just wanted to prepare for that, even if it isn’t what I want. Even if I’m praying it never happens, I just can’t let myself be unprepared. It’s not how I was raised. And having those bags...I can breathe a little easier. I can settle into this more because even if the absolute worst thing happens, I’ll survive.”

Juno nodded slowly, eye never leaving his husband’s face, “Nureyev, we both knew this was going to be a change. And change is hard, even if it’s for the better. And if this helps you settle down, I’m fine with that.”

“But I’m not,” Nureyev croaked, wanting to wipe his eyes so the tears there didn’t fall but also not wanting to let go of Juno’s hand, “I don’t want to live my life like it’s not mine. This isn’t a cover, it’s my family and my home and I want to feel like that.”

Juno squeezed his fingers, “This is yours, Nureyev. I’m your wife and they’re our kids and this is our home. No one is taking any of this from us, I promise. And if you need me to remind you of that, I will, every single damn day for the rest of our lives if that's what you need. And it fucking sucks that everything you’ve lived up until now is telling you different.”

“Yeah,” Nureyev mumbled, the tears falling and dripping off his nose now but they hit Juno’s hands before his own and he didn’t flinch, “It does.”

“Come here…” Juno murmured, pulling him close, wrapping his arms around him as their bodies fit themselves together, “You can cry, it’s okay.”

Nureyev did. Because he believed Juno when he told him it was.

They spent the rest of their rare evening alone pulling out all of the getaway bags Nureyev had stowed over the first week of their retirement from the Carte Blanche, all of the stockpiles of food as well, everything he’d hidden underneath their new life with Mag’s voice and the voice of a hungry child guiding his hands. They didn’t get rid of it, he wasn’t ready for that yet, but it went into a box under their bed instead.

And Juno still told him he was proud of him.

Nureyev thought there was always going to be that part of him that had Mag’s rules in it’s mind and a constant hunger in its belly. All he could ever do was fold it up as small as he could make it and find space for it in the back of his brain.

But with Juno’s arm around him and red dust on the soles of his shoes, that felt easier than it ever had before.

#jupeter #tpp #the penumbra podcast #post canon #angst #hurt/comfort #angst prompts #juno steel #peter nureyev

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firebrands · 4 years

Text

flirting with disaster | stevetony

1.4k, M for gun-related violence (but tbh... this is fluff) | “stony bingo prompt fill: bounty hunter au | on ao3

It’s the third safe house he’s breaking into in a week, so when Steve kicks down the door, he nearly falters with surprise to find the place actually occupied.

Stark is prone on the floor, pale and covering his chest.

“Finally they sent a pretty one to come after me,” he manages to say, before breaking into a hacking cough. “Just my luck,” he adds, his voice rough.

Steve keeps his gun up and crosses the room slowly, his eyes darting from Stark’s face to where his bloody hand is pressed against his flesh. Once he’s close enough, Steve finally does falter when he sees the gaping hole Stark is trying to cover up.

“What in the hell—”

Steve reaches out instinctively to see the damage—no matter how many years of training he has, no matter how much bad he knows Stark has done, it’s still second nature for him to help, rather than hurt.

The move proves to be his undoing. In a flash, Stark pulls out a knife from behind him and pushes it against Steve’s neck, just beneath his Adam's apple. Steve’s hands fly up to his sides, his gun clattering to the floor.

“Don’t,” he says, threatening. He pushes the knife closer, just hard enough that Steve feels the first pinprick of pain.

“Let me help you,” Steve says, frowning down at him.

“And then what? You haul me off to Stane?” Stark barks out a laugh. “It’d be a pity, but I’d kill you first.”

Steve takes a step back, and Stark sinks back on the floor, catching his breath.

Steve holds one hand up. “I’m going to get some bandages from my bag,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I need you alive.”

“So leave.”

“I can’t do that.”

Stark tilts his head and assesses Steve. “Of all the goons Obidiah’s sent after me, you’re certainly the stupidest.”

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but he feels a pain in his leg, small enough to feel like a dart, and the world goes black.

***

Another night, another safehouse, except Steve’s fears are confirmed and Stane’s sent someone else. After his first failure, he knew better than to hope that Stane would leave him to it.

Steve watches the man enter the warehouse, keeps him in sight through the scope of his rifle. The man stops by a window, inspecting something.

Steve takes a deep breath, and pulls the trigger.

The man crumples to the floor, and Steve doesn’t waste a second locating Stark, who pops his head over some crates to inspect what happened.

Steve’s about to pack up, make a dash down the building to catch Stark before he makes his exit, but Stark’s gaze locks on his. He smirks at Steve, then winks.

Steve’s throat feels tight, and he chalks it up to the strange feeling of being caught. He slings the gun over his shoulder and runs down the stairs. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and by the time he gets to the ground floor, Stark’s car is zooming out of the compound. Steve swears and slams his fist into the doorframe in frustration.

He checks his phone. There’s one message from an unregistered number.

if i didnt know any better id think u were on my side

Steve swears again, flexing his hand before typing a response.

His fault for getting in the way. You’re mine.

Steve stares down at his phone, then adds:

How’d you get this number?

Steve begins walking back to his own car, stopping only when his phone beeps.

u HAVE read my file, right??

Steve decides not to respond--he doesn’t want Stark to think he can just banter with him. After all, Steve still has to fulfill the contract.

***

Steve wakes up with a jolt. He sits up slowly, listening for what could’ve woken him up, but he already has a feeling—someone’s in his apartment. He’s immediately alert and sets aside the irritation of being woken up from a pleasant dream. He’s been having more of those, recently, and while they were mostly pleasurable, Steve still felt a little confused by the dreams--and the man who featured most prominently in them.

Steve slips his gun out from his bedside table, throws open his curtains to give him more light. He can hear the light steps of whoever has broken in, and he’s pretty sure this is his moment of reckoning—a former mark’s family member, someone from Stane’s gang finally tired of waiting and tying up a loose end, hell, it could be Tony Stark himself except Steve’s pretty sure he couldn’t be stealthy if his life depended on it. If it were Stark, he’d probably have just hacked into Steve’s microwave and made it explode.

The doorknob to Steve’s bedroom turns slowly, and Steve takes aim from behind his bed. It’s as fortified a position as any, right now, and he has the advantage.

His breaths are even as the door opens. For a split second, his eyes meet that of his attacker; he was right, it was someone from Stane’s crew, and Steve barely raises his gun and then the window behind him explodes with force. The man’s head tips back, a bullet lodging itself right in between his eyebrows.

Steve dives under his windowpane, looking over the window to see where the shot came from.

On his bed, his phone buzzes. Steve crawls over and takes the call.

“Hello?”

“Guess we’re even.”

“Stark?” Steve shouts into the receiver.

The line goes quiet and Steve looks over the window.

Just across the street, he sees a vague outline of a man holding up a rifle. With his free hand, he waves and throws up a peace sign.

“See you around, darling.”

Steve’s happy for the relative darkness and the distance between them; that way, Stark doesn’t get to see the blush on his cheeks at the use of the pet name.

“Wait—!”

The line goes dead, and Steve slumps against the wall, the adrenaline seeping out of him. He sighs and types out a message.

Thanks. But I’m not going to go easy on you next time I find you

Steve stands up, shakes broken glass off his clothes, and gets to cleaning up.

His phone buzzes with Stark’s response.

ofc not. wheres the fun in that? ;)

***

It’s been months of their cat and mouse game, so when Steve walks into another anonymous, rundown safe house, he’s not surprised to find Stark sitting on a chair by the dining table, a glass of wine half-full in front of him.

“Took you long enough.”

Steve sighs, sets his gun down by the small table just by the door where normal people would leave their keys. He walks towards Stark and sits down on the seat adjacent to him. If he wanted to, he could move his knee a little so it would brush against Stark’s, but he won’t.

Not yet.

“I didn’t know you were waiting.”

Stark smirks and pours Steve a drink.

“So, what now?”

Steve takes a sip.

Under the table, Stark’s knee rests against his.

Steve shrugs in response. The sudden truce between them feels fearless, both of them exuding the strange relief of finally speaking without the threat of violence.

Stane is dead; the contract is worthless. In the time between hearing the news and the drive to the last known location of Stark, Steve had made peace with the fact that Stark could still take his revenge after all the months of chasing and mis-aimed shots, shooting as if only to strike fear. For the first time in his life, he’s glad to be proven wrong.

Steve curls his lips up at the touch and opens his palm on the table.

Stark looks down at it, his own smirk softening before he lays his hand on top of Steve’s.

“You always knew where to find me,” he says. His gaze stays on their hands, their fingers only loosely interlocked.

Steve’s chest tightens. Stark—Tony, is holding his hand. He wants more, but doesn’t know where to begin.

“You were terrible at hiding.” Steve tightens his grip on Tony’s hand, and Tony looks up.

“Maybe I just wanted to be found.”

Steve sucks in a breath, surprised. “Is that so?”

Tony leans closer, and Steve mirrors the movement until they’re only inches apart. He moves his other hand and cups Tony’s cheek.

“Only because it was you that was looking,” Tony admits, looking down at Steve’s lips then back up at him.

Steve huffs out a laugh, then tips his forehead to rest against Tony’s.

“Then I’m glad I found you,” he says.

Tony reaches up, rests his hand on the base of Steve’s skull, and pulls him into a kiss.

#stevetony #stony #superhusbands #steve rogers #tony stark #marvel ultimates #bounty hunter au #(SCREAMS) IT TOOK ME 20 MINUTES TO GET THIS TO POST #ANYWAY #things i write #tbh i was surprised by how much i enjoyed writing this one #esp bec i was HIGH KEY dreading it #but YA that's two bingos now!!! yay!

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booklover41802 · 4 years

Note

Ok can I ask for another Jurdan prompt it’s post Wicked king it’s been several months since Jude was banished and she’s physically healthy again. Vivi decides Jude needs a girls night and forces her into a sexy revealing outfit, Jude gets drugged while Vivi’s distracted but Cardan rescues her before she gets hurt. And it has a happy ending. I love your angst but I want to see your Jurdan happy ending.

Of course! This was really fun to write, and to explore Cardan’s soft side :)

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Jude

Sitting on the couch in Vivi’s apartment made Jude wonder why mortals ever bothered to do anything. A fish stick dangled out of her mouth, while she swung her legs over the side of the plain colored couch, contemplating life. Her mind had withered and decayed while in the mortal world, wit and strategy a non-essential thing.

She shoved the fish stick in her mouth, swinging her legs and forth, her head resting against the cushions. As she took a bite, Vivi bounced in from the kitchen, a wild glint in her golden eyes, her hands hidden behind her back. When she stopped in front of Jude, Vivi’s lips downturned at the sight of Jude with a fish stick in her mouth. “You’ll choke if you swallow that bite sitting down.”

“I am perfectly content to lie like this while I finish this decadent meal,” Jude said around the food in her mouth. She swallowed, trying to prove her point, but ended up choking. She coughed, ejecting the fish stick from her mouth. Studiously avoiding Vivi’s gaze, Jude discreetly cleared her throat.

“I told you that was going to happen, Jude.”

Jude waved her off and sat up. “Mistakes are the only decisions I seem to be making these days. What’s one more? I have expectations to fulfill, I can’t disappoint myself by doing something good.”

Vivi’s ears twitched as a wicked grin curved her lips, showing off her unnaturally white teeth. “I think I have a solution to your depressing outlook on life.” From behind her back, she pulled out a lacy red body-suit, a black leather mini skirt, and dangerously high black heels. She threw them at Jude. “Put these on, we’re out to a club.”

Jude abandoned the half-eaten fish stick on the table and wrinkled her nose at the clothing. Carefully picking up the body-suit like it was a bomb, she looked at it, then Vivi, and back to the outfit. “You want me to… wear this?”

A mysterious light filled her eyes at Jude’s words. “Of course. How else will you find someone if you wear the clothes you have on,” Vivi motioned to Jude’s wrinkled pajamas. “I have your best interests at heart! It’s time to have some fun, Jude. Cardan is not coming for you.”

Jude winced at her words, knowing she was right, but a small bit of hope was still wrapped tightly around her heart. Of course, Cardan wouldn’t pardon her, but what if he did? What if he still loved her as fiercely as she loved him? What if what if what if. “Only time will tell.”

Taking a deep breath, Vivi took a seat beside her, readying her emotions for the heartbreak she was about to give Jude. “It’s been three months, Jude. You’ve heard nothing from Faerie, and I doubt you ever will. The Fae are not a loving folk. Love is rare to find, especially with a King. Cardan may have loved you at one time, but at this point, it’s better to let go than to hang onto something that will never happen. Cardan is my friend, but you’re my sister-”

Jude raised a hand to stop her from continuing, knowing she was right. The hope that Cardan would show up on their doorstep deflated, but didn’t truly go away. There was one thing that kept it alive. One tiny little detail that Vivi was unaware of. “But what if-”

“Jude-”

“Whatever, I’ll just put it on,” Jude said, trying to hold back tears. Why now? Why had the grief hit her months after being away? Was it the realization that she had something to fight for? That she wasn’t just something that Cardan could throw away, that she was the Queen?

She rose from the couch, outfit in hand, and stalked away to her bedroom to put it on. As she strode towards her room, she angrily wiped away tears, hating Cardan for making her feel this way.

Jude softly shut the door, bracing her hands against the frame, wondering just what she was getting herself into. Her head fell to her chest as she counted her breaths, trying, and failing to calm herself. One breath in, one breath out.

When she had calmed herself enough, she padded over to the mirror up against the wall. Her clothes fell to the floor with barely a sound. She studied herself in the mirror, noting how she had lost weight in her time spent away from Faerie, her gaunt cheekbones protruding ever so slightly. “What have I become,” Jude breathed. “Who have I turned into?” Perhaps it was time to stop clinging to the past as if her life depended on it.

Mind made up, Jude slid the silky lace bodysuit on, shimmied into the leather skirt, and shoved her feet into the ridiculous heels. As an extra precaution, she slipped the rowan berries over her head. When she gazed back into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. After all, this wasn’t an outfit typically worn by the Queen of Faerie. It was perfect for a night like tonight.

She strutted out the door with a flounce to her steps where Vivi waited beside the door. Vivi donned a steel gray dress with little ruffles at the bottom that clung to her figure in all the best possible ways. Around her neck was a single golden chain that held a circle with the letter H on it. Her wrists were cluttered with chunky bracelets, on her ears dangling all sorts of earrings.

“Jude… you look incredible!” Vivi exclaimed, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in awe.

Jude frowned as she looked down at what she wore. “It’s different from what I’m used to. There’s no place to store a knife in this outfit with it clinging so tight to me.” As if to prove her point, she attempted to pull the fabric down a few inches.

Vivi’s brows furrowed together as she gently grasped her hands to stop her from pulling on it. “Stop yanking the skirt down, it’s supposed to be that short.”

Stretching out of Vivi’s reach, Jude headed for the door, wondering why she even agreed to go out. “Let’s just go before I lose my nerve.”

Behind her, Jude heard Vivi squeal. It was going to be a long night. The pair of them walked side by side out of the apartment, and down to the street below. The streetlights outside of the apartment cast their shadows across the sidewalk, elongating their figures in odd proportions.

Then there it was. The club loomed up like an omnipresent figure dangling at the back of one’s mind. Dark paneling paired with an emerald green overhang shadowed the entire block across from the apartment. High windows rested above the overhang, giving a glimpse into the action inside. Rainbow lighting swirled and twirled from within, music reverberating against the establishment. In golden script the club name was printed on the green fabric.

“The Ouroboros. How original,” Jude said, unimpressed.

Vivi pulled her into the line behind all of the other night owls who couldn’t avoid the enthralling pull of the club. “It’s a new club that just opened up last week. It’s the only place in the entire city where humans and Faeries can come together.”

“Do the humans know they’re among faeries?”

Vivi’s hands twitched as she looked away awkwardly. “Well, no, not exactly. The folk that come here are glamoured to appear as normal humans.”

The line moved fast, and soon enough they were through the door with a flash of false IDs. The bouncer hardly spared them a glance, already motioning for the next set of people inside. They slipped past the velvet rope and into a whole other world.

All along the walls were scones cast with flickering blue light resembling flame, casting the club into a mysterious glow. Jude wouldn’t be surprised if it actually was, as the folk played many tricks upon the mortal eye. High above in the rafters flashing multicolored lights passed over the cluster of bodies dancing in the center of the club, illuminating their features. One glimpse of a tail, another of a wing, scaled skin, a shimmery dress, and sweaty limbs.

Vivi craned her neck, searching the crowd, “I think I see Heather, I’m going to talk to her!” She vanished into the throng of dancing people, leaving Jude alone.

“Thanks, Vivi,” She muttered to herself, casting her eyes around to see if she could find the bar. She spotted it at the very back, the bar made entirely of gold, glistening under the lights.

As she got closer, she noted the bartender possessed eyes like a snake. She wondered how many mortals were deceived by his glamour. His eyes snagged on her, and they narrowed in suspicion. She shifted her gaze to the other patrons sitting there, noticing nothing unusual about them.

She slid into an open seat to have just one drink. She needed it to get her mind off Cardan. Surely one wouldn’t hurt. “Give me your strongest drink,” she shouted over the blaring music thumping in her ears.

The bartender eyed her once and motioned for her ID to be inspected. He glanced at it, her, and back to the ID. He shrugged and poured a glass of a dark frothing liquid in a shot glass. Smoke poured over the sides, like little spiders of death. He slid the drink to her, and she downed it one gulp.

The liquid burned her throat, searing the inside of her mouth. She wouldn’t be surprised if this stuff started to pour out of her ears and eyes. Perhaps she was just a lightweight, but the drink hit her hard. Already her head felt as though it was filled with cotton, the music a dull roar in her ears.

A man in a dark, pinstripe suit with a hat pulled low over his face slid next to her. “Long night?”

Her drink was refilled and she once again downed it, not sparing the man a look. “You have no idea.”

“Allow me to make it better by paying for your drink. They call me Atlas, darling. Can I have your name?” He stuck out his hand over the drink he had ordered for her. A crimson-colored thing that resembled blood.

She turned her head to gaze at the man next to her. The lights passed over his face for a brief second, lighting up the scar that fell over his left eye. With caution she took his hand, gently shaking it, feeling his cold grip seep into her own. “No, but you may call me Nicasia.” Whoever this Atlas person was, she did not trust him in the slightest.

The man, however, burst into loud, obnoxious laughter, banging his fist on the bar. “Now that is the funniest joke I’ve heard in quite some time, darling.” Atlas wiped false tears from his eyes and quickly sobered up, a smirk curving his lips. “Who are you really?”

She took a sip of the drink he had given her and immediately felt the world spin under the feet. “St-Stop calling me darling,” Jude slurred.

“Darling I think you need to lie down. Or, should I say, Jude.” His lips upturned as she stumbled off her chair in an attempt to get away from him. The man began to reach out for her, prepared to guide her to one of the open places scattered across the club.

As she was trying to get away from the bar, Jude backed into another man, the scent of wildflowers and wine tinging the air. She whirled around, nearly falling in her ridiculous shoes. The man steadied her with a light touch on her arms. Her vision was too blurry to make out his features, only detecting a faint resemblance in the back of her mind that she knew him.

“What she needs is for me to take her home. And for you to stop calling her darling.” A voice said. The voice that haunted her dreams, nightmares, and waking moments. Cardan.

“And who are you?” Atlas sneered.

With a woozy head, she turned to gape at Cardan. How did he know where to find her?

“Her husband,” Cardan’s black eyes burned as he glared at Atlas as if trying to singe him where he sat. “I believe my wife will be just fine under my care.”

Those words were enough for Atlas to disappear into the crowd. His figure was gone in an instant, leaving Jude and Cardan alone at the bar.

Cardan reached out and laced his fingers with Jude’s. “Jude, I believe you’ve had enough for tonight. Come with me. You’ll be safe.” He began to tug her towards the exit to bring her where she could get the drinks out of her system.

As soon as she began to walk, Jude lifted her heavy head to look at Cardan, seeing double. Her head rocked back and forth of its own accord, behaving on its own axis apart from the rest of the world. “Jude?” Cardan moved closer, so they were mere inches apart.

The club flickered in and out of focus, her attention torn between giving in to the blissful darkness, or to stay with Cardan. Distantly she could hear him shouting her name, begging her to hold on. Her name on his lips was a panicked scream torn from his lungs. “Stay with me! Jude!”

No longer could she clutch this awareness any longer, and before she knew what she was doing, she grasped hold of his lapels and pulled him close, drawing a breath, to whisper, “I love you, Cardan.” Then everything went dark.

When she awoke some time later, she and Cardan were outside of the club sitting on a bench, with just the open expanse of sky stretching above them, and the luminescent stars winking at them. Cars passed by them, the drivers not sparing them a glance, unaware that royalty was in their midst. It was then that she noticed that she was lying on his lap. She became very aware of their proximity but didn’t deign to move as her head was still pounding from the drinks she had. “Wha-what happened.”

Cardan absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair through his fingers like a nervous tick. Even just this brief bit of contact sent shivers running down her spine. “A man put something in your drink and had planned to take you somewhere far from the club. I heard him bragging about it before he sat next to you.” Cardan’s face darkened as he reminisced on the past. Jude proceeded to pull herself into a sitting position, her head swimming as she pulled her knees close to her chest. Cardan shifted awkwardly next to her as he adjusted without her weight. “Thank you for… saving me. I owe you.”

He cleared his throat and looked away, focusing on the apartment across the street. “The debt is forgiven.”

The silence stretched out between them, words falling short of what they both desired to express. Jude was the first to break it. “Why are you here, Cardan? You banished me. You humiliated me. Now you’re back like nothing has happened? As though we can go back to the way things were?” He opened his mouth, likely to spout an excuse. She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “No. Tell me the truth, no half-truths.”

He swallowed once, took a breath, and searched her face as if deciding how much to reveal. “I thought you would have gotten my letters by now. They explained it all and my guilt for what I had done. Every day I spend without you is a day with my head underwater. I am drowning without you. I miss you, is that what you wanted to hear? That you are the one person I cannot live without. I-I love you.”

Jude stared at him blankly. “What letters?”

A wicked grin curved his lips at her words. He reached out his hand and tilted her chin up so she was looking into his black eyes. “So you truly have no idea of what I’m talking about?” He cocked his head as he studied her. “Have I finally matched you in your wit and intelligence? I outwitted you, Queen of deceits and lies, admit it.”

She yanked out of his grip, crossing her arms. “I will do no such thing,” she hissed.

But Cardan merely sidled close and ran a finger along the lower side of her lip. Her pulse jumped at his touch. “Hmm, is that so? Is that why you didn’t detect the riddle in my words because you are more clever than I?” His voice was low and throaty, his pupils dilating. When he was like this, she almost wanted to give in, but she held back. Barely.

She didn’t respond, too caught up in what his touch did to her. She was utterly destroyed by him. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing and moved his focus to distract her by moving close enough to kiss her. “What did you say before you passed out? Tell me again.”

“I love you.” She should stop, she should tell him to move away because she was angry at him. But the moment she saw him, her anger had fizzled out, and she had no real reason to deny him.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Cardan.”

He seemed to be floating on his own isle of paradise. His smile took on a softer edge as he scanned her face for any falsehoods. When he detected none, he leaned forward and pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead. “I missed you more than I can ever express, Jude. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”

“But I’m banished, and I cannot return,” she whispered under her breath.

“Are you not the Queen and my wife? Do you not wear a crown? Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown, let her not step one foot in Faerie or forfeit her life. You could have returned at any time, my darling Jude.”

It was official. Jude was the biggest idiot on the planet. In answer to his words, she pulled him closer to her and hugged him around his middle. Her face was buried in his chest as she said, “I was a fool, blinded by anger. I did not think you were capable of such mastery of words.” She shuddered against him, a few tears falling down her face. “Is this a dream? Am-Am I dreaming?” She was afraid if she opened her eyes, she would wake up in her room at Vivi’s apartment and none of this would be real.

After a brief pause, Cardan rested his chin on her hair and held her tight against him. “This is real. I’m real. We can go home, together.”

She didn’t let go as her lips trembled under the sheer relief that he was here and wasn’t going to disappear. “Take me home, Cardan.”

Jude felt his smile as he brought his lips close to her ears, his breathy voice sending tingles all across her skin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Tags: @illyrian-bookworm, @highladyofstoriesandmusic, @webcraft4eveh, @thefangirlofhp

#ask #thank you for the ask :)#Jurdan #tcp #twk #qon #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #holly black

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artificial-ascension · 3 years

Note

I’ll bite tell me about Ryan

Oh boy oh boy ok.

Aight, so for starters my boy Ryan's real full name is Ryan Taylors II (he was named after his uncle Ryan who died before he was born) and he's one of my Death Note OCs I made for a fic I'm writting. He's a serial killer and I heavily based his case of Jack the Ripper. He kills prostitutes, not because he has anything against them but because he knows the cops don't really care. He does this because he think violently mutilating people is fun. There's something very wrong with him. I tried to emulate every serial killer ever while still making him unique.

He had a shitty childhood. His mom got disowned by her mom for running drugs for the mob and she had to live her shitty boyfriend. He raped her and that's how Ryan came to be. Happened again and that's how he got his little sister. His dad was an abusive dick head and when Ryan was 9 he had enough so he just fucking killed the guy. When he want to court he got of with no punishment because it so insanely obvious that his dad was an abusive rapist qnd Ryan was a little kid so the jurry decided he was innocent. From age 9 to 15 he enjoyed not having a father until his mom got a new bf and he was an ass. Then when Ryan was 16 he officially could not handle it and snapped and killed someone. He enjoyed it like alot and after some moral debating with himself he kept on killing people.

Anyway to backtrack when he was 7 he met a guy named Jessie who's dad owned a bar and they became friends. Jessie had a kid his age (actually it was just a random orphan he found and adopted but still) and that kid was named Jerimiah. Ryan also had a friend named Courtney from school and Ryan, Courtney and Jerimiah all end up going to the same school after awhile and Ryan and Jerimiah date. Ryan also runs track and he's like really fucking good at it. He set records. Ryan also joined a gang when he was 7 because his neighbor was this sweet old Chinese lady who would babysit him and teach him Chinese (Ryan's part Chinese, it's never relevant except for the fact that he joined a gang when he was 7, which is mostly a joke thing) and her grandson was the leader of a biker gang and when they would come over Ryan would hang out with them and at some point they were like "hey your cool wanna join our gang?" And Ryan said yeah so he was in a biker gang when he was 7. They didn't actually do anything they just rode around and looked scary and Ryan doesn't know how to ride a motorcycle nor is he allowed but he's still a member and has his own bandanna all the gang members have. The gang thing is never important it's just a little joke to make Ryan seem tough.

Speaking of which Ryan is constantly trying to look tough. Ryan grew up in Compton in the 90's so he's constantly surrounded by crime so he tried to be as intimidating as possible and he is actually very intimidating. He's 5'11 and 180lbs, super aggressive with the knife skills to back it up and dresses in all black. He's already scary and 100% a true gangster qnd he doesn't need to pretend but he still has issues with intimacy and being nice. He's cold and apathetic all the time. He wishes he wasn't but he has a hard time finding things to be passionate about. The few things that do bring him joy include bread, horror and action movies, Sonic the Hedgehog, Transformers and exploring abandoned buildings. He's very shy about showing when he's actually happy (which is a shame because he has the cutest, sweetest nost amazing and gorgeous smile in the entire fukcing world.) The reason for his apathy is because he's got ASPD from all the abuse. Everyone says he puts the antisocial in antisocial personally disorder and they're right. His symptoms mostly include apathy, violent outbursts, recklessness and self degradation. Pretty much he's quiet and reserved and doesn't like people. He jas very little self confidence and doesn't care much for others unless he really knows them well and actually likes them. If he does consider someone a friend he's very protective and somewhat nice. It takes alot to deal with him but he's really a great friend.

Really he's an amazing guy who went through alot of traumatic shit and had been unfortunately fucked up by his shitty circumstances and has choosen to deal with it in the worst possible way: muder. Ryan absolutely loves to blame his problems on other people and for the most part he's right (it's not his fault he had to go through all that) however him choosing to kill people was 100% his thing and he can't really blame it on his childhood considering there's 100 different ways to deal with that stuff that don't involve killing people HOWEVER Ryan ignores that because he's a fucking seril killer and has no remorse for his victims. He is the epitome of "I love my garbage son who belongs in prison" because he does but he never gets caught.

There's two different ways Ryan's life goes and it depends on the fic I put him in. In the everyone lives one, he marries A and B and joins the mafia with them. He does repent for his crimes but has to live on a short leash (he can't have cash, he has to travel with A or someone qualified to babysit him, he has to keep his ID on him at all time ect.) Because the government doesn't want him to kill people anymore but wants to see if they can actually rehabilitate a fucking serial killer + A knows people *cough cough L* and will be very pissy if they put his boyfriend in prison. Ryan gets therapy and reconnects with his family and also he's set to die at like 87 here.This is the good ending.

In actual cannon, Ryan and B are friends with alot of homoerotic tension. Ryan and B are partners in crime for awhile but after B dies Ryan continues on with his life (Ryan is a massive crime buff and wants to be a forensic pathogist and that happens in both endings) but after awhile he decides life isn't worth living without B and goes on a full rampage through LA before writting an increasingly cryptic suicide note and slitting his own throat. He choose that method because in all his killings, he cut the vocal cords of his victims so they couldn't scream while he mutilated them (witch gave him the nick name the Silent Ripper, though he's more commonly the Los Angeles Ripper) but he'd usually end up slitting their throats in the process, so the most commom death for his victims drowning in their own blood, so he felt its how he should go out. This is clearly the bad ending.

Anyway yeah. There's him. If you want anything spicific please ask ms because once you tell me to write about my OCs suddenly I don't know them.

#my oc ryan

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jaspitch · 4 years

Text

Five Nightguards At Freddy’s

September's Archives- Archive 2

Tonight was no different than most other nights. Show up to take over the last half of the week for whoever was there originally. Thank God Mike called in sick. Despite September practically hating Mike, he didn't want him to get killed. That was plain and simple. The only one who could die and be fine was William, but that's besides the point.

September stepped out of his car with a groan. Last night a friend of his had coaxed him into going to a party and he was feeling the final drag of a hangover kick in. Brushing a thick lock of hair behind his ear, the tall man started walking towards the large red double doors. Somebody was standing there, and on further inspection, September let out a mental groan. It was fucking Justin. Since when did he do Day Shifts? Or locking up?

Eventually he stopped as Justin looked up from his phone. "Hi, Grumps! Aren't ya happy to see me?" Justin threw an arm around September's neck with a laugh. "Just give me the damn keys," The other man stated, rolling his eyes. "Hey, what's up with the deeper voice? Are you going through pubery?"

With that, September shoved his cousin away. He turned and glared at him, "People don't go through puberty twice, dumb-fuck." With that, he snatched the keys away and started for the back entrance, which was by far easier to unlock and lock. Of course, September finally locking up would depend on him surviving another night of Hell. After doing said process, a sigh of relief flowed through his body. The lights were still on, but he only had a few minutes to get into the office before they turned off.

He walked towards the office, running his hand through his thick, fluffy hair. That reminded him of Storm, who always loved to pet his “silky locks.” Honestly, just because he used Old Spice didn’t give the girl a right to be treating him like a dog. Upon reaching the office, September grumbled before almost tripping over something. The man looked down to see a bottle of what looked to be Pepsi-Cola and he kicked it into the hallway. Why the hell did they even have a damn janitor? He never did his job.

Unlocking the drawer with the tablet in it, an even more anoyed groan left the male. Why in the name of God was the fucking tablet not charging in the drawer? The clock chimed right on time, which just panicked the usually calm man. He looked around for about twenty minutes, in a cold sweat, before finding the tablet, some sort of sauce smeared on it, and almost completely dead. Well, fuck that. If some people can’t do their jobs, why should he?

September ran down the hallway, right to Henry’s office, and found it locked. There wasn’t any animatronics roaming and ready to maime him just yet, thank the Lord. He used his pocket knife to pick the lock because that skill was definately needed to survive here in this hell-hole. Placing the tablet on the dark oak desk, September relocked the door and sat down next to the device, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. This was, by far, the worst night ever. A hangover, having to run around the pizzeria, not being able to find the tablet, and then the tablet being dead.

Tomorrow he was dead ass asking for a raise. If he didn’t get one, he would be moving to Loisianna to go be a District Attorney. Of course he wouldn’t actually do that, seeing as how he couldn’t leave Storm here by herelf. Actually, rewind, Storm here with Michael Fucking Schmidt. His hatred flared up immediately. The slacker was such a nuiscance. One moment he’d be cursing the living life out of someone and the the next he’d be flirting with Storm. Weird, considering Storm was playing matchmaker and was trying to get her friend Doll to give it a go at him.

The mere thought of Storm and Mike together rose some sort of anxious feeling in September’s chest. Alongside bile in his throat. He could imagine it now.

“Hey, September! September! Guess what?!”

“What, Storm?”

“I’m pregnant! And getting married!”

“What!? Who are you marrying?”

“Mike! I’m gonna marry Mike!”

Yeah, that’d never happen. He wouldn’t let it. A large bang burst the young man from his thoughts. The door was being hit multiple times, as if someone, or more like something knew he was in there. After a few minutes of this, September relaxed. The door is way too solid for that. Just as he though this, the door exploded off the hinges and went flying right past him. There, in his beautiful purple glory, was Bonnie. The large rabbit’s eye were pupil sized with black floating around them. Not unusual to see, but definately odd. He locked eyes with September before the man threw the tablet at him.

Bolting to the side door, September opened it to be met with the hallway to the bathrooms. He ran down it, Bonnie on his trail. Side swiping a chair in hopes to trip the damned robot up, he nearly ran straight into Freddy, who was coming out of the girl’s bathroom. Ew, what the Hell? Weirdo! Was all he thought before being picked up by his collar and being screeched at. The mere force of the yell startled September and must have overdone his nerves, because within seconds, he was fast asleep.

It seemed to be decades before he awoke, but when he did, some sort of smell almost impuriated his nostrils. What. The. fuck. Was. That. Smell? It smelt like rusted iron..... That’s what blood usually tasted like and smelt liked, isn’t it? Slowly opening his amber orbs, fear immediately set in. Oh God, Oh God. His legs and middle torse were almost completely filed and stuffed into some sort of suit. It looked to be like one of Freddy’s so it wasn’t tight fitting, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t indeed some rods and wires sticking into mainly his legs. September tried to slowly inch his left leg to the right and a jolt of pain flashed through him.

He looked up, his vision blurry at first. Then he caught note of Chica spazzing out in front of him, Bonnie and Freddy walking away, and Foxy peaking in before shutting the door. Chica turned and looked down, meeting eyes with September. Her beak was fixed and not hanging off to the side oddly enough. “Se..ptemvar.” She groaned, her voice cracking and making a high pitched squeak. “Sep..tem..bar. Do vu rec..on..ide mee...eee?” W h a t? Narrowing his eyes, the male tried to move back a bit, only a small portion of pain filing through his legs. “Fucking bird, just go join your damn friends!” He yelped, hoping that whatever had stopped the others from completely stuffing him would be the same for the chicken.

“But.. I... em... su..cie.” Chica squeaked again and the mascot’s head twitched. “Su-cie?” It took a second, but the name registered. Suzie was a girl September had known when he first moved here. She was eight and he fiffteen upon meeting. September had been hired to babysit the girl before she died, they would always play games. She made him feel like he could be himself- funny and outgoing. Even a bit silly. That was then, of course. By the time sixteen rolled around, he was cold and a bit narcassistic. “Suzie?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

Chica smiled and let out some weird “AhrGhGhgahG” sound before leaning down and starting to slowly take the suit’s pieces off. Her movements were jerky and robotic, but nonetheless helpful. And painful. After an hour or so, September was sitting by the chicken, rapping bandages around his legs. Chica was staring at him, watching his every movement. This probably explained why she had never shown up at the door but once, and when they met in the hallway after a power outage, she would just stand and stare at him.

“Okay, done. So, Chica, let me get this right. You’re suddenly not wanting to kill me because I’m well, me. However, the others aren’t going to kill me either because you said so. And this only goes for me when Suzie is in control because she knows me. Also, this further enhances my knowledge that this place is hella haunted?” Chica nodded, which made him drop his eyelids half way and give her a ‘really, bitch?’ look. He wanted to play another yes and no game. That would be how they would talk from now on. “Okay, yes or no, somebody killed you and stuffed you in the suit?” She nodded.

“That somebody works here but you don’t know who, you just know it’s not me because you already know me?” Chica gave a nod, making her head squeak. “You can’t determine genders, can you?” For a second, he thought she was going to shake her head, meaning she couldn’t, but she then nodded. “Wait, so what gender killed you?” That was when everything clicked into place: she shrugged saying she had no idea. Somebody didn’t just kill these kids, they dressed up as a character and killed them. Holy crap, Storm would love to know that. Love to know she could try and talk to them so she could survive and find out who did this. That, besides Mike, was their main mission all along. However, this also just furthern intesified his thoughts that he couldn’t trust anyone.

“I have a few ideas on who it might be. Let’s see, William, because he’s a fucking creep and I wouldn’t put it past him. Scott, because he’s so damn jumpy. Malayn, because he’s a sadist, and maybe Mike because I don’t know if he’s completely sane or not.” As soon as the list was done, Chica blinked oddly. She closed one eye before the other before suddenly bolting out the door. Narrowing his eyebrows, September was about to follow her before the bell rang. Damn, he just barely survived tonight. William was waiting by the entrance, seemingly arguing with Scott. Scott noticed September approaching before abruptly shutting his mouth. “Hello, ladies. Need these?” He dropped the keys on William’s head, turning to look at a concerned Scott.

Through his peripheral vison, he noted William untangling the keys from his hair and settling them in his pocket. “What hapened to your legs? And your uniform?” September shrugged, “Y’know just got dragged into the back room and nearly killed. The usual.” William snickered at his sarcasm, but he really wasn’t joking. “Holy crap! Are you okay? We can take you to a doctor!” He seemed to be about to have a nervous breakdown so September just waved him off. “I’m fine, woman. You need to get off your period.” With that, he walked towards his Falcon(It’s a ‘67 Ford if you didn’t know that. Most people don’t know much about older cars :’) ) and drove himself home. After falling asleep on the couch due to intense lazines, September decided to take a shower, change, renew his bandages, and call Storm. They had a lot to talk about.

September’s Archive Ends Here

#FNAF Archives1 #FNAF Archives 2

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squirrelly831 · 4 years

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Discovers He’s a Serial Killer and He Refuses to Let Her Leave [Hakyeon and Taekwoon]

A bit more on the darker side of things. It strays away from the idea of love and more to control and so I leave you with that as my warning. There’s violence and lots of it for some members. You’ve been warned.

I’m not playing… There’s violence. Not for the weak hearted. Kind of yandere I guess?

Enjoy~

Married to a news reporter for a crime unit had its benefits. Though she wasn’t supposed to talk, she often told him about cases and investigations that were on going that didn’t reach the public’s ears. It helped him, though she never knew. There was one case on going that she was reporting on that really piqued her interest.

There was a serial killer, not something that really happened in South Korea, who had targeted women between the ages of 19-28. There was no connection between the women and the attacks were in different parts of the Seoul districts. It happened at random times sometimes in broad daylight and sometimes in the dead of night. What was worse is that the police were left scratching their heads as they had no evidence that could pinpoint their killer, but they were sure it was just one. The signature was identical. A carved out smile and gouged out eyes as they were posed scandalously. Their legs slightly apart, naked from the waist down, and one arm would be draped over anything beside them and the other on their lap.

She couldn’t believe something so vile would happen in South Korea. She could see it happen in her home country, the United States, but not somewhere like South Korea. A place where women could walk the streets in the dead of night not fearing the danger that could spring.

She was glad she had her husband there to discuss the crime with. Sure, it was her job, but it weighed heavy on her. She grew in fear each day a new woman is found. Their ethnicity didn’t matter to the killer, so what if one late night it was her that the killer spotted. She shook in fear at the thought and countless times her husband would reassure her that she’d never fall prey to a monstrous act like that. She had silently prayed the killer would be caught not knowing that she was a lot closer to the killer than she ever knew…

While home one day, she was cleaning out her husband’s home office when she stumbled across a fake bottom in a drawer. With a pen, she was able to pick it up and find a pair of gloves and a sheathed knife. The color drained from her face as she questioned why her husband had the items. Her mind trailed to the case. How the killer had to have been wearing heavy duty gloves, like the ones in the drawer, and have a large hunting like knife, like the one in front of her. She put the fake drawer back as she slipped back all the items in the drawer before she shut it. She had a renewed determination as she tore apart the room to find other hidden compartments. One held trinkets from the victims like jewelry, ID, and a hair brush which ultimately confirmed the sneaking suspicions. Her stomach turned as she fixed the room back to the way it was and hurried out of the room unsure of what to do…

Hakyeon

Sara heart tuned out the sound of the front door opening and closing. She couldn’t calm her breath or her heart as she tried to figure out what to do. I need to call the police… She reached for her phone Bedroom– Okay, it’s okay. Just get the phone call the police and get out of here befor–

“I’m home” Hakyeon whispered in her ear. She jumped as a scream left her lips from the sudden voice. Sara covered her mouth as she spun around to see Hakyeon. Her eyes widened as she shook under his confused gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Shit… Calm down… Calm the fuck down, Sara… She tried to clear her throat as she let out a shaky breath, “Sorry– I went for a run and I saw a guy following me. I thought he broke in.”

Hakyeon’s eyes were on his wife though hers never looked away from the ground. “I see…” He looked behind her to his office before he glanced back at her, “You should be more careful than love. Maybe you should carry pepper spray with you.”

“Yea… Maybe” She moved away from him and headed down the stairs stiffly, “You want dinner? I was about to start food.”

Hakyeon’s eyes darkened as he watched her descend down the stairs, “Sure… I’ll just be in my office. I have some work I have to finish.” He watched how she recoiled when he said office and his lips pressed together.

“Okay… I’ll call you when it’s done.”

They ate in an unnatural silence. Sara’s eyes rarely looked up at him as she took microscopic bites of food and Hakyeon noticed. She wasn’t as honest with her words than she was with her body language. Her tongue could twist tales, but her body was nothing but honest.

Hakyeon stared her down as he ate his meal, “Hey love…” She flinched at the nickname, fork hit against the porcelain plate, and her head slowly rose. Her eyes met his. “You said that you went for a run” he placed down his eating utensil and stared at her with a straight face, “But why would you run in your lounge wear?”

Sara looked down at her plaid shirt and short shorts she wore. With a gulp she looked back up, “I took a shower when I came back” she forced a smile.

He nodded as he took a sip of his wine, “That makes sense. Of course.” She let out a relieved sigh as he placed the wine down, “Though I don’t think anyone as scared as you were would think of showering– I mean you screamed like you ran into a killer.” Hakyeon’s eyes dimmed as he watched her pull into herself. He got up from his seat and approached hers, “I also didn’t know you ran? Or that you bought work out clothes? You’ve always hated strenuous activities.” He approached her from behind. His finger traced her arm up to her neck before she jerked away. Hakyeon bent down to her ear, “I noticed some things in my office were moved… You wouldn’t happen to know how that happened.”

Sara’s body acted on its own. She shoved the chair into Hakyeon and rushed to the front door. Hakyeon didn’t waste time as he pushed the chair away from him and rushed after her. As Sara fiddled with the locks, she was violently pulled back by her hair. A scream escaped her lips as she was thrown to the ground.

Hakyeon towered over her with a dark look she had never seen before. “There was a reason I told you not to go snooping in my office, love. I was just trying to protect you…”

Sara crawled backwards, “So what now? You can’t kill me. It’ll be too suspicious if your wife suddenly goes missing or found dead.”

Hakyeon’s lips curved in a grin as he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back. She clawed at him when she got close enough and he in turn slapped her. “If you can’t behave, I’ll have to teach you how to.”

“LET ME GO!” She struggled as he grabbed her and forced her up by her upper arm.

Hakyeon slammed her into the wall, her head met it with a hard knock, “Enough.” She stilled at the growl that left his lips. He led her to the bookcase and with one arm secure around her arms, he pushed it to the side with ease to reveal a door. “I never thought I’d need to bring you here, love… But I still made it just in case.”

“Hakyeon… Where are you taking me?” She whimpered.

He said nothing as he opened the door to reveal a basement. Sara knew she needed to escape and she needed to fast. She kicked back at Hakyeon to try to get out of his grip. Instead, he shoved her down the wooden stairs. Hakyeon watched her tumble down the stairs as she screamed and came in contact with the concrete floor, “Oops. My hand slipped. You startled me.” He descended down the stairs after he locked the basement door.

Sara whimpered as she saw the blood droplets under her as she weakly pulled herself up. Hakyeon stopped mere inches away from her as she winced in pain, “So what—” her voice broke, “You’re going to kill me too?”

“Kill you? Of course not, love. We’re married. We took the oath to be with each other” he pulled her aching body further into the basement without much struggle. Her will to fight fled her as she allowed him to pull her. “I just–have to punish you. I love you so much” he caressed her face, “But, that stunt upstairs was just so mean and hateful. Especially when I do so much for you.” Sara noticed a life size bird cage in the middle of the room and she weakly pulled from him. Hakyeon yanked her. His eyes glared daggers as his lips formed a scowl, “Enough with the struggling before I really leave you broken in pieces.” He picked her up and put her in the cage, “I’ll check back on you tomorrow… or maybe Monday” he slammed the metal doors. “It all depends on how good of a girl you can be.”

Sara slowly stood. Her legs wobbled and she swayed, “You can’t do this! YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” She screamed.

Hakyeon touched the bars as he looked down at his caged bird, “I can do whatever I want, babygirl. I’ll let your work know you quit.” He tapped the bars as he walked away from her. “I never did like that dumbass boss of yours, he was always too close to you. I love you.” He left the basement and she was stuck in the darkness.

Her legs gave to the pain as she crumbled to the ground in tears. She was trapped. She was in pain mentally and physically. Sara didn’t realize who she married until it was too late and now she was trapped and she knew no one would be able to save her.

Taekwoon

Harin didn’t understand why she didn’t just call the police when she could have. Her ribs were bruised from the kicks she had received by her husband, Taekwoon, the day before when she tried to fight him. She hissed in pain as she sat up in her prison as she recalled the events from two days before. How she found herself locked away in a spare room of their home where she was cuffed to the bed by her ankle. She pulled her knees to her battered body as she recalled what lead him to snap and become someone she didn’t know.

“As if I’d ever love a killer” Harin cried as she headed out the room. She had confronted him with the evidence she found in his room the same day. She was hurt and sick to her stomach as she stared at the man in front of her who she called her husband. “We’re over. You’re sick.”

Taekwoon saw red, “You don’t love me?” He felt his rage consume him as he watched her leave. “You’re just like those other women… You’ve been pretending to be my wife… Give my wife back” he growled as he went after Harin.

Harin was pulled back by her hair and thrown to the ground as she let out a scream. She covered her face as she hit the ground as she looked up at Taekwoon. His eyes were empty as he loomed over her. “Taekwoon…” She whimpered as she scooted back. Taekwoon pulled off his tie as he approached her. Harin shook as she stood up and made her way to the bathroom just as he lunged at her. She went to slam the door, but Taekwoon was faster. He let out a growl as his barefoot and his arm blocked the door. “TAEKWOON STOP!” His arm and leg yanked themselves out of the door space and Harin shut and locked it. She let out a hiccuped cry as she back away from the door.

It was quiet minus her sobs as she hid inside the tub. Harin tried to silence her cries as she pressed a shaky hand over her mouth. She heard the doorknob move, but the lock held it in place. It stopped and Harin let out a sigh, but her relief was short lived as a bang sounded against the door. She pressed herself against the tub as a fire extinguisher broke parts of the wood door enough for Taekwoon to slip his hand inside and unlock it.

“Where are you?” His voice was cold and lifeless as he opened the door and threw the extinguisher to the ground. Harin pressed her hands to her mouth as she saw his shadow walk through their bathroom. As he drew to the tub, her heart accelerated and he pulled open the curtains, “Found you.” Taekwoon dragged her out of the tub as she screamed and tried to fight him off. He let her go for a moment to retrieve his knife. To him, he only saw another girl pretending to be his wife. The girl before him wasn’t her. She couldn’t possibly. Harin tried to make one last attempt to flee, but she hit the ground when he slammed one of her trophies against her head as he couldn’t get his knife in time. Her eyes rolled as she fell to the ground.

The thud of her body was what returned Taekwoon to his senses. He saw his wife out on the ground unconscious. He could tell by her chest rising and falling that she wasn’t dead, but the gash in her head wouldn’t stop bleeding. He took a seat on the edge of his bed and tried to rationalize his actions. “If you didn’t snoop in my things” he shook his head “we would still be fine. Why did you have to go behind my back?” He got off the bed and looked at his wife, “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DO THAT? AFTER ALL I’VE DONE AND YOU DON’T LOVE ME?” He reached back and threw his lamp off the nightstand beside him. Taekwoon’s eyes darkened as he picked up her unconscious figure and took her into a spare room they had never used.

Harin jumped at the sound of the door lock and she pulled up the covers that were at her feet to her chest. Her heart hammered against her chest as the door opened to reveal Taekwoon.

He approached the bed with a dinner in his hand, “Are you going to eat this time or throw a fit?”

“I wouldn’t throw a fit if you just let me out.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he dropped the plate on the nightstand. “I’d be more than happy to if I could trust that you wouldn’t try to run off or tell the police.” He took a seat on the side of the bed and looked at her.

“I told you” she choked on her words, “I wouldn’t try… I love you…”

His eyes met hers and he reached out to her. She flinched and Taekwoon shook his head, “I can’t trust you when you flinch from me like you do..” He gave her a sad look as he rose from the bed. “I understand, this is a lot to get used to, so take all the time you need. I’ll let you out when you’re ready.” He left the room ignoring her please and when she heard the locks she broke into sobs.

Jaehwan and Hongbin || Wonshik and Sanghyuk

Credit to gif owners

Written & revamped by Squirrelly831

♕ REQUEST

☮ VIXX MASTERLIST

∞ ULTIMATE MASTERLIST

#kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #kpop #vixx #vixx reactions #vixx scenarios #hakyeon scenarios #taekwoon #taekwoon scenarios #kpop yandere

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ripuels · 4 years

Text

Rival Gangs AU: warnings of blood, violence, swearing, bruising, etc.

For @annabellioncourt thank you!

(This got too long so I’m publishing as a text post to use a Read More that’ll actually work. This website is amazing. Really. Also I’m Very Tired, sorry if the editing looks like a four year old did it)

“Are you the one who's been following me? Stalking me?”

Amanda had recognised the eyes straight away, the depth of brown peering over a khaki bandana, pinched tight over his nose and tied at the base of his neck. The switchblade pressing against his throat shaves a tuft of green from it.

“Fucking answer me, pretty boy.”

His hand moves gingerly as if he were defusing a bomb, a knife rolls from his fingers and clatters into the blue metal like a gunshot in the dark.

“I’m sorry, Ripley.” The synthetic with every reason to flinch doesn't. This woman, more leather and machine grease than human, holding him fast against the tunnel wall, shivers with unpredictability. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You couldn't scare me if you tried. Fuck,” she grimaces against the fading adrenaline, leaving her a dizzy creature, a lamb, holding up a lion.

They both know a severed throat wouldn't do much to stop a berserk synthetic, especially not with her struggling grip. He stands still regardless, unfazed by the threat.

“How the hell did you even find me, Samuels?”

He glances to the blood leading down the train line. A dot-to-dot probably leading all the way from the outskirts of snob-hill to here, X marks the spot right over his chest, staining his cashmere sweater.

Amanda grunts in comprehension and shoves herself off the wall, leaving him to brush his clothes smooth. “Okay, good point.”

Samuels wishes it wasn't. “You've lost a lot of blood. Are you alright?”

“Fucking peachy.” She says, retreating onto her gang's side of the tracks, replacing the switchblade into her leather jacket with incomprehensible speed. “Wish I could say the same about my bike, I swear to God, if there's so much as a scratch on it, I’ll kill the lot of ‘em.”

She brushes her fingers back through her hair, her hood falling down and he pans over her injuries.

“What happened to you?”

Ripley scoffs in disbelief, leaning a heavy shoulder into the dark emergency alcove. “Like you don't know.”

“I was told nothing more than they intended to attack. They know I'm conflicted by protocols. That I struggle in a fight. I think they try to be kind by not inviting me.”

“Or they know you'll get in their way.” Which he does, far too often to go unnoticed by David. “You're too good for this life, Samuels. It's going to catch up to you one day, believe me.”

This synthetic's deep frown flinches, easing to something far, far worse. Sadness. After all this time, after so many close encounters with others like him, she'd never seen one be that before.

“Was no big deal.” Amanda can't bare his gaze. “Got jumped behind the garage when everyone fucked off home, too pissed to ride. Fucking cowards, I got shoved in a boot, driven out, and I got away, but... Well,” she gestures vaguely at her face. “It's obvious they didn't want to kill me.”

Christopher knows it's because she would absolutely be dead, and they'd have war on their hands. No, this freckle of red and staining of blue was a scare tactic, an obviously ineffective one as she winces her next breath. Heavy, resolute. Plotting.

“They shouldn't have been on your side of town.” His voice sounds accusing, but for what it's unclear.

“I didn't fucking provoke them, if that's what you're asking. Your lil' biker gang of Decepticon wannabees probably just don’t like the fact we kicked your ass in the park district. It's ours now. You want it back? Fine, time and place. Name it.”

“I personally couldn't care less.” Samuels says rather than stating her very existence seems to egg his crew, his family, on. “I'm worried why you were left alone in the first place, is there still no honour amongst thieves?”

“It's Sunday.” Amanda shrugs as though it explains everything. “Believe it or not, we don't live to terrorize you, we all have jobs to go to tomorrow. Real lives outside this territorial bullshit. To be honest though,” she trembles to dab her brow and winces, a bruise beginning to darken the outer corner of her eye. “I could really use a day off.”

“I'm sorry.” He mumbles and it surprises her.

“Why? You had nothing to do with it. Funnily enough, you never do.”

“Yes, I did.” A hardness sets in Samuels' gaze, the purity and innocence vanishing in a heartbreaking fall. She can't help but feel as though it's like an angel from grace. “I could have warned you, but by the time I heard-”

“Shit, Samuels. Don't start blaming yourself, you would'a been killed for stepping foot over the tracks anyway, let alone coming to the workshop. You didn't do anything wrong, I know that. We're good.” It kills to give her direct rival such power. “And yeah, we might be from different worlds completely, but I don't let the actions of some reflect on the whole thing.”

“Who was it?” He doesn't need to ask, just go back to the clubhouse and see who's missing teeth or some digits. Find someone sourcing parts for repair. “Ash? David?”

“Doesn't matter who it was, they'll be on their guard for a bit now. No need to protect them.” The quiet rage surprises them both, just as genuine as it is violent. “Yet.”

“Please, don’t do this.” Despite all the warnings in his programming, Samuels steps over, ducking into the small archway she's hunkering in. “I’m sick of the bloodshed, on both sides. I'm thinking about- No, I am certain. I'm out, Ripley.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yes.” He says in a way that makes her believe him. “I can't see people like this anymore, I can't keep repairing my friends and pretending that it's not all for nothing. That they aren't terrible enough they can do this to you, a human. That you, or one of your friends won't kill us in a few months when tensions run high again anyway.”

Tensions are always high, Amanda thinks as he moves towards her, licking his thumb and scrubbing at a spot of blood on her cheek. It makes no difference in the grand scheme, one mark amongst hundreds. He licks it again and she recoils, almost in disgust, but he stares like steel, nonchalantly taking to the mass of red on her cheekbone. She winces, but doesn't pull away.

“You look a mess.” Samuels hums thoughtfully, tugging his bandana off his neck and sucking on a corner, using it to clean her lip. “They shouldn't have gone this far.”

“Had worse. Done worse.”

“Seen worse.” He states flatly. “Doesn't mean it's not upsetting to me.”

“To your protocols.” Amanda doesn't mean to make it sound so much like a weakness, rather than she actually admired it about this one.

“That too.”

“Speaking of which, since when have you been carrying a knife?” Amanda cocks her head away into his other palm under her ear, a little skeptic, a little in pain. “You expecting a fight or something?”

“With Amanda Ripley involved, always.” He says deadpan, but there's an attempted note of humour in his voice. Her reputation is littered in grey, some awful things proven to be small town gossip; and other more harrowing tales that perhaps only he knows, absolute truth. “But it wasn't for you, I was worried about being followed.”

“Like you were following me?” Her voice finally cracks in good humour, it's short lived but Samuels falters.

“Just- keep still, will you?”

“Yes, okay, Christopher.” How anyone with a self appointed ID like that ended up in any gang at all is beyond her. She nudges him. “What the hell kind of name is Christopher anyway? Doesn’t exactly scream synthetic delinquent.”

“Like you're one to talk,” he finally smiles, “Amy.”

They fall into a relaxed silence in the dim, a damp trickle of moisture running from the overpass nearby, fog rolling in down the way. They are relatively secluded, the green exit sign casting them both in a nebulous glow as her wounds are silently tended to in less than sanitary conditions. His eyes leave the mess of injury for hers every few seconds, searching for a tell of her discomfort. Of course it is always relative. Now, it's not so much his proximity to her that's cranking at her anxiety, but the thought that if he was seen on their turf, even by a metre or two, he'd be killed. If they were seen so close, they both might be, the speed of which would depend on who came across them first.

She remembers Zula, the best damn right hand Amanda ever had, and that Davis, he was alright for a military device. They'd been chased to the edge of the world when David found out about them. They were nothing more than friendly, familiar, but they've yet to stop running for it. An anonymous letter is delivered every now and again, no return address, but one day, she knows they're going to stop.

This, she thinks, is far too close to that.

“What is it?” Christopher asks the darkening of her face, the silence waning of it's humour.

“Why the hell are you here? You know if I'm seen with you they'll fucking kill me.” She pushes off the wall, nearly right into his chest. Though her stature is found sorely wanting, her entire demeanour screams louder than Samuels ever could in raw, fearsome, violence. Barely contained in a 5’ 5 cage. “Get the fuck out of here Samuels, before you get us both-”

She swallows her words as his lips crash onto her own, hesitating briefly until her hands take his jaw with a demanding hardness. Shoving herself into him, they hit the far wall hard enough to encourage a deep grumble amongst a slew of colourful names for idiocy, and more specifically, him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Her body presents no complaint. “Chris- think about this.”

“I am- I have.” He brushes down to her neck, detects her tensing, pushing back harder as he finds a firm lump of bruise. A footprint. Fucking David.

It's a wonder what it would be like to feel, anything, let alone pain, learn what about it grounds this woman. It would be a fair deal, he supposes, to have a sense of the worst rather than nothing at all

“Then you're an idiot and a deadman.”

“You don't scare me, Amy.” He says as her angry kisses take control of him. Holding her, bloody and bruised, just tight enough to hurt in all the places it doesn't yet, until his systems blare that it's too much. That it encourages the alarming grip she has of his hair or neck or shoulders.

“I should.” She hisses in response.

Christopher knows it too. The ghastly stories she had whispered, melting from her lips as her icy exterior thaws over his chest. Her leather and flannels, his denim and cashmere, both of their embroidered patches, all scattered over the floor of dingy motels. Completely bare together, stripped of identity in the next town over, then the next. Riding further and further until one day they might never stop.

Never need to retreat with their fallen. To lick wounds. To prepare for next time.

Next time.

Because there were plenty. So often they met on the field, in the canyon, at the lookout, her hands stained white taking life, his red from saving it. For years Christopher would always find her after the fights by an upturned motorcycle, pacing at an old inn or bar, fingers through her hair, and he'd lead them to a room. They'd find relief from the wounds and the damage, the over-stimulation and adrenaline. Take whatever was left out on each other. It became their ritual.

Now, just like every other time, he takes the side of her face, but offers something new. “Leave with me. Right now. For good. Don't make me beg.”

“What?” Her lips are yet to leave his, but Samuels' eyes open to slits, slowly pulling away to gauge her.

“Why do we ever come back, Amy? We know how to get out, in the chaos of the aftermath, we abandon our people to fuck in cheap rooms and play it off as hunting down each other's stragglers. How long do you think we can keep this lie up? How long until they learn where we really go?” Samuels allows himself to lean in, accept a kiss that feels awfully final as her hands grow unbearably tight at his shoulders, taking him by the collar with a rough shake.

“Jesus, Chris, you can’t be serious. Open your Goddamn eyes.” A demand weaponized by a glance down, their different attire barely touching at the chest but worlds apart, threatening to collide like two orbits never meant to meet. On course to implode, or burn out. It's impossible to tell. “Look at us. I’m a greaser. A criminal. I darken the city with a pitch black bike, and run red into the streets. I am a fucking menace to society just like the rest of us. And you, fuck, you’re a synthetic with a heart of gold. And if you- if you let me, I’m going to ruin that. Ruin you. Shit, I mean you already look forward to the turf wars, because you know what comes after.”

“I do not look forward to them, but being there means I can keep an eye out for you if you need.” His gaze moves away lazily, unapologetic. “They do herald the time we spend together, but it's not that which I like. It's the fact we can escape for a while, just us. A breath of fresh air amongst all of this.”

“And we come back because we know they’ll-” her voice cracks, “they'll find us. Out there is a big fucking world that we already know we can't hide in, we'd never find peace. There's no future, not for me and you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I mean.” She stands back again. Breaking away. “I mean I'm out too. Of this. Of us.”

His face, already torn between sadness and fear, falls further. “Do you think there is peace here? At least we have a chance out there. Movement, that's what will keep us safe. On the road, under the sun and stars, rain and shine, I don't fucking care. As long as you say you'll come.”

“Samuels, we’ve tried before, to run,” she mumbles softly, “and we were caught. Hurting the others, I don't give a shit, you know I fucking don't, but having to hurt you-”

“Do not dare blame yourself.” He says sternly, holding his shoulder where a long jagged ridge of repaired silicone pushes back. “I didn't feel a thing. They had to believe me, it was the only way.”

“No,” the tremble cheats the strength in her voice, in her eyes. A hundred times he’d looked into them and not seen this. “There was another way, there was always another way, we just don't want to admit it.”

“And I never will. You cannot convince me to move on, to leave you.”

“You have to. My people will try to kill me, and they'll definitely kill you, and-”

“Then I'll die.”

“Christopher...” She closes the gap between them, hesitant and desperate arms crashing around each other. No longer willing to exchange needy kisses, but fill a void. Squeeze so hard his respiratory system freezes. “Where are we meeting this time?”

“Pardon?”

“I need to get my bike, and you need to get off this side of town. But then what?”

He frowns deeply, for the first time he doesn't want to go through with it. “For our usual rendezvous?”

She convinces herself to back away, catching the last fragments of him like this, his fingers loosening their suddenly paper gentle grip on her waist. “I've been called many things, Christopher Samuels, but never shy of a challenge. Let's get the fuck out of here.”

Chris takes a step forward but stops, “Amanda,” he whispers, not wanting to ask if she's serious, strain this already brittle, whimsical promise. “Sunrise. The lookout.”

“Be there. Oh, and one more thing?” She calls back down the tracks, “I love you.” Her voice echoes in the dark long after she's gone.

#my brain feels like it's in the back of a moving van and the stig is driving #so i hope this is okie #enjoyyyy

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eye-raq · 5 years

Text

Who named you?!!!

Erik Stevens x Beulah May Jenkins 😊

Warnings: HUMOR, and I guess fluff.

Summary: (imagine Erik finding out his girl got an old ass name) Erik and his girl get ready to go out to a house warming of her families, but before they go Erik stumbles upon some “new” information.

I hope y’all like this little one shot that me and my friends in the group chat cooked up 😂😂😂 we some goofy bitches. Not really tagging alot of people because this is meant for a little fun to read I guess lol. I hope its good.

“What the fuck? LAH LAH!!”

Lah Lah was in the middle of laying her baby hairs, putting her faux locs up in a bun, wearing high waisted ligh wash jeans, a crop top in red and a pair of black heels.

“Erik clearly I’m fucking busy babe!”

“Nah this some serious shit here! Don’t make me have to tell yo ass twice.”

She groans loudly, stomping out of the bathroom and down the hall to their master bed room. When she enters, she stumbles backward, her ankle sort of twisting awkwardly now shooting pain up her calve from her heels.

The color drained from her face, she was haunted.

“Who the hell is Beulah May Jenkins?!” Erik was shirtless, only in his Jean joggers and Nike vapor max plus.

She had a pained look on her face as she sped over, snatching up the ID, holding it behind her back.

“None of your got damn business! OOOO!! Damn why you going through my shit?!” She was throwing a minnie tempo tantrum. Erik noticed how jumpy she was, eyes looking anywhere but at him. He had a peering look in his eyes, tongue running over his upper teeth.

“Number one, your shit was near my shit. I found this fucking thing under my side of the bed. Number two-“

“Number TWO sit your big ass DOWN, and shut the fuck UP.” She pressed with irritation, counting off on her fingers dramatically trying to divert his attention away from where he was headed.

“So kindly get dressed so we can be outta here.” She wanted it to be over but surely she knew that Erik wouldn’t let this go. He clapped his hands together so loud it echoed off the walls.

“AYEEE! Let’s turn this shit back around Lah Lah Loopsy!!” He sounded out, holding up two fingers.

“Number two, why the fuck you got Big Mama name on here instead of Lah Lah?!” He gave her a quizzical look.

Lah Lah’s eyes almost left her sockets.

“What the fuck you in Lah Lah land or some shit?!” He glowered, scuffing afterwards.

“It’s-it’s not-I.” She could rip her hair out. She could not believe this was happening right now.

Before she could even think, Erik snatched up the ID again.

“ERIK STOP!!” She could cry hard.

She felt her heart race, her leg jiggled with anxiety. This was a huge secret for her.

Erik scanned the ID with his large muscular back facing her, silence between them. The only sound that could be heard was him tapping the card with his fingers. Lah Lah just stood there hugging herself, eyes burning a hole into his back. After what felt like a minute, she watches as Erik shakes his head, taking in a long obnoxious deep breath, before turning back around, scratching his brow.

“Lah Lah...From What I have gathered, it appears this is, YOUR drivers license and not some practical joke from Spencer’s gift shop.” He spoke with fake professionalism. He gazed, one eyebrow flicked upwards into his dreads.

Lah Lah ass couldn’t even speak.

“The name on this drivers license reads, Beulah May-“ he clears his throat, a fist to his mouth.

“Sorry, I had a tickle in my throat, but the name here reads Beulah May Jenkins.” He pointed to each name, from first to last, confusion written on his face, his own words scrambled.

“So in my head I’m like nah uh uh fuck that shit this can’t be her with this geriatric ass name, but then I look below it and see 10/15/1989.” He laughs as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“This is DEFINITELY a real ID and everything too.”

She looked as if she were going to faint. He fixed her with a hard gaze.

“It appears that my girl going to late night bingo with Dolores and Betty.” He stared briefly as if curious and evasive.

Lah Lah let out a long agonizing breath, shaking her head before placing her hands on her hips.

“So basically you wanna play?! Either way you know it’s mines nigga!!!” She could crap her pants right now from the embarrassment.

Erik folds his arms over his bare chest.

“Who did this shit to you? Who named you?!” He tried to convey a sincere tone but Lah Lah... Beulah knew that Erik was working his way up to clowning her more.

“Who was it?! Miss Karen or Mr Rod?” Erik licked at his bottom lip with a smirk slowly rising.

“Ole soul food ass name. You gonna tell me who it was?! Or stay mute?! I’m already flabbergasted.” He was struggling not to unravel with laughter.

“It was my DAD ERIK.” She was hopeless at this point. Trust Beulah always wondered why the fuck her father would do that shit!

“NAH NOT TRIPPLE OG ROD.” Erik shook his head frantically, LITERALLY DISTRAUGHT.

“Yes bitch ass nigga it was my damn daddy! Idk maybe he was drunk or some shit why don’t you ask him yourself.”

“Mannnnnnn” He slid his hand down his face.

“What was your mama doing though? She ain’t have a say?” His voice sort of broke from the laughter that wanted to burst.

“She said my Dad wanted to remember his great grandson through me so..”

“Great Grandson?” Erik scrunches his face, shaking his head slightly while his dreads shifted a little on his forehead.

“You know what the fuck I meant. Grandmom fool.”

“Damn...you remember the Civil Rights Movement?” He sat down then, hand under his chin, his leg crossed animatedly.

She was shamefaced. Beulah wanted to press rewind to stop this shit from happening.

“How about I sing this for you maybe your old ass will remember 🎶 we shall over come/ we shall overcome 🎶 “ you remember that? He had this vacant expression as if to play stupid.

“Erik I sware to fucking God I’m gonna fuck you up.”

“You sure you can do that? That osteoporosis ain’t killing you baby?” He spoke that with a fake elderly voice.

She could literally feel the steam blow from her ears. She just wanted to drink, check out her older cousins new place, stuff her face, and dance. Now things were taking a turn for the worse.

“You know what else makes this shit funny?!” That wide dimpled smile was unstoppable.

“Humor me.”

“You really call yourself Lah Lah in short for Beulah.”

This man was in shambles. He couldn’t hardly breath, the entire situation hard to get over.

“All them times your fingers locked up from stroking this dick, damn baby! You got arthritis, osteoporosis, next thing you know you’ll have kyphosis from me blowing your back out.”

“What the FUCK is Kyphrosis?”

“A hump back.” Erik goofy ass wheezed.

“I ain’t the one using a fake name ERIK STEVENS.” Beulah wasn’t really good with come backs.

“Oh nah uh uh don’t put me in that category I’m not the one with a name that belong to a women who was 30 during the prohibition.”

Lah Lah began to retort but her cellphone rang.

“Hello?! Oh...sorry mama. Yeah me and Erik are on our way now.” Lah Lah snapped her fingers at Erik to get dressed, watching him lift from the bed with his eyes dancing with humor, picking up his plain white t shirt and north face windbreaker in red and black. Lah Lah hung up the phone quick, turning to Erik with a scolding look.

“Now I hope you got all your laughs in nigga. Please don’t keep this shit up at the party E.”

Erik shrugged.

“Not making any promises, depends on how my mind feels.” She rolled her eyes, grabbing her things before heading out with Erik.

————————————————————————

“Hey! Lah and Erik are here!”

Erik greets her family, his mind taking in the fact that even her own family called her Lah. Erik felt reassured and happy that everyone were thinking the same thing. While here at the party, it became so unbearable to keep quiet once he saw her father talking it up in the kitchen with a glass of gin.

“Erik! What’s happening young blood?” He shook Erik’s hand, while he said hi to the others.

“Nothing much Mr. Rod, just hanging in there.”

Lah Lah enters, giving her love to everyone before grabbing up a punch bowl, leading her cousin towards the dining room.

“She still got you calling her Lah Lah Erik?” The way her drunk uncle asked that could have had him spitting out his drink in laughter.

“I’m still trying to understand why your old tired ass named your daughter Beulah.” One of her Father’s friends shook his head.

“For as long as I know, I would NEVER ever ever ever get with a girl named Beulah, sound like a name you would give a senior citizen.”

Erik couldn’t take it. He snorted a laughter into his cup, juice bubbles forming.

“Man I remember when I held her in my arms, she was so beautiful, still is. I asked this bastard what her name was.” He friend looked up at Erik, giving him complete eye contact.

“Well, you could probably guess what it was right?”

This caused some of the other men to chime in with chuckles.

“Beulah May Jenkins.” Erik actually took his time to sound that out in a sweet old lady voice, causing an uproar from the men, including her Dad.

“Back then man I was down about my great grandmom so I gave her that name.”

“When was your Great Grandmom born?” Erik asked.

“1901.”

“And when was Lah Lah born?”

“1989.”

“So why in the HELL...you know what.” Her Dads friend waved him away.

———————————————————————-

“Here, I got you a drink.”

Lah Lah reaches out to grab the cup only to find prune juice inside.

“Erik...What the FUCK is this?!”

“Prune Juice, itll help with your chronic constipation.”

Lah Lah just about had it. She kept from Erik because of this and now he wouldn’t stop. She needed to change her name quick and fast.

“Nigga I sware on my life-“

“Don’t say shit like that Beulah baby! You only 80.”

She tossed the cup in the trash angrily.

The one thing he did that had her ready to leave caused some people to laugh.

Erik made her a plate, bringing it outside to one of the picnic tables. She reached out for it but instead Erik sat it down with his, taking a knife and fork to cut it up.

“Since you so damn cripple I gotta chop this meat up for you.” He hummed to himself, cutting her grilled chicken and steak so fine it looked like already chewed food.

“Keep it up, and I’m chopping the meat between your legs with a butcher knife.”

This man even tried to spoon feed her. She didn’t even bother eating, instead grabbing her things, saying her last goodbyes, and leaving.

Home Lah Lah didn’t speak to Erik and she practically ignored him like he wasn’t there. Eventually sleep overtook him and he was a snoring mess. She had enough of his snoring in her ear, taking her foot and kicking him off the bed rough. He landed in a loud thump that caused her to chuckle to herself.

After about a day of no torture from Erik, Lah Lah-Beulah

Started believing Erik was done with his antics. She had plans to get her name permanently changed to Lah Lah or some other shit. Erik could be heard coming home, Lah Lah in the kitchen cooking chili.

“Hey Lah! I got a gift for you c’mere.”

She put the chili on simmer, finally walking into the living room to greet her man.

“Hey how was work?”

“It was good as always.” Erik pulls out a gift bag for her, a handsome smile on his face.

“Here you go baby.”

Lah Lah was beyond happy, she always loved gifts from him. She made herself comfortable on the couch, removing the gift wrap before staring down at a folded piece of fabric with an ugly floral design.

“Erik…”

She pulled out the fabric, letting it fall open to reveal a dress that looked like it belonged in the 1940s to some old as cat lady. It was dingy as well, and it smelled like cat piss.

“I figured you would love it. It suits you fine Beulah.”

She truly believed that this man was through.

“STILL ON THAT SAME SHIT HUH?!”

Erik pointed to the bag.

“One more gift left, and you better open it Miss Jenkins.”

Lah Lah angrily pulls a small box out the bag that had a gold ribbon. A sudden hope for something perfect came to her but that all came crashing down like a thunderstorm. She was staring down at a life alert necklace.

Lah Lah had this blank expression on her face, eyes never leaving that box. Erik could not control his laughter once she pulled the top off, he was on the floor now clutching his stomach.

“You May need to wear that when we fucking cuz I don’t need your ass to have a heart attack.”

Lah Lah through the box at him, groaning.

“ITS OVER E! The jokes over it’s dead now.”

“Not when you kick me off the bed it isn’t. You try that shit again and I’m calling you Beulah from here on out and I don’t give a fuck who hear!”

She side eyed him before lifting from the couch. She was about done with him dragging this shit out.

“If my name is such a damn problem then bounce nigga!” Erik rolled his eyes, lifting from the floor to follow her.

“You can’t take a joke?! I’m only messing with yo uptight ass.”

“You hate my name admit it!” She was being a cry baby now, folding her arms and pouting.

Erik walks up to her, rubbing her arms soothingly.

“Baby no, Beulah is a beautiful name.” She met his eyes, disbelief in them.

“Okay okay its a little cringe.”

She glared.

“A smidge more cringe..” she shoved him.

“BUT I love you. And I will always love you. It was a good laugh and I’m sorry if I offended you aight?”

He pinked her cheek, causing her too look away.

“Aye, cut that shit out Lah.” Erik pulls out another box, Lah Lah staring at it with caution.

“What’s this? A pace maker?!” She didn’t trust it.

“I promise I’m done.”

Lah Lah grabbed the box, taking off the lid to find pink diamond earrings. She shakes her head, a small smile creeping up before giggling to herself.

“Wow...they are actually beautiful asshole.”

She looked up at him and his goofy grin, the laughter uncontrollable now.

“Now cut that shit out and give daddy a kiss.”

She leans up on her tip toes, kissing him softly.

“You still don’t want the life alert though? You may need it in a minute miss Beulah.”

She couldn’t even argue with him, motioning for him to get the box with the life alert so she could wear it.

Erik was amused by this, watching her put it around her neck.

“I want my back blown out, and DONT give me a hump back.”

They both laughed in unison.

@panthergoddessbast @whoramilaje @allhailnjadaka @hearteyes-for-killmonger @vikkidc @ange-sensuel @thehomierobbstark @blackpantherismyish @eriknutinthispoosy @trevantesbrat

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xxstyleart · 5 years

Photo

Chapter 18; Siege and Storm

Heyyooooo, so I’ve adapted a few parts in a particular scene of chapter 18 with Mal, Alina and the Darkling! I’ve been trying to read fanfics and it’s inspired to write my own so here ya go!! *Disclaimer: I’ve adapted the existing scene with a few things I envisioned. Most of the content is original to Leigh. I’ve simply added a few different elements into the scene and developed it the way I thought would create a deeper scene. Also, my content will be written in between double asterisks. Anything outside of that was written by Leigh. & the ‘[...]’ indicate there are additional lines from the book I’ve not included in my post but that I’ve skipped in order to make this post more fluid and concise with my adaptations. Hope that made sense. Enjoy!!!!

(Art credit: nanfe1789)

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He nodded, scuffed the toe of his boot along the floor. “I miss you,” he said quietly. Soft words but they sent a painful, welcome tremor through me. Had part of me doubted it? He’d been gone so often.

I touched his hand. “I miss you too.” [...] He let out a long breath. “Saints, I hate this place.” I blinked, startled by the vehemence in his voice. “You do?” “I hate the parties. I hate the people. I hate everything about it.” “I thought... you seemed... not happy exactly, but--” “I don’t belong here, Alina. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” That I didn’t believe. Mal fits in everywhere. “Nikolai says everyone adores you.”

“They’re amused by me,” Mal said. “That’s not the same thing.” He turned my hand over, tracing the scar that ran the length of my palm. “Do you know I actually miss being on the run? Even that filthy little boarding house in Cofton and working in the warehouse. At least then I felt like I was doing something, not just wasting time and gathering gossip.”

I shifted uncomfortably, feeling suddenly defensive. “You take every chance you get to be away. You don’t have to accept every invitation.”

He stared at me. “I stay away to protect you, Alina.” “From what?” I asked incredulously. He stood up, pacing restlessly across the room. “What do you think people asked me on the royal hunt? The first thing? They wanted to know about me and you.” He turned on me, and when he spoke his voice was cruel, mocking “Is it true that you’re tumbling the Sun Summoner? [...] I stay away to put distance between us, to stop the rumors. I probably shouldn’t even be in here now.”

I circled my knees with my arms, drawing them more tightly to my chest. My cheeks were burning. “Why didn’t you say something?” **Quiet anger rumbled in my chest. How could he not know what was in my heart? How did he not understand that I could not give a care as to what anyone else had to say? I needed him and that’s all that mattered, not what others were speculating about my--sex life.**

“What could I say? And when? I barely see you anymore.” “I thought you wanted to go.” “I wanted you to ask me to stay.”

My throat felt tight. I opened my mouth, ready to tell him that he wasn’t being fair, that I couldn’t have known. But was that the truth? Maybe I had really believe Mal was happier away from the Little Palace. Or maybe I’d just told myself that because it was easier with him gone, because it meant one less person watching and wanting something from me. **Another burden I wouldn’t have to bear. Another disappointment I would avoid. So then, why was there such an aching in my chest as he stood there, staring at me expectantly? What more did he want? Was I not enough? Was I too much?**

He raised his hands as if to plead his case, then dropped them helplessly. “I feel you slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

**His eyes bore into mine with a deep sadness I hadn’t let myself look at for too long these past few weeks. It stung. Maybe because he was right. Maybe because I feared all of this would become too much for him and he’d decide to finally leave for good. Maybe because it was easier to let go first rather than to be left behind like crumbs on a table... Or maybe because it reminded me of the sadness that was growing in my own heart every time he left, because despite his previous declaration in wanting to protect me, I’d felt him slipping away and I hadn’t known what to do about it.** Tears pricked my eyes. “We’ll find a way,” I said. “We’ll make more time--”

“It’s not just that. Ever since you put on that second amplifier, you’ve been different.” My hand strayed to the fetter. “When you split the dome, the way you talk about the firebird... I heard you speaking to Zoya the other day. She was scared, Alina. And you liked it.”

“Maybe I did,” I said, my anger rising. It felt so much better than the guilt or shame. **Times have changed. I’ve changed. I'm not the weak little orphan from Keramzin anymore. I may not be strong, but I am more now. Different. I had to be because of this power, because of all the people depending on it. Why couldn’t he see that?** “So what? You have no idea what she’s like, what this place has been like for me. The fear, the responsibility--”

“I know that. I know and I can see the toll it’s taking. But you chose this. You have a purpose. I don’t even know what I’m doing here anymore.” [...]

**The rage boiled inside, heat rose to my cheeks and ears. “Coward,” I spat as viciously as I could. Surprise swims in his eyes as he registers my verbal attack. Despite the outburst, a door inside me slams shuts. “I chose nothing.” I say coldly. He stiffens at my change of tone. “I did not choose to be born with this power. I did not choose to wage this war. I did not choose to go after the stag,” I twisted the knife.

A mix of hurt, desperation and fear contorts his face. I know he remembers. It was his idea to go after the stag--to get it before the Darkling could so I could be used against the Darkling in time, just as everyone here was planning on doing. He shakes his head in denial.** [...] “You came here for Ravka. For the firebird. To lead the Second Army.” He tapped the sun over his heart. “I came here for you. You’re my flag. You’re my nation. But that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Do you realize this is the first time we’ve really been alone in weeks?” **Brief shock overcame me.**

The knowledge of that settled over us. The room seemed unnaturally quiet. Mal took a single tentative step toward me. Then he closed the space between us in two long strides. One hand slid around my waist, the other cupped my face. Gently, he tilted my mouth up to his. “Come back to me,” he said softly. **The tenderness in his voice pulled at my heart and thaws it. The door that slammed shut creaked open just a bit. This. This was what I yearned for--what I’ve been missing. Him. His love, his affection. No pride and no barriers to stand in our way. My body relaxed in response.** He drew me to him, but as his lips met mine, something flickered in the corner of my eye.

The Darkling was standing behind Mal. I stiffened. Mal pulled back. “What?” he said. “Nothing. I just...” I trailed off **as fear choked me. I didn’t know what to say.** The Darkling was still there. “Tell him you see me when he takes you in his arms,” **he taunts. His voice was too raw. Too real. It shattered me.** I squeezed my eyes shut. Mal dropped his hands and stepped away from me, his fingers curling into fists. “I guess that’s all I needed to know.” **Panic rose in my chest.** “Mal--” “You should have stopped me. All that time I was standing there, going on like a fool. If you didn’t want me, you should have just said so.” “Don’t feel too bad, tracker,” said the Darkling. **Each word sounded like shattering glass and it was hard for me to not cringe anymore than I already had.** “All men can be made fools.” “That’s not it--” I protested. “Is it Nikolai?” “What? No!” “Another otazt’sya, Alina?” the Darkling mocked. Mal shook his head in disgust. “I let him push me away. The meetings, the council sessions, the dinners. I let him edge me out. Just waiting, hoping that you’d miss me enough to tell them all to go to hell.” I swallowed, trying to block out the vision of the Darkling’s cold smile. **He knows. He knows I won’t say anything more. I’ll let Mal believe this lie rather than tell him what I truly see. He knows I’m too afraid to face that truth.**

[...] “Mal--” **Faltering before I truly begin. He’s slipping. I need to say something. Anything. But what? What can I say to make him stay? Pain strikes me as I realized there wasn’t a better option than nothing.** [...] “I don’t want to hear about [...] Ravka or the amplifiers or any of it.” He slashed his hand through the air. “I’m done.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Wait!” I rushed after him and reached for his arm. **Desperation clung to me. I wanted to feel the warmth of his skin on mine. I hoped for it to drive away this coldness I felt inside.**

He turned around so fast, I almost careened into him. “Don’t, Alina.”

**My heart broke. He was already pushing me away. I can see that the distance was much more than the few inches between us.** “You don’t understand--” I said, **faltering again. How could I put it into words he wouldn’t judge me for? How could I think of him so often after all that he’s done? Why do I keep seeing the Darkling? Mal would be disgusted of me.**

“You flinched. Tell me you didn’t.” “It wasn’t because of you!” **I just wished he’d believe me.** Mal laughed harshly. “I know you haven’t had much experience. But I’ve kissed enough girls to know what that means. Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.” The words hit me like a slap. He slammed the door behind him.

I stood there, staring at the closed doors. I reached out and touched the bone handle. **I know you haven’t had much experience. But I’ve kissed enough girls to know what that means. His words ring in my head, cutting through me like a double-edged knife.** You can fix this, I told myself. You can make this right. But I just stood there, frozen. [..] I bite down hard on my lip to silence the sob that shook my chest. That’s good, I thought as the tears spilled over. That way the servants won’t hear. An ache had started between my ribs, a hard, bright shard of pain that lodged beneath my sternum, pressing tight against my heart.

**I turned and leaned against the door, gasping for breath while trying not to let the sobs erupt. I see him fully now, standing exactly where he was behind Mal, just before the bed. The moonlight shone against his tall silhouette and illuminated his broad shoulders, his strong arms. I can see his perfect face, a smile no longer on his lips. He had the mercy to not look smug. Instead, his face was stony and cold but there was something dark swirling in his eyes that I couldn’t make out. I pinned him in place with a look, offering nothing but anger, hatred, and resentment.

I brought my hands to my face, my fingers curling and slightly tugging at my roots. Angrily, I spoke, my voice becoming louder with each question. “Why do I keep seeing you? Why are you here? Why must you torture me like this?” I’m nearly begging him for answers. My hands slashed the air between us, frustrated. “Must you make me drive him away?” I can read his face clearly now. The problem with wanting is that it makes you weak.

He thaws and looks at me disgustingly lovingly. His eyes were soft as he wrapped his hands around one of mine then laid it over his heart. The other caressed my cheek. Gently, he answers,“Yes, I do because you must realize that in this world, there is only you and I. There is no one else like us: powerful. Your power is growing every day. As much as you love him, he could never love you without fearing you first. And as much as you want him to be there for you--to understand you, he simply can’t. He is otazt’sya. None of them will ever know you the way I do. None will understand the hunger for more power or the delight we feel when we use it. There is no one who will not fear you or judge you. Only I can understand you. Only I will not fear or judge you for what you are. You are Alina Starkov, my equal. We were made opposites, but are halves to the other. We were meant to be together.”

I try to yank my hand back from his chest, but I am frozen. I try again, but to no avail. His words shake me to my core. Knowingly, he says nothing and silently urges me on. How? How was he able to read me so well? How did he know so much about how I felt? Of all people, how could he know what I was going through when he wasn’t even here with me? Or real? Shame and resentment filled me. We wage a silent battle, looking into each other’s eyes, acutely aware of the other. We stayed like that for a long time, so long, my body relaxed and grew used to his presence.

I finally break the silence.“...Why won’t you just let me be?” My voice broke. He was only a figment of my mind playing tricks on me. He wasn’t real... so why did he look so real? Why did this feel so real? He was an itch that I couldn’t soothe. I keep scratching to try and ease the itching but it only makes things worse and now I’m bleeding.

“If I did that, you’d be alone.” His words felt like a bucket of cold water washing over me. Loneliness? Wasn’t that his fear? You don’t understand, my words to Mal echoed again. I’d meant he didn’t understand that I’d actually flinched from him because of the Darkling, not because I didn’t want him but had I meant something else too? Was what the Darkling was saying true? With this new found power of mine, was loneliness my fear now as well? My blood turned cold at that truth. Yes, it was... ‘Sankt Alina’, they’d whispered during prayers. They’d praised the Sun Summoner without cease but I saw the look in their eyes. Admiration was there on the surface but it was fear that had driven them--fear of me... of my power. I saw the way servants never stood too closely, the way they flinched at my every move. I saw the way peers did their best to dance around me with their words. People claimed to worship the Saint but I saw their pity. No one wants this kind of responsibility or this raw hunger for power in any life.

“Alone...” I whispered. “Is that what we are?” As soon as I let the words out, I felt it: alone. It kicked me in the gut and nearly choked the air from my lungs. Tears well in my eyes again and spilled over without cease. My body gives way to the weight in my heart and I sink to the floor. The harsh reality that no one would ever understand drowns me. The fear courses through like an unforgiving tsunami. Breathing became difficult. No one could ever understand me. No one except the Darkling.**

I didn’t hear the Darkling move; I only knew when he was beside me. His long fingers brushed the hair back from my neck and rested on the collar. When he kissed my cheek, his lips were cold, **and I welcomed it, begrudgingly. We were alone, together.**

#grisha #grisha trilogy #the grisha trilogy #grishaverse #the darkling #thedarkling #alina #alina starkov #alinastarkov #mal #siegeandstorm #siege and storm #nanfe1789 #pangieeyang #grishafanfic #fanfic #siegeandstormfanfic #grisha fanfic #grisha trilogy fanfic

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feynites · 6 years

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could you do a story where a whole bunch of people get trapped inside an mmorpg, rescue never comes so that they eventually forget their trapped there as generations of people are born, and when you die, it is unknown if that is the final ending or if you reincarnate into a new player, also in this one you can flip between gender anytime you want, the economy in the world is steady, the government is ok, id also like this story to take place from the perspective of a kid born into the world

Well it… didn’t really come out entirely as requested, I must admit. And it’s more of a ‘part one’, but…. I hope you like it anyway!

I am an Enpisci.

So were my progenitors, and so is everyone else in my village.

Willowbranch. It’s a tiny settlement at the edge of the Black Forest. Bartlie says that in ancient times, Pleers would come to Willowbranch from all over the world to fight monsters. In droves and droves they would fight beasts of all measure, leaving legends of their deeds in the tavern. I suppose that was back before everyone realized the hard truth.

Monsters cannot be beaten.

They can be fought. But never beaten. Because of the respawn. Wait long enough, and every monster comes back. They are, in that way, the only true immortals of the realm. Legend says a Pleer cannot die unless killed. And a monster cannot die even when killed.

The day the gates to the heavens closed, and the gods forsook their children in Ethenria, the Pleers stopped coming. The tavern records became static, stale. An Enpsici cannot leave their home unless commanded by the gods, and in Willowbranch, we stopped hearing the voices of the gods long ago. Though most of the town still prays at the temple. It has been a long time since the altars lit up - even my progenitors could not recall such a thing ever happening in their Service Span.

Willowbranch’s temple isn’t far from its tavern, which sees a lot more traffic these days.

I let out a sigh, and nod my thanks to Bartlie as I take my evening drink over to one of the tavern tables. Pleers and monsters might have their pact with the gods, but we Enpisci are mere mortals, in the end. There are some of us who have made it into the legends of old, of course. But most of us just live quiet lives, in Service, until the life wheel resets. And then the next generation takes over. Some of the village has been getting on me to settle down. Find a partner, raise two children. But, I’m not in any hurry. There’s a lot of time yet before my Span is up, and I still don’t know if I have anything worthy to teach the next generation.

Besides, my brother’s heirs are just small, and deserve to be doted on exclusively for a while. There are a lot of little ones in the village right now for them to play with, too.

No rush.

I think about it, though. Bartlie’s been making noises about it, as well, and bartending is good Service. A food provider always has a lot of sway. A lot of recipes, a central location. Why he’d consider me for a partner is more of a mystery. My progenitors were both Guides, and Willowbranch hasn’t really needed a Guide since the days when Pleers still came to town. Oh, I still work to help the community, of course. Do my part. Mostly maintaining the barricades near to where monsters spawn. The temple basement and the abandoned house nearest to the wood. And I help redraw the maps. No one has left Willowbranch in an age, because of the monsters on the road, but Guides still have knowledge of the surrounding region. Keeping track of it all at least offers us warning if any new monsters might appear too close to the village, or wander near the borders.

Guides can tell where they spawn.

But still, it’s not prestigious work. Not anymore. Sometimes my brother waxes poetic about the ‘olden days’, when our Service was needed. I don’t see much point to it, though. We never even saw those times. We don’t really know if it was better or not.

I’m musing over things, one eye still on Bartlie, when it happens. The tavern door opens with a bang, and Young Farmer runs in. I blink up from my drink, while Bartlie calls out to them.

“Here, now, the drinks’ll keep, Farmer. What are you runnin’ for?” he asks.

“There’s a－” Farmer begins, before stopping for a minute to catch their breath. They point out behind themselves, through the open door. Evening is settling into night. The distant wolf call heralds it, as the sun sets over the mountains. “There’s a figure. A figure coming down the road.”

A murmur starts up from the other tavern patrons. I still in surprise, but Bartlie just scowls.

“What do you mean, a Shambler?” he asks. The current of disbelief eases some. Shamblers look like people, especially at a distance. But they’re monsters. They don’t usually come close enough to town to be seen, but Farmer sometimes wanders out a bit. Despite the cautionary tales and worry. The fields haven’t been safe for three generations, but Farmer’s the curious kind, the same way my brother is.

“Not a Shambler,” Farmer refutes. “It wasn’t even barely dusk when I saw it, and it was walking straight down the road. I came running as soon as I realized. Someone’s coming. From out of town!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bartlie snaps. “Who would be coming here? Risking Dire Bears and Shamblers and… and, what else?”

He turns to me. I shrug.

“Vampires. Ghost Wolves.” I point to the map hanging up behind the tavern wall, next to the old Pleer legends. The spawn points are marked for as far as my knowledge has them. “Hag Ravens. Would depend on the time of day, too, of course. This hour would be the busiest for all of them.”

“But I definitely saw-” Farmer starts.

They’re interrupted by an ear-splitting shriek.

Everyone in the tavern freezes. And then, by some mutual, unspoken urge, we all get up, and hurry outside. Farmer in the lead, Bartlie pausing just long enough to fetch his nail bat from underneath the counter. A few other doors open in the village. People looking out, wide-eyed and worried. My brother’s husband pulls the children inside, and I suddenly realize just how close their house is to the main road. He sees me. I nod at him.

If something happens, I’ll help them.

The air feels dangerous, in a way that makes all the hairs on the back on my neck, and makes those kinds of thoughts seem necessary.

The main road is long, with the forest like a dark wall of trees beside it. A hill blocks off some of the view, but even though I have never heard it before in my life, I recognize the sounds of the distant shrieking.

“Those are Hag Raven cries,” I say.

Bartlie tightens his grip on his nail bat, and some of the villagers shy back towards the tavern. The Mayor heads over at a brisk jog. Coming straight for me.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “A Hag Raven? Are they inside the borders?”

I frown, and concentrate for a minute. On my Service, and the knowledge it gives me.

“The boundaries for the village haven’t been breached…” I say, before my brother, in turn, comes running up.

“They haven’t,” he agrees. “Have you seen Sam and the kids?”

“They’re inside,” I assure him, nodding towards his house. He hesitates, just a moment. Frowning. Seeing what I had seen, and suddenly taking issue with it.

“It’s too close to the main gate,” he murmurs.

“Take them to the village hall,” I suggest.

He hesitates just a little, but at a nod of permission from The Mayor, goes and runs off to do just that. His family and all the others too close to the road, too. The Mayor gives me a worried look. I remember the old mayor - it’s a Service that brings a lot of worries with it. Always fretting, always trying to keep things in order. The Hag Raven shrieks again, and I wonder if we’re all feeling the same fear.

And then there’s a dying wail.

Silence.

I don’t think the village has ever been so quiet before.

The sound of distant footsteps feels almost like a crack of thunder, for all that it’s too quiet to be anything like it. We watch, half of the village standing outside of the tavern, and just beyond the main gate, as a figure slowly rounds the hill. Not a Hag Raven, although in one hand, they clutch a set of large wings. As they walk, they make an odd gesture, and the wings vanish.

My heart leaps into my throat at the casual display of magic.

“Can’t be,” Bartlie murmurs.

We’re all thinking it, though. The closer the figure gets, the louder the thought becomes.

A Pleer.

Tall and broad, dressed in a long leather coat. Blood is beginning to fade from the wide-cuffed sleeves, with each slow, steady step. A sword hangs from an embroidered belt. The only swords I’ve seen before are collecting dust on the walls of the old Weapons Shop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person so tall before, either. Their ears are rounded, and their jaw is square, and a jagged scar stretches from their eyebrow to their chin.

The stranger walks and walks, and makes their way straight past us. We move aside for them, without even thinking about it. They barely look at us as they make their way into the tavern. The chair scrapes along the floor before they slouch down into it behind a central table.

“I need a drink, and information,” they say, in a low, unhappy voice.

We all look at one another. Hesitating. Shocked by this sudden turn of events.

The Pleer bangs a fist down on the tabletop hard enough to make us all jump.

“What the fucking hell are you fucks just standing around for?!” they demand. “I just walked up here from Bayerwood, and this is the third fucking time I’ve had to deal with you Enpissies gawking at me like you’re glitched. I want a damn drink, and I want some fucking information, and then I want a bed. And not a single one of you is going to ask me a stupid question until all that’s been seen to, unless you want a sword through your guts.”

A cold fear runs down my spine at the threat. I suddenly know, with breathtaking certainty, that this stranger could kill us. That the sword in their hand could slice through any of us. If I were to take my knife and, for some reason, try and stab Bartlie, it would just bounce off. Enpisci cannot take one another’s lives, the gods forbade it. But Pleers… I never knew before that it was different for them.

But I know now.

“They could do it,” I say, to The Mayor and Bartlie.

Bartlie’s hands shake a little. The Mayor swallows, but despite her anxious nature, recovers first.

“Well, get our guest a drink, would you, Bartender?” she says, and makes her way over. Clasping her hands behind her back to hide her own shaking. “Wel… uh, wel-welcome to Willowbranch, traveller. It has been many years since-”

“Yeah, yeah, many years since you saw the likes of me. Does this village have a prostitute?” the Pleer asks.

“N…no,” The Mayor informs them, nervously. “We have food, though, and there is a room above the tavern…”

Bartlie heads for the bar, and I keep a few of the more curious villagers from coming back into the tavern. Motioning that it’s unsafe, as the Pleer scoffs, and Bartlie brings them their drink. Other patrons’ drinks are still abandoned at their tables. The whole thing feels utterly surreal, as the Pleer chugs their ale, and leans so heavily on their chair that it creaks, and then closes their eyes for a moment.

A very tense moment. The Mayor looks like she’s about to ask a question, but she stops herself. Probably rolling the Pleer’s threat over in her mind.

And then the stranger speaks again.

“So you haven’t seen anyone like me in years,” they say. “No one else has passed through? An elven woman, maybe?”

“No, no one else,” The Mayor confirms, easily.

The Pleer curses some more, before kicking the chair next to theirs. It skids across the tavern floor.

“Well, fuck,” they say. “That just leaves Bainbridge. Where’s your map?”

I go and get it, to spare Bartlie having to deal with the stranger going over to the bar. There are a lot of breakable things on it, and it usually takes a long while for glasses to replace themselves. I pull down my latest map, and bring it over to the Pleer’s table.

They snatch it from my hands. Take a knife from their coat, and, before I can protest, stab it through the parchment. Pinning it to the table, before hunching over it.

“This the best you have?” they ask.

“Yes,” I confirm, because it easily is. And if it gets any more damaged, I’ll have to redraw the whole thing by hand again. The Pleer’s gaze turns towards me, then. There’s something… off about it. Something unsettling. Like some part of them hates me, or hates everything about me, even though this is the first time we’ve met.

I’m relieved when they look back at the map.

Bainbridge is on it. So is Bayerwood. I’ve never seen either, but I know where they are. Bayerwood is further down the road the Pleer came up by, which fits with their story. Willowbranch is the village nearest to the forest, while Bainbridge is the last village I have any knowledge of. It’s near to a desert. I don’t know anything about the desert, except that it exists. It’s a void - a wall. The road to Bainbridge is even more perilous than the one up from Bayerwood. A Lich King spawns along it, and the closer one gets to the bridge which leads to Bainbridge village, the denser the spawn points for Skeleton Knights and Wyverns and Harpies become.

The Pleer looks at the map for a long while. And then they demand that we all leave the tavern, in so many words. ‘Fuck off out of here and don’t come back until morning’, mainly. I go and find my brother and his family, still waiting in the village hall. The Mayor holds an emergency meeting. But no one really knows what to do or say. No one alive remembers the last time a Pleer came to Willowbranch. Some Enpisci know that their Services should be performed differently for that, though, and so as the night unfolds, and the village children sleep in a campout in the main hall, the Weapon Shop is dusted and the Market Stalls are rearranged, goods put out onto displays, and signs hung up and the temple doors flung wide open.

Some of the villagers even start to get excited about it. Elisno has some shop records, passed down from her progenitors, of the last sale that the Weapons Shop ever made. A Greatsword of Frost, sold to a Pleer named Javie.

“It would be something if some of the records got updated,” she enthuses. “Maybe something’s changed. Maybe more Pleers will start coming again.”

High Priestess is also hopeful. A Pleer coming, she says, is a promising sign. The gods have changed the world many times over, after all. Maybe the days of condemnation are done. Maybe one of them has come to find their lost children, to open the gates to heaven and gather the Pleers to end the eternity of monsters. Maybe this is the start of a new beginning.

I doubt it, myself.

If anything, seeing this Pleer makes me understand why the gods might forsake them all.

That’s a harsh thought, though. My brother cautions against it. He’s tentatively hopeful, although he and Sam still keep their children in the main hall, rather than taking them home.

“It must be hard, fighting monsters to get up along the roads,” he says. “Maybe the Pleer was injured.”

“They didn’t ask for healing,” I point out. “The temple doors are open. And you didn’t hear them talk.”

He shrugs.

“I’m not saying they were pleasant,” he insists. “I’m just saying, no one’s at their best after nearly getting killed by a Hag Raven. If that happened to me, I’d need a drink, too. Maybe we just shouldn’t assume that how they were last night is how they always are.”

I leave the matter be, even though something in me doubts that the light of day will bring a more pleasant Pleer along with it.

I don’t want to be right.

But I am.

It’s closer to noon when the Pleer emerges from the tavern. Wearing their long leather coat, armed with glinting weapons. I wonder if they slept in all that. If they slept at all. Do Pleers sleep? I have no idea. The stranger walks out into the town square, and glances towards the market stalls and the shops, before heading to the temple. Ignoring High Priestess’ greeting, they head for the Altar to Umara, and dip their hands into the waters.

A chime rings out. The windows of the temple seem to shine, and to my astonishment, the water glows. High Priestess freezes, and gets an indescribable look on her face. I remember when we were children, playing together in the temple yard, and how we would try and explain the growing feelings our Service brought to us. She had always been so sure that the temple was missing light. Not like torchlight, but something harder to describe. Something that would have happened all the time, before the gates of heaven closed.

If nothing else, I’m glad she gets to witness this. Because I’m sure this is what she meant. The Pleers might be forsaken, but it seems that the gods still answer a few of their prayers anyway. As they leave the temple, the light seems to stick to the Pleer a little. Not bright enough to glow, exactly, but enough to make it seem like a sunbeam has fixed itself to them.

They head for the Potions Shop next. Coming out just a few minutes later with an armful of parcels, that vanish with a gesture. Just like the Hag Raven wings. Where the parcels go, or why someone should buy everything only to banish it an instant later, I can’t say.

The Pleer doesn’t bother with the Weapons Shop.

They head towards the hall next. Or that’s what I think, and I want them to stay away from the children - even as curious as the children are to see them. But before they get to the gate, they detour. And come to stop in front of me, instead.

“I need a guide,” they say. “I’ll be taking the map, but the spawn points could change while I’m out there. Some of that shit’s high level. I’m not risking a Lich King ambush because I set up camp too close to his spawn point. You’re coming with me.”

I freeze in shock. So does everyone else nearby. The words seem incomprehensible - coming with them? Out of the village? They wave a hand, and I feel… something. Like a request, pushing at the back of my mind. A divine compulsion, maybe. The Pleers come from heaven, after all. They are cut from the cloth of the gods. It’s the obligation of Enpisci to serve, but…

No.

I don’t want to go anywhere with this stranger. They are not a friendly person, and it wouldn’t be safe. Even if another opportunity like this never presents itself.

The Pleer grits his teeth, and reaches for his sword.

“I’ll take you.”

We both turn. My heart sinks into my stomach at the sight of my brother, standing behind the Pleer. His expression is determined, but I know that body language. His shoulders are tensed and he’s holding his hands in fists so that they don’t tremble. Jaw slightly clenched for the same reason - he’s frightened.

“I’m a guide, too. I’ll take you where you want to go.”

I shake my head.

The Pleer’s eyes narrow.

“You’re ineligible,” they say. “You have children?”

My brother swallows.

“I… yes, I do,” he says. “That means I can’t go?”

“Well, not with living children around,” the Pleer tells him. Then they glance back to me, and very slowly, draw the sword from their belt. The metal is dark. It gleams, and seems to project an unpleasant aura. There’s something almost red to it, even though I can’t actually see the colour. It makes me vaguely nauseous - nothing like the weapons on the shop racks. “Though I could solve that.”

It takes me a moment to even comprehend their meaning. My brother pales, and when I do I lift up my hands. Horrified. The Pleer doesn’t even step towards the hall, but I feel suddenly, powerfully afraid that they will.

“I’ll go!” I say, at once. “Just don’t… don’t… I’ll go with you!”

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my skull. My brother looks like he’s going to be sick, and I feel like I am, too. My eyes fix onto the weapon in the Pleer’s hands. At least until they put it away again. They laugh when they do, amused by something. Or maybe just pleased with my acquiescence. Maybe Pleers don’t laugh for the same reasons Enpisci do.

“Oh, good. No more wasting time,” they say.

I feel it again, then. Pressing at the back of my mind, the… request.

My stomach is full of rocks. I look at my brother, though.

Yes.

Suddenly, then, I know a whole host of things about the Pleer. Things that I didn’t before, and that he definitely hasn’t told me out loud. I know he has a name. Brandon. I know he has titles. Slayer of the Poisoned Queen and Conqueror of the Wailing Swamplands. I know he’s powerful.

He gestures, and a beige satchel appears in his hand. He thrusts it at me, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Something inside clinks.

“Take those,” he says. “if you get injured and manage not to die right away, down one. I have plenty, but don’t waste them. Now let’s go.”

He starts walking towards the village gates.

I hesitate. That’s it? Just ‘let’s go’? I’ve never left the village before in my life. I haven’t said goodbye to anyone, haven’t hugged my brother, or Sam, or kissed the children goodbye, or told Bartlie…

But, even as my mind reels, my feet move. Once the Pleer gets a certain distance away, my feet follow of their own accord. It’s a strange and unsettling feeling. I hold the satchel and awkwardly chase after him, looking back as my brother calls out, as High Priestess and a few others join in and give a brief chase.

“Wait!” The Mayor calls. “Wait, please, Pleer!”

“You don’t have to do this!” my brother says. “We have other maps you can take, if you just - you can stay until the spawn points reset again, and then leave straight after! There wouldn’t be time for them to change once more, you could make it to Bainbridge before that happened!”

The Pleer ignores them.

And I just… follow. Numbly. Stupidly. Not even managing to get the satchel on, stunned as we clear the village gates. As we head off down the west road, which no one ever uses even a little, for fear of the monsters that spawn out in this direction. My brother chases after us the longest, with increasing distress.

“Please, mercy, stranger!” he begs.

“Oh, shut up, you whiny little bitch,” the Pleer finally snaps back.

I shake my head. Thinking of that grim, nauseating sword. My brother and I lock eyes, until he hits the boundaries of the village. And then his legs root in spot. And eventually, I have to tear my gaze away, in order to keep following the Pleer in front of me. In order to keep walking past a point I have never before crossed, and never before expected to.

The road is dusty.

It smells different, somehow. Even though it doesn’t really look different from anything I’ve seen before. I walk along. Staring alternately at the backs of Brandon’s shoulders, and the trees, and the sight of the forest I have always seen eventually turning into mountainous rock. It seems to happen all too quickly, though, that the path becomes unfamiliar. Large stone boulders crop up around it. Things I have glimpsed at a distance, but never closely enough to realize that there are carvings on them. I want to stop and look at them all. But the Pleer keeps going, at a pace just fast enough that sometimes I have to jog to keep up.

Eventually, I regain enough wit to sling the satchel strap over my shoulder. Then I look inside, and find half a dozen blue potions in it.

Those are Wendru’s best.

I’ve never even tasted one before. Once, though, a werewolf managed to break out of the temple basement, when I was very young. Everyone who helped fight it off ended up needing a blue potion. That was back when Wendru’s progenitor was the Potion Seller. I remember watching both of mine sip theirs, resting in the big bedroom. How the bleeding wounds on their arms and legs had closed; how they’d needed to take silver potions after, to make certain they didn’t become werewolves themselves.

I can’t help but wonder what they would both make of this.

The boulders turn to sheer rock, framing the path. And I remember enough of what they taught me to start mentally tracking the spawning points. Pebbles bounce away from the Pleer’s boots, and bite into my own soft shoes.

Eventually, I muster up the nerve to ask a question.

“Why do you need to go to Bainbridge?” I ask.

He ignores me.

I swallow, and lick my lips.

“Brandon?” I try.

That makes his steps falter, just a little. He looks at me, eyes wide, before he seems to realize something. And then he just snorts.

“I forgot about that,” he mutters. “Don’t call me that. Call me ‘my lord’.”

He turns away, then, and starts walking faster. I fall silent. Part of me - the part that’s not terribly sensible - wants to call him anything but ‘my lord’. Something more along the lines of ‘asshole’, maybe. Bastard. Jackass. Intolerable fuckweasel. But I know that if I address him, now, the only thing that will actually come out of my mouth will be ‘my lord’.

The powers of the divine - even the forsaken divine - are terrifying. I never really imagined it this way before, but they are brutal in their reality.

A few birds fly over head. There are spawn points up on the rocks, and paths that lead that way. My shoulders tense at the thought of what could be lurking up above. Watching us traverse the narrow road, deeper and deeper into the mountains. Bainbridge is on the other side of a gorge, which then becomes the desert. At my walking pace, it would take three days to get there on foot. Accounting for necessary breaks, and assuming no time-consuming disturbances are to happen.

Like fighting monsters.

We walk, and walk. A few times I hear unfamiliar bird cries. After a while, I do my best to pay more attention to the carvings on the rocks. I can read Common, Dwarvish, and Elvish, as part of my Service, but I don’t know this language. Maybe it’s not a language, though. Maybe it’s art? My Service tells me nothing about it. Eventually the symbols disappear as the surface of the rock changes textures, and we come to points where water runs down striking mountain walls. A Dwarvish sign tells us that Bainbreach Gorge is ahead, and warns of necromancy in the region.

My legs are straining with exhaustion by then. My chest heaving with my breaths, and my skin heated from the sun. Sweat beads on my brow.

The Pleer stops for a moment to stare at the sign.

And then he lets out an irritated sound, and marches over, and takes a seat at the rocks next to it. He waves a hand, and throws and parcel at me. I don’t catch it. It bounces off my chest and to the ground, and I start at it dumbly for a moment, before stooping to pick it up.

“You’re Level One,” he tells me.

I swallow, and am horribly relieved to find the parcel he threw at me contains a water skin and some bread. I move closer to the sign - not really wanting to be near to the Pleer, but not wanting to stay on the open road alone, either. Sitting next to the Dwarvish writing at least helps me feel like other people might be around, as I drink eagerly.

When I’m no longer completely parched, I hazard a reply.

“I don’t know what that means,” I say.

The Pleer snorts.

“Everyone starts at Level One,” he tells me. “The more experience you get, the higher your level becomes. Your whole life, living your shitty little Enpee-see existence in that town, you’ve never leveled up. You’re a random villager with no experience. But for reference - I’m Level Two-Hundred and Ninety.”

I swallow, and take a bite of bread to keep from having to admit that I still don’t understand. There are ‘levels’ on the old legend lists in the tavern, but they seemed to refer to parts of the forest. The numbers didn’t go up very high anyway, only to twelve. And while I might not have left the village before, I definitely have ‘experience’ with some things.

Just not these things. Not things that haven’t happened to anyone in Willowbranch for generations.

The Pleer stares at me.

“That means that everything out here can kill you, really easily,” he says.

“I know that,” I say. Because I do.

“Good. Then you know to hide if something comes at us,” he tells me. “If you die, I’m going to go back to your stupid little village, and get the other guy. And you know what that means.”

I swallow the bread. It tastes like ash.

“They’re just children,” I say. Willot and Esme. They like playing hide-and-seek and throwing seeds to the birds and making mud pies. Esme’s going to be a Guide, like me and my brother. Willot’s going to be a Mason, like Sam. My brother never smiled so big or cried so hard as on the days he went up into the nursery and found their cribs there.

The Pleer snorts.

“They’re fake,” he tells me. “Just like you’re fake. Every fucking thing in this godforsaken world is fake, except for me. And except for the woman I’m looking for. Don’t pull that sob story shit on me. You’re lucky I let off steam in Bayerwood before I got here.”

He leans forward. I look at his eyes again. I’ve seen monsters without those kinds of eyes, without that kind of hatred in them. It freezes me in place. Nauseating, terrifying - like the sickly aura off of his sword.

“I killed every Enpee-see in Bayerwood,” he tells me. “Because they pissed me off. And if you piss me off, I’ll do the same to your shitty little village, too. Just keep that in mind.”

Every…?

I can’t fathom it. But somehow I know that what he’s saying is true. Everyone in Bayerwood is dead. The village is a ghost town, then. Empty buildings, empty houses. I look away, as my hands shake and the bread in crumples into crusty crumbs. My eyes sting, and blur, but more than anything I just feel afraid. Afraid of dying out here. And not just for myself, now, but for what it would mean if the Pleer has to go back to Willowbranch to get my brother.

It takes me a minute.

But I manage to fight off the tears, and drink the rest of the my water. You’ll need it, I think. The water and the energy. I choke down the rest of the bread, too. I’ll have to keep my wits about me. Have to be able to run and hide, to get out of the way, and have a sharp eye out for danger.

I can’t let the Pleer go back to Willowbranch.

My mind shies away from the thought, as I lean against the dwarvish sign.

We don’t talk again until the Pleer finishes his own rations, and then gets up, and starts our trek once more. Stomping his boots, and letting out a frustrated sound when a light rain kicks in. He puts a hood up on his coat. I don’t have a coat. But I don’t mind the rain too much, either. It makes the rocks around us look glossy and oddly beautiful. Deepens the mist coming up from the places where water tumbles down the sides of the road.

The first attack comes, as I’d feared, from above.

There’s a shriek. Like that of the Hag Raven, but different, too. Harpy. All the birds flying overhead before, casting their shadows, almost had me complacent to the sound of flapping wings and things moving above the road. But this is big, and as the cry comes, my heart stills. I reel backwards. Slipping on the rain-slick rocks, as a monster with four wings and clawed legs, and the face and breasts of a human, drops from the sky.

The Pleer, though, seems read for it.

The air around him bursts, like a lightning strike. He lifts one hand up, as the harpy extends its claws towards him, and grabs it around the leg. And then he dashes the creature against the nearest outcropping of rocks. Like a child swinging a toy club. Black feathers explode everywhere. The Harpy’s shriek takes on a different tone. I rush further back, plastering myself up against the opposite stone wall, watching in wide-eyed shocked as the Pleer yanks the creature back. Heedless of the way its talons tear at his coat, as he smashes it against the rocks again.

That seems to daze it. It crumples, still shrieking but also obviously reeling, as the big warrior draws his sword and plunges it into the monster’s chest. Blood sprays onto him. My breaths are loud in my ears, the rocks hard at my back. The rain soaks through me.

The Pleer shifts his grip on his sword, and then in another, smooth gesture, cuts the head from the Harpy.

Its blood steams as it pours onto the road.

Its body twitches.

I watch as every part of it slowly dissolves. It turns to bones, and then motes, except for the wings. The Pleer looks up at the sky for a moment, before picking up the wings, and doing his strange gesture. They vanish. And nothing is left of the monster - just some fading bloodstains.

“Where’s the Harpy spawn point?” he asks me.

I can’t answer.

I want to. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. I don’t even know the answer, at the moment. I feel strange. Tingling, a little - from the shock? But I can’t keep a thought straight. Everything in my head just buzzes, horrified by the sight of the Harpy’s death.

The Pleer rounds on me, sword still in hand. The panic does nothing to help my focus, but it forces words from me anyway. Gods, he really wasn’t lying. He could kill a whole village. He’d killed that monster so easily. Without any barricades or ranged attacks or anything at all, even. It’d taken half my village to bring down one werewolf from the other side of a row of topple and fortified temple pews, and people had still been badly injured.

The Pleer’s coat doesn’t even stay damaged. The rips on it close, as the bloodstains fade.

“I, I, there - they’re up, on the - in the -”

“Fucking useless,” he growls, and turns. And I am struck by the blind fear that he is turning back towards Willowbranch.

I point. Regaining my wits, through sheer force of desperation.

“It’s that way,” I say, and as I do, I see the large nest situated near to the road. Just at the top of the rocky mountainside.

The Pleer looks, and narrows his eyes.

After a moment, he lets out a breath.

“How many?” he asks.

I swallow.

“Just one, at that point,” I say. “There’s another nest further along, though, and that has three.”

He tilts his head, and keeps his sword at hand.

“Okay,” he says. “Three is going to be a problem for you. Don’t run away, they’ll just pick you off. Stay right behind me.”

I nod, more automatically than anything. His words don’t actually sink in until he starts walking again, and then I scramble to follow. How close is ‘right behind’, I wonder? He seems to swing around a lot when he fights. I keep one eye on the sky, and one eye on him, and shiver as the rain falls harder.

There are shapes, up on the sides of the mountain pass.

Not rocks.

It’s a strange experience, seeing the Harpies at their perches. I wonder if they just… stay there, all the time. Watching the road. It must have been ages since anyone has come down it. Sometimes, when I check the barricades in the village, I think about the monsters behind them. Wondering if they missed the days of the Pleers, too, in some way. The old stories say that monsters are the work of the Dark Gods. Made to sow chaos, to bring violence and discord.

In a way, it’s almost their Service to fight.

But unlike Enpisci, they don’t seem to have much beyond it.

We walk down the path. The Pleer keeps his sword ready. But the Harpies don’t move, not even when we’ve gone past them.

“Huh,” says the Pleer.

“They’re not attacking?” I ask, when I can stop holding my breath. “Why?”

I realize my error a moment later. But to my relief, the Pleer doesn’t seem annoyed by the question. When the Harpies are out of sight, he sheaths his weapon.

“Must be glitched,” he says. “I’ve seen it before. Once walked through an entire pack of Shamblers for ten minutes straight, and they weren’t low-level ones either.”

“…Low-level?” I venture, tentatively.

He shrugs.

“If a monster is too much weaker than you, there’s a chance it won’t attack,” he explains.

“That Harpy seemed a lot weaker than you…”

“Level Two Hundred,” the Pleer replies. “Not weak enough that they should be ignoring me, but that might be the glitch.”

I decide I’ve pressed my luck enough with the questions, as his mood seems to sour then. His expression twists, and his eyes darken. I keep quiet, and focus on the spawn points instead. There are a few more Harpies. I mention them, but they all just silently watch as we make our way along. There would be more if we followed the diverging pathways, but we don’t. And after a while, the rain stops. The mountain walls get lower, and break away into boulders again. We take our second break beside them.

My feet are killing me, and my head is pounding as I drink more water, and eat more bread. The Pleer doesn’t seem tired. Just lost in thought, as he stares up at the sky.

“This is a godforsaken place,” he mutters.

I glance towards him uncertainly.

“…Yes?” I say. The sky is blue, the rocks are grey, and the gods shut the gates of heaven and abandoned us all here. ‘Forsaken’ is just an apt description of it all.

Though I suppose, for a Pleer, the blow might be harder to take.

I wonder…

Well.

I don’t want to piss him off, but I’m probably never going to get another chance to ask. And we’re some distance away from the village, now. It’d be inconvenient, if nothing else, for him to turn all the way back to go get my brother. Maybe I can risk a little annoyance - just a little.

“What were the heavens like?” I wonder. “Before the gates shut?”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

The Pleer’s expression shuts down, closing off, and he gives me that look again.

“Fuck off,” he says.

I don’t ask twice.

My feet are still aching when we start walking again. Trapped in stony silence. The boulders give way, and the path turns from the mountains to the gorge. I don’t mean to stop, but when we clear the rocks enough to see the view beyond them, I do anyway.

Beyond the mountain pass, there is an open field, shrouded in waist-high mists. But in the distance, I can see the gorge, and the statues that mark the bridge that leads to the village. The statues are two ancient figures, with arms raised towards the sun. One of them is missing an arm, by the looks of it. Past them, there is the horizon. Distant mountains, coloured differently from the ones I know, and structures, and the sun settling against clouds that swirl like cream in tea.

I have never seen the likes of it before.

I gawk, until the Pleer gets far enough away that my legs start moving on their own again.

There’s so much space. I knew the world beyond the village was big, that it was bigger than my Service could let me know, that there were things beyond the boundaries of my maps. But I had never imagined what it was really like. How much of it there really could be. The gorge is massive, and the mountains and structures in the distance look tiny, and there is… there is so much of it. It defies me to explain the vastness of it all compared to the village I know. The familiar horizons of my life.

A new, different sort of fear comes over me. Or maybe ‘fear’ is the wrong word. I don’t know how to rightly describe it. Awe? Is this what awe feels like?

Even the details of this region are strange. The dirt beneath my feet is pale, and seems to sparkle in some places. Little green and grey plants grow in spirals from the dirt, and tiny black spiders scuttle between them. The stones that mark the road are pale blue. There are no trees, but there are some tall boulders.

The Pleer stops at the first blue stone road marker, and pulls out the map. Its corner is still torn from where he stuck his knife in it.

“Has anything reset yet?” he wonders.

“No,” I assure him. It can be hard to predict when the spawn points will change, but I always know it.

After a few minutes more of examining the map, he puts it away, and starts down the road. And I follow. Because I don’t have any choice.

Distant shapes move in the mist. Nothing should be spawning right where we are, but sometimes monsters wander. Especially when given the time to, with nothing to kill them or no reset to force them back to their original points. I keep as close to the Pleer as I dare. There are no birds out here. Something does fly overhead. Something big, that makes the Pleer stop and draw his weapon again. I look up, but all I can see is a dark shape against the glare of the sun. Either very large and far away, or smaller but closer by.

A harpy?

No, the shape isn’t right.

A wyvern, maybe. The roar seems to match, as it echoes down towards the gorge. But the beast doesn’t swoop in on us. And again, we keep going after several minutes of tension.

Eventually, we come to a gate at the road. It doesn’t seem to serve much purpose, and is really more of an archway. But dwarvish writing announces Bainbreach Gorge’s location. And there are fountains affixed to the sides of it, and twisting vines growing across it. As we draw near the vines seem to glow, a little.

My feet stop aching.

I hurry over to the fountains to refill my water skin, and to drink from them. The water is clear and refreshing, like the water from the temple back home. I love the gate, I decide. It feels safe. The Pleer drinks, too, though he seems less enamored with the place. He settles down next to it for our break, though. The mist parts around most of the gate, and I feel secure enough to put some distance between us, as I find a bench on the opposite side. Looking out towards that distant view.

Finally, I take a moment to just look at it all, without distractions.

What my brother wouldn’t give to see this.

You know what he wouldn’t give, I think. Sobered by the reminder.

I sit on the bench, and am overcome by the feeling that I am never going to see Willowbranch again. Another sobering thought, as I look out at the unfamiliar terrain set before me. The vastness of the world. The thought of the Pleer heading back to my village is horrifying. And I doubt he will stay in Bainbridge. But maybe if he finds this elven woman he’s looking for, his mood will improve enough for pity to settle in. For him to… to find some way to get me back home. I try and console myself.

Maybe if we make it to Bainbridge… well.

At least we’ll have made it. I have no idea what the other village is like. But I know that Enpisci used to make trips often, in the days when Pleers travelled the lands and fought monsters. Pleers could escort us from one place to the next. Families could be spread out among multiple villages, could offer compensation to Pleers for taking them to see friends or relatives elsewhere. It always sounded so amazing to me.

Now I wonder how many were just dragged around against their will. How many interactions were not what they might seem. In the village records, if you go back far enough in my line of progenitors, you will find the name of a Pleer. Marriage records, for a Guide Enpisci and a ‘Paladin’ Pleer. One child, who grew up and became a Guide themselves, after their progenitor died. No records on what became of the Pleer. Their name was in the legends on the tavern wall, though. Kessardian. They killed a lot of ghouls.

They probably came out this way, at least at some point, I realize. They probably saw much more of the world than any Enpisci.

Did they ever kill a whole village full of people?

I can’t imagine it. They had a child with an Enpisci. Surely they must have loved them, right? To have married and settled down and raised a child. But then… their spouse would have died, eventually. When their Span was done. And their child, too. And all the monsters they had slain would have returned, all their efforts to clear their forest or even just the temple basement for naught. When their gods forsook them…

Maybe the Pleers used to be good, once. Used to care about Enpisci. Maybe even Brandon was, before the weight of immortality became too much to bear.

I look over at him.

Would he know the name Kessardian?

But I can’t find much pity for a man who killed an entire village. Nor much hope in his better nature. I remember the hatred in his eyes, and I look away again. And keep my thoughts to myself.

After a while, the Pleer calls me over.

“Enpee-see,” he says, with a wave.

“My Lord?” I reply, and walk towards him.

He points down the long road towards the statues that mark the bridge.

“I’m not camping in the middle of that,” he says. “So we’re setting up here for the night. Pitch a tent, make us some food, and don’t bother me.” He summons up another bag of things, and thrusts it at me - hard enough to knock away my breath again - before he goes back to glowering at the clouds.

Luckily, part of my Service is knowing how to pitch a tent, even though I’ve never done it before. I set it up, along with a cooking fire. The ingredients in the bag don’t match any of the recipes I know, though. So I simply roast them. Trying not to think about Bartlie, and his many, many recipes, and blaming the water in my eyes on the smoke.

As the sun sets, the mist starts to glow.

The shapes in it become harder to ignore, too. The nightly wolf’s howl sends a chill down my spine, like it never has before.

Night changes the look of the whole place.

The gorge turns pitch black. The blue road markers seem to suck up the moonlight, and glow. The distant spawn points for Skeleton Knights will call them into being, now. And Lich Kings, too, though those are still far off. I set the tent up as near to the gate as I can, right in the middle of the archway, even though some part of me balks at ‘blocking the road’.

No other travelers will be coming, unless High Priestess was right, and things really are changing.

The Pleer eats, and produces a bottle of alcohol from thin air. It makes me wonder why he was so set on getting ale from the tavern the other day. He drinks, and tosses me a bedroll. And it’s then that I realize, of course, that the tent is just for him.

I look out towards the moving mist, and doubt I’ll get much sleep.

But the Pleer doesn’t seem to be in a great hurry to make use of his accommodations either. He polishes off a second bottle, and glares into the fire pit I made. And then dashes the glass against it, sending jagged pieces everywhere, and provoking a spray of flames.

“Wants to know what heaven’s like,” he mutters. Though he isn’t looking at me, and barely seems to be speaking to me, except perhaps by default. His tone is mocking. His mouth twists into a sneer. “Fucking bullshit. Stuck in a fucking desert hole with liches and a virgin Enpisci, chasing that fucking-!”

He gets up. I watch, heart in my throat, as he conjures up something else in his hand, and hurdles it down the darkened road.

“FUCK YOU, BITCH!” he shouts. “UNGRATEFUL CUNT! SLUT! HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME?!”

The shouting turns to screaming, in short order. Just, incoherent wailing, out into the dark. I stare, eyes wide, utterly petrified at what the noise and chaos might summon. The gate might feel safe but it’s only a tiny outpost. How safe is it, really? And how good is the Pleer at fighting while he’s drunk and screaming, too?

“Hey,” I say, gently as I can manage.

The Pleer wheels around, and throws something at me. A rock, I think. It hits the ground, and I freeze. Overcome by the impression that I was just bare inches from death. The fire sputters, and the hatred is back in the Pleer eyes.

He levels a finger at me.

“You,” he says.

I start looking for a possible avenue of escape. Even though I know there isn’t really one. I’d never make it back through the Harpies, even if I ran. After a few seconds, I give up, and raise my hands in what I hope is a placating gesture.

“Please,” I say. “I just don’t want any monsters attacking the camp.”

The Pleer sneers. But he stops shouting, too. And after a moment, he comes back and slumps down beside the fire again. His breath reeks of strong wine.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “They can’t cross the boundary here. Most they could do would be to line up along it. And then ‘poof’ - gone by daybreak.”

I swallow. The prospect of sleeping out in the open with a bunch of Skeleton Knights leering down at me, halted only by an invisible barrier, still seems like… not an experience I would want to have. At all. Particularly not for the sake of some incoherent raging.

“But those Harpies didn’t attack,” I point out. “That was a ‘glitch’. What if the boundary makes a glitch, too?”

The Pleer pauses.

Then he lets out a gusty breath.

“Fine,” he says. “Fucking shit cowards. That’s all your type is, you know?”

I clench a fist in the ground. Fear keeps me from arguing - so maybe he does have a point.

“I certainly don’t want to die, my lord,” I say, instead.

The Pleer glares into the fire.

“You sound like that one,” he says, after a long minute. The smoke is getting in my eyes again. I move back a little, and wonder if I should keep responding. If that would lower or increase the odds of him screaming into the dark again.

“Who, may I ask?” I venture, at length.

“I’m not saying its name,” the Pleer replies, with another sneer. “The fucking dwarf. That’ll do. It’s the Fucking Dwarf. Fucking queer ass piece of shit en-pee-see. Not like you, though. Level Three-Fucking Hundred. We let it into our party. Desperation, that’s what if fucking was. We never should have left Itreloth.”

“Itreloth… that’s in the legends,” I realize. “It’s a city.”

“The Grey City,” the Pleer mutters. “Even after The Cut-Off, it was full of players. The trains connected it to the eight other cities. Until our station went down.”

He lets out a long sigh.

“Fucking glitches. The first party went out, didn’t come back. Second party went out - didn’t come back. Third party, no prizes for guessing that one. We figured they were either dying or finding somewhere better and just holing up there. Shit. I never even wanted to play this game. Damn fucking ‘pee see’ piece of crap, shoving its bullshit down everyone’s throats all the time. Oh look, it’s a fucking… fucking gay nanogender vegan orc. And now I’m trapped here. For eternity. The only fucking reason I came here is because of that friendzoning bitch, and what does she do? She drags me out of the city, out into the goddamn mines, trying to follow the train tracks with the Fucking Dwarf, and then she leaves me. She leaves me. When it’s her fucking fault I’m even here to begin with!”

I can’t imagine why, I think.

I’m smart enough not to say it, though. My mind is reeling a little, trying to make sense of everything the Pleer is saying. He has so much knowledge. If only he wasn’t… well. A crazed murderer, really.

“What… ‘game’?” I ask. Maybe he means like in the legends, where the gods sometimes refer to life as The Game? But in that case, does that mean the Pleers all chose to live among mortals?

“Fucking bitch,” the Pleer ignores me, just muttering to himself.

I shift in place a little, and persist. I might not get another chance, and it seems to at least be keeping the screaming to a minimum.

“Okay, I know of some mines,” I say, thinking. Because I do - they’re at the other edge of the boundaries of my knowledge, past Bayerwood. “So you came out of them, and now you’re trying to find this other Pleer? And an Enpisci dwarf?”

“The Fucking Dwarf,” he corrects, in a low mutter. “She left me for the Fucking Dwarf. She’s an idiot. It’s not real. You’re not real, it’s not real, fucking nothing here is real except for us.”

“My lord, I am real,” I feel compelled to say, before I can think the better of it. He glares at me, and I close my mouth with an audible ‘click’. The fire burns between us, and seems to reflect in his eyes. And for a moment, I am horribly, terribly afraid that he is just going to kill me. One of his hands moves to his belts. The sneer on his face is ugly. It makes his scar ripple, and in the dark beyond the firelight, he seems to get even bigger, somehow. Meaner. An old and frightful creature, as dangerous as any monster.

Except that if he died, he wouldn’t come back.

Which would be comforting - if there was any chance of me killing him.

I know I’m desperate enough that I would try. There’s a sharp stick in the fire, close enough that I might be able to reach it before he cut my head off. Maybe I could blind him. Maybe I could run, and run, and just keep running. Maybe my chances would be better with the monsters.

But then he just spits on the ground, and looks away.

“Your fucking kind,” he swears. “You don’t even know what ‘real’ is. You don’t matter. Fucking algorithms and shit. Ay-eye. It’s your fault, your kind’s fault. I’d kill every last one of you if I could, for what you’ve done to us. You fucking trapped us here.”

What?

What is that even supposed to mean? How could Enpisci ‘trap’ the Pleers here? They’re the ones with divine power.

“How?” I ask. Pointing out the obvious fallacy just seems liable to make the man angry.

The Pleer gets up. Wavering in place for a moment, before he just turns, and staggers towards his ten.

“That’s the fucking question,” he mutters, as he goes. “That’s the fucking question. How you did it. Fucking Ay-eye.”

The tent flap closes.

I am left alone in the dark, with a flickering campfire, and a lot of broken glass. And a bedroll, and glowing mist. And distant sounds of something creaking. And drawing closer, and closer, along with something like the sound of wind wheezing through an old bag. I douse the fire, and move nearer to the tent. Watching with the moonlight, as three bone-white figures in aged armour begin to move along the boundaries of the gate.

The hollows of their eye sockets stare back at me.

I don’t sleep.

#filled prompt #mmo story #Anonymous #long post #original writing

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supergirlimaginesfic-blog · 7 years

Text

Lena Luthor x reader (Preventative measures, and one welcome threat)

a/n: no one asked for this one either but... I’m gonna do the thing anyway just because, and I thought about how absolutely dumb it would be if you were this cool, unflappable bodyguard but you’d become profoundly useless the moment you saw Lena put her hair down or like, do something vaguely hot and you’d just... become totally non-functioning LOL

Anyway I’m a trash person and I have trash ideas so here’s the trash thing! It’s not all that serious, I wanted it to be all fun and giggles lmao. This is really indulgent and like, six different levels of unprofessional but then I realized THIS IS FIC WE CAN DO WHATEVER WE WANT Y’ALL!!! YAY!! it’s a little shorter and I think I can get away with making another part for it. Moreover though, I think Lena has had too many bouts with death and TBH I think she should just get a break dammit! Don’t we deserve better than that? Maybe we do... ;)

- - - - -

You would never really consider yourself a storyteller, but you’re beginning to understand that’s just what you’ve become. For all the questions people ask about your job, you have just as many anecdotes that for some reason, people find just absolutely fascinating.

Yours is a humble beginning - no, you didn’t always want to be a personal bodyguard. No, you didn’t go to school for it. Yes, like most things that have occurred in your life, opportunities presented themselves and you took the chance.

In fact, when you were five years old you were convinced you were going to be an astronaut when you grew up... or a dog-walker. You certainly did not think you’d be someone who was hired for the sole purpose of protecting vaguely important people you really had no idea about, nor could care to know about.

The job, you’ve realized in your own personal experiences, is a whole lot of rich people travelling around to gamble or to partake in other high-risk trade-offs, and still, you always think no one should have any right to carry around that much money, let alone own that much at all to warrant needing personal security in the form of another human being.

Still, it pays itself, and you couldn’t find yourself complaining heartily about the injustices of the wealthy elite and their various extravagances when you’ve made a comfortable life for yourself out of their paranoia.

As it was, you find yourself waking up at 5 in the morning for some ungodly reason you will never get used to - you know a good portion of your colleagues live for the thrill of going for a run in the early hours of the morning, rising before the sun and riding the high of productivity that a mere mortal civilian could never appreciate.

Perhaps, you think, that this logic made a mere mortal civilian out of you since you’ve pressed the snooze on your alarm five times and you’ve finally, but forcefully, shoved yourself out of your bed and onto your floor a good hour and a half later than you were ideally supposed to get up.

Still, even with your eternal vexation of having to be an early riser, you wake up significantly quicker than you think you would, and you give yourself credit for it everyday.

Your next assignment, you’ve been informed, is not necessarily a direct request - rather, you’ve been hired on behalf of someone else, which isn’t uncommon. You’ve yet to find out if your presence will be a surprise to your actual client in question, but that’s a problem for later, and that’s what your superiors are for.

You’re an armed bodyguard, and you’ll be working full-time which means you’ll be with your client for however long you’re required, and you’ll be sticking around them 24/7.

With your duffle bag already packed and your suits cleaned and pressed, you make your way into your Range Rover after you’ve made sure that your gun and your knife are both in their holsters hidden under your suit before you set off for the address that’s been sent to your phone.

For someone with rather impressive credentials and an even more eclectic resume of personalities you’ve been hired for, you’re still a little bit shocked when you discover yet another secret branch of the government - this time, you’ve been hired by an organization called the “DEO”, and you wonder just who exactly you’re supposed to be watching if every one of these agents is allegedly specially trained.

You’ve already been screened, processed, and vetted by the organization before they even considered hiring you through your company, who in their part were rather amenable to whatever the DEO wanted to do with you considering the hefty paycheck they were offering for your services.

Even still, you brandish your ID, your driver’s licence, and even your passport to the guards standing at the door, and watch as four guards examine your weapons, and two separate guards frisk your person for any other hidden contraband.

You take all your IDs out again for the people at the desk, and finally you’re escorted into a conference room lined with what you’re sure is a one-way mirror on all the walls where you’re sat across a tall black man with an inscrutable face.

He’s got your file on the table in front of him and he only glances down for a moment before he stares at you silently.

You stare back sitting perfectly still and relaxed in your chair and recognize the tactic for what it is. You don’t break eye contact with him as you wait for him to say something.

After what is seemingly a mildly uncomfortable amount of time to be silently staring at a stranger, the man speaks up and addresses you by name.

You nod your head in recognition and then he says, “Welcome to the DEO.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m sure you understand, the entire process is lengthy but it is to ensure the utmost safety not just for our client but for yourself as well.”

“That’s understandable.”

“You may have also noted we’ve plenty of adequately trained agents here who would be more than qualified to do your job, but this is a matter of subtlety and we’ve thought it best to outsource a security detail rather than risk one of our agents for this particular duty.”

You nod again in acknowledgement - in its own variably twisted way, you’ve become used to being expendable, but that’s where the matter of you having to be good at your job comes in, so that you’re not expended.

After the brief conversation, if you would even call it that, the man stands up and approaches you with a hand outstretched, and you meet him halfway. He gives you a firm handshake and he passes a small, folded up piece of paper into your hand as he does so, and you ball your hand into a fist, not blinking at the exchange.

He sends you off and you realize you don’t know his name, but you suppose you don’t really need to know, and this time you don’t need to be escorted and you retrieve your belongings as you leave.

When you get back to your car, you unfold the paper and see just a singular thing written on it and you raise your eyebrows slightly at the sight. You rarely allow yourself personal opinions regarding your jobs, but you can’t help the anticipation and the wonder in your mind as you consider your new client.

You’re not exactly surprised, but your curiosity is getting the better of you gradually. You drive towards downtown with the tune of some Little Mix song stuck in your head for absolutely no definitive reason at all that you can think of apart from it just being a really damn catchy song, and you hum Black Magic quietly to yourself until you see the infamous “L” on your target building.

You grab your own files and make your way inside the building once you’ve parked in their lot, your eyes squinting minutely in scrutiny at the evident lack of security in the lobby, and the only person around to question you is a guard doubling as a receptionist.

You sign your name on the list and hand the guard your ID as she examines your signature before allowing you to go through, not at all bothering to check anything else of you.

You figure you have to go to the top floor, so you wait in the elevator as it takes you up. When you get out, you scan the floor quickly before you make your way toward the desk.

The secretary glances up at you and double-takes as if trying to determine your face. She furrows her eyebrows and you take the distraction to read the gold-plated name plate on her desk that says “Jessica”.

You look back to her and you watch as her eyes blatantly trail up and down your figure, not once but twice, and her expression is otherwise unreadable apart from the slight quirk of her eyebrow when her gaze lands back on your face.

She’s silent for a moment before she speaks up, “Ms. Luthor requires an appointment ahead of time, which is usually within a week or two depending on the urgency of the matter.”

You feel the scrutiny of her gaze again as her eyes trail over you again, and you clear your throat when you remember you’re supposed to say something.

“Right, of course. I guess it should be expected that my arrival is a bit of a surprise, sorry, here-” you say, as you reach for your business card, your official letter from your company, as well as your contract with redacted names of the DEO’s involvement and your ID.

You place them all onto her desk and she regards them with a look you know is pretty much universal of and who do you think you are exactly?, which is usually only ever present at the tail end of the sentiment that begs the question what nerve?

Her eyes never leave yours as she reaches for your papers, her eagle-eyed watch on you shifting with expressions of doubt and disbelief as she finally looks down and reads for a moment, taking note of the official stamps and signatures on your papers as she looks at your ID. Eventually, she puts it on her photocopier and waits.

“These mean nothing,” she says.

Despite yourself, you smile widely at the observation as she continues.

“These could all be fake, but at least I’ll have a copy of your alleged identity.”

You reply, still grinning, “I assure you, that’s the least of my intentions, but I commend your diligence.”

She squints her eyes at you and the printer continues humming, obtrusively loud given the near dead-silence of the room apart from the printer. You see her jaw tick and she tilts her head imperceptibly, you know this as a slight act of defense.

“I’m not paid to trust anyone.”

You almost laugh, catching yourself before you do, and you just smile at her show of tenacity.

“I guess you and I have that in common then,” is all you say.

For what it’s worth, you think this secretary, Jess, is more than enough to make up for the lack of security downstairs. If you were a weaker person, you knew you’d crumble under her interrogative stare.

She merely hums in dissent as the copying finally finishes and she hands back your original, not before demanding you to sign and date her copy of your ID.

“Don’t think you can just walk in here and pretend to be some third-party hire, I’m not stupid and Ms. Luthor certainly isn’t either - you’re not the only person with the lame, trite idea to do so,” she stares you down meaningfully and waits a moment to see that you’re still following.

She gestures vaguely to the space around her, “there are cameras in every nook and cranny of these offices you’re not aware of, and they will be used as proof to corroborate any shenanigans you think you can pull, and I will personally build a case against you myself if you think to try anything out of line here.”

She shoots a hardened stare at you and you just feel the unspoken don’t test me that pierces through you, and you really think you’re beginning to respect this secretary under all your amusement.

You nod your agreement and still try to assuage her aggression, but you know it might be for naught.

All she gives you is an unimpressed, “mhm,” before she’s picking up her phone and looks at you disinterestedly as if to convey that your abrupt interruption has inconvenienced an entire empire’s worth of productivity.

“Ms. Luthor, you have a guest just before your next meeting, I’ve deemed six minutes to be enough for this brief appointment,” she pauses, and then, “of course, Ms. Luthor.”

She hangs up and gives you the go ahead to walk into the office, but not before she sends you a final warning look and you nod in acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you say when you collect your things and make your way to the door.

You knock before a muffled “come in” is heard from the office, and you wait a moment before you open the door and go through.

Lena Luthor sits at her desk and types momentarily before finishing up whatever it was she was doing and she looks up at you, smiling pleasantly as she stands.

You know you don’t show it, but your breath hitches just the slightest when you get a look of her face and her pale blue-green eyes take you in.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks you.

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Luthor. My name is (Y/N), I’m not at liberty to disclose anything at this very moment, but I do have several documents you can read to inform yourself of your new arrangement, and after then we can discuss any questions you have, should there be any outstanding,” you say as you hand the file folder to her, taking your cue as she motions for you to sit in the chair across her desk.

She looks at the folder questioningly and glances back up at you, an expression of total confusion on her face which tells you enough of her knowledge of the real reason for your presence.

Apparently, all it’s taken for her is one glance at your company’s letterhead as well as the non-redacted version of the DEO’s contract for you before she sighs in recognition.

“I suppose this isn’t totally out of left field. I’ve insisted this isn’t required but it looks like they’ve deemed otherwise,” she says with a bit of a wry smile.

“I understand,” you say, and you do.

You don’t really know what it’d be like to have other people making decisions for you, and now that you think about it, it is just a little bit messed up when other people get involved and make you do things without your prior knowledge.

You think you feel for her a little bit then.

“Well, now that you’re here, I don’t intend on making this any more uncomfortable or unpleasant than it needs to be - this isn’t exactly my first song and dance. If we’re going to be around each other for as long as we will be, we can skip the formalities, if you’re okay with that, that is.”

“Of course, Ms. Luthor.”

She cocks her eyebrow and smiles expectantly, you blink and clear your throat when you have to snap yourself out of your little daze.

“Right... Lena.”

She regards you a moment longer than necessary and smiles again, softer this time, and remembers herself.

“Now, I suppose I should let my secretary know I’m still alive - though there is always that slim window of opportunity in which you severely harm me in the moment between now and when I walk towards my boardroom, but if you do spare me that, you’ll see I’ll be dealing with an equivalent small death in the form of an unsavoury businessman,” she tells you as she moves to collect her belongings and your file which she places at the bottom of her pile.

You smile at her admission, “I could be wrong, but it seems as though aggressive vigilance is a trait shared between you and your secretary.”

Still, you take a mental of the alleged businessman and you wonder if you have to step in at all, but you figure that’s not the type of tussle you need to get into.

You follow Lena as she walks through her door and she smiles at Jess as she passes by, Jess smiling back and instantaneously reverting to a neutral expression when her glance falls on you, and your mouth quirks slightly into a small smile.

She stops abruptly and you’re just several paces behind her when she sighs deeply, bracing herself for whatever this meeting holds and your day officially begins.

“Mr. Heaton,” Lena greets the man in the room.

“Lena,” he all but grunts back.

You take your place by the side of the door and you already feel mild irritation at the man.

You watch as Lena takes the man’s verbal pestering in stride and he’s practically hounding her, using poorly disguised intimidation tactics that you’re sure she can see through, and she continues to smile and correct the man when necessary.

Sometimes, and there are many instances, you’ve seen a threat of a challenge rise across Lena’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as you could spot it, and she merely leans further back into her chair which apparently only aggravates the man further.

You watch as he leers and begins to fall into taunts, downright refusing to entertain pleasantries as he presses harder and continues to push Lena’s buttons in some low blow attempt at undoing her.

You realize then just how differently the businessmen you’ve protected act around each other and how they act when they’re around a woman who is not only their equal but could in fact be a superior.

You can only watch in growing distaste as you watch Lena duck and dodge each thinly veiled accusation and every unsolicited comment, and you know very well your job doesn’t involve saving people from heckling in the form of business matters, but objectively, you wish you could knock this guy out into a sleep.

Still, you’re silent as you keep your post by the door, only able to watch the ordeal and you can only imagine how Lena must feel - she must be used to it by now, and somehow, the thought makes you more repugnant about the state of the world which really, is a bit of an impressive thing to do to you, as your being jaded of the current state of affairs leaves little room for surprise cynicism.

Before you can even contemplate the blatant injustices of corporatism and the workplace and society, Lena can probably detect your growing enmity radiating toward the other two occupants of the room and she cuts the meeting’s end, graciously thanking Mr. Heaton for his time and she will be in contact with him within the next month or so.

You watch as he gets up slowly, ogling Lena’s figure shamelessly and the tension gets heavier when neither refuse to extend a hand for a handshake.

He merely moves to leave after he’s done eyeing her, and then he looks at you, but you’ve already moved your gaze politely toward a spot on the wall ahead of you.

He moves in a way that will force your look, you pull your gaze to meet his and your jaw involuntarily clenches at the sight of him and his unwarranted arrogance.

You tilt your head slightly in challenge and in question, wordlessly beckoning him both to walk away but also to try something on you, just so you can feel some satisfaction of roughing him up just a little bit.

He opts for the smarter option and moves on without further fuss, and seemingly both you and Lena relax at his departure.

“Never again, please,” Lena says to no one in particular as she rubs at her temples.

She turns her chair to face you, and then she’s got her face in her hands as she inhales deeply. The rattling from your suit jacket makes her look up and you hold out a small migraine pill bottle to her and she smiles.

“Do you honestly carry that around everywhere or is that just for me?”

“Not necessarily, I could benefit from them too.”

She huffs a small laugh at your remark, “strange, I thought you were all supposed to be elite super-soldiers with no ailments, or without ties to the human condition.”

You smile easily, “that might be easier, but then that’d take away the basic human element of compassion, and I think that’s a pretty integral part they don’t teach you when you’re meant to be protecting people’s lives with your own.”

“You make it sound like it’s not about the money,” Lena says cheekily.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, the money is so great,” you say as you smirk conspiratorially. “But it’s easy to get jaded and lose track of yourself and the big picture - the difference between me and a machine is that I choose to do this.”

“Don’t you ever think what you do isn’t worth it?” she asks.

“Often... more than I’d willingly admit. Majority of the time, my presence isn’t ‘worth it’ or really necessary. I’m usually just for peace of mind, and I think that’s well worth it to be safe than to err on the side of risk.”

She looks at you and is silent as she thinks of your observation, before she smiles again.

“Right, of course,” she says dubiously.

“And I mean, usually I’m hired by people to protect them or their things or whatever else you could think of. You start to see a pattern if you do this enough times, you get to see what really matters to people when they think they’re in danger.”

You pause, realizing you might be speaking just a little out of line, but you can’t really go back on it now.

“I think, in this case, if nothing else comes from me being around you, I think one thing you can take from this is that there are people out there who care a lot about you and want the best for you.”

Lena looks at you and searches your face, her expression significantly softer than you’d seen it throughout the entire meeting.

“And you’re saying you’re the best?” she finally asks jokingly.

“That would be your words, not mine,” you grin at the jest. “I can only try to be better than I am at this moment.”

She hums in consideration, smiles at you again.

“Alright, poet, how about we get through the rest of this day and you can tell me all of your ruminations of life after.”

Before you know it, she’s stood up and gathered her belongings, walking swiftly past you and you fall in step behind her.

The remainder of the day is spent with no more aggravations, the rest of her company and her tasks are much more agreeable than the one unruly man you unfortunately had to witness that morning.

Lena insists that you sit on the couch, or at the very least pull up a chair beside the door if you really ought to be right there, but you decline and instead opt to switch up your posts in a way that is still in a good proximity to the door and with your eye to her balcony.

You begin to get the idea that perhaps you’re making her a bit nervous, and you concede and feel guilty about distracting her when you glance towards her, but she’s still typing away steadily at her computer, occasionally pausing to write notes.

Sometimes, you catch her gaze, and sometimes she catches yours, and more and more often you’re both just glancing at each other and the day passes with the cyclical give and take.

Eventually, it’s time to go home, and you’re rather surprised the infamous CEO Lena Luthor is going home at a decent time, but you decide to keep your presumptions to yourself.

When you reach the parking lot, you look up at the sky under the guise of taking in the night, taking note that there is very minimal possibility of some aerial attack.

You look around the parking lot and feel mildly uneasy about the vastness of space where you can just see all the possibilities of an ambush and how they would pan out.

Still, it remains quiet and Lena walks wordlessly beside you, the light rhythmic tapping of her heels the only sound that you can distinguish.

You scan your surroundings only moving your eyes, using the most of your peripherals and not bothering to turn your head as you walk calmly to your SUV.

You raise a hand to gesture Lena to stop - you’re alone on this task, and you figure if something were to happen to your car at this moment, having Lena in such a close proximity is a bit of a moot point, but you figure at least you’ll have her in your sights.

You turn your back on her briefly, wanting to make this quick - you get to the ground swiftly and check under your car with a flashlight, searching for some telltale flashing or anything out of place behind your tires, in the rims, anywhere else something can be hidden.

You glance to see her heels still near you, and when you get up she looks at you with perplexity and vague amusement, but she thanks you nonetheless when you open the car door for her.

She gets into the backseat and you lock the door briefly - you know that the habit is a bit pedantic but you also know if there are people who are as equally skilled as you are, all they need is just a few seconds of opportunity for everything to go haywire.

Still content that you’re alone in the lot, you unlock your car again and get in quickly, locking the door again and turning on the ignition in one fluid motion before you’re driving away from the lot.

Seemingly instinctively, you start humming to yourself again, and it’s still the same song you’ve had stuck in your head all day and you wonder if you’ll go to sleep with that as your final thought.

You drive around several blocks to see if anyone could be following you, but when you’re satisfied that no one is going to spontaneously tail you, Lena finally fills the silence.

“You’re not lost, are you?”

“No, I’ve memorized several different routes to take in varying emergencies, and I have a few back up plans for several worst case scenarios.”

“There can be more than one worst cast scenario?” Lena asks.

You take a very brief moment to glance in the rearview mirror at Lena and give her a small, tight-lipped smile. You look away again and scan the streets and the sidewalks, looking for something you might not find - and you hope you wouldn’t.

“Have you ever had to kill someone?”

You smile and shake your head. Her small talk really gets straight to the point, but you entertain her.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve drawn my weapon a handful of times though, can count the instances on one hand. That’s like the last thing you should do, and shoot only when our lives are in immediate danger.”

Lena hums, and then, “that must be quite scary for you. I don’t know how you’d deal with that.”

Involuntarily, you recall the ordeal with Lena and the Venture explosion, and the whole debacle of her brother’s attempts on her life and how she’d shot an assassin in a police uniform.

You look up into the mirror and see her gaze fixed outside her window.

“Well, you do what you have to do to survive. It’s not just self-preservation, it’s going against every instinct of your being that’s telling you to be fearful and to be at the mercy of your peril. Surviving against the odds means having to be your own hero in your most dire moment.”

Lena’s quiet for a moment, and you start to wonder if you’ve said too much.

“Is that how you manage your feelings with your job?”

“I just convince myself the money is worth it,” you say jokingly.

“I don’t believe you do it because of that though,” Lena says, and you glance into the mirror again and catch her gaze.

“You may think you do it because of the money, and you think your mask of selfishness can safeguard you, but personally, I think what you do is one of the most selfless acts of service.”

You’re quiet for a moment and you ponder Lena’s remarks. You appreciate it, and you understand it, but you don’t want to admit what it might really be - you haven’t wanted to admit it aloud for a long while.

“Or it’s just the reckless disregard of my life,” you mutter softly.

You don’t think Lena’s heard you when she says nothing, and it’s quiet for another moment before she speaks again.

“Whatever it is, you still do it because you choose to and not because you’ve been programmed to. The difference between you and a machine is that you can fathom gratitude, and the reward, and the risk and consequence of doing what you do. However way you twist it, that seems like the markings of a hero, don’t you think?”

You continue driving, your eyes still scanning your surroundings and even without the distraction of vigilance, you don’t think you have anything of substance to reply to Lena.

There’s a lull in the conversation and you hum the song that’s been stuck in your head all day, the steady rise and fall of your chest as you breathe putting you in a calm state of mind - you’re close to Lena’s loft.

“I didn’t take you for a Little Mix fan,” she says suddenly, and you’re overcome with the sudden, overwhelming desire to punch yourself in the face for how instantly you blush at her comment.

“I didn’t take you for one to recognize a song,” you retort, hoping you don’t sound too defensive.

You don’t need to look up in the mirror to hear Lena’s smile when she replies.

“Not me, no. It’s my friend, Kara. She has such an affinity for pop music and boy bands and girl groups.”

You huff in laughter and clear your throat, more than relieved to be pulling up to the private parking entrance below the building.

When you park in the lot she points out, you do your routine of getting out first and locking the door, checking around you, and unlocking the door and letting Lena out when your evaluation of the place is to your standards, and she thanks you again as she gets out.

She leads the way as you get into an elevator that will take her directly to the loft level, and you wait with your suits and your duffle bag in hand.

When she stands in front of her door with her key in hand, she waits expectantly and with great humour, watches as you acknowledge her silently.

You put the hangers for your suits in your mouth and bite down to hold them, your duffle bag hangs on your shoulder as you brace with your one hand hovering just near your concealed gun and the other in the ready position for an attack.

You look ridiculous, refusing to let her carry any of your belongings, and when she unlocks the door, you make quick work of going through without busting her door and you inspect the immediate area because you just never know.

You can’t ever get out of work mode, but Lena practically forces you to be casual when she walks past you with a smirk on her face and moves to take her coat off and shuck her heels off in one motion.

You decide it’s finally time to stop looking dumb and you take the hangers from your mouth. You look around the loft most definitely by virtue of having to know the space well and not at all to take in whatever personal stories you can parse from Lena’s home.

Lena’s voice comes from somewhere down the hall, “I wasn’t expecting a sleepover tonight, you can go ahead and order whatever food you’d like, I’ll foot all the expenses.”

You feel yourself flush again and you wonder if it was just absolutely necessary for her to word it like that, but you still linger around the space and wait for something to do.

“You’re like a vampire, aren’t you? Am I to invite you to do everything? You can put your belongings away, you know,” she says as her head pops up from around the corner, her eyes teasing as she watches.

“Of course,” you say, but you still don’t move.

You’re quickly becoming aware of how really useless you are not only when pretty girls are concerned, but when pretty girls are concerned and you’re meant to be around them in a job setting, but the entirety of you is wishing for circumstances that were anything but a job setting.

You ought to reel yourself back in; you know quite well how your superiors would react if they caught wind of your current misgivings.

You stand up straighter and fix yourself in an attempt to snap out of whatever inappropriate reverie you’re in, and you’re still standing awkwardly near the front door when you see Lena again in sleeping shorts and a loosely hanging shirt.

She looks at you quizzically when she sees your stare, an amalgamation of question and realization when she seems to figure out your expression.

“Darling, don’t tell me you thought I slept in business attire?” she says teasingly.

You’re slowly losing most of your senses and you’re reeling at her term of endearment, and you don’t even realize she’s come up to you until she’s just under your gaze - she’s a bit shorter now without her high heels.

“Not all of us sleep in our formal suits,” she says as she pats you on your chest. Your eyes widen even more and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until she saunters away, smirking at your apparent uselessness.

“And please at least set your things down, you’re making me nervous just standing there for as long as you have.”

Finally, you concede and you find the least intrusive place to put your duffle bag and your suits. Lena gives you a slightly admonishing look when you let your suits crinkle on their place in a chair, and she takes them wordlessly and hangs them in her coat closet and eyes you meaningfully to make sure you don’t take them back.

After a round of polite, but suspiciously playful bickering about delivery choices that feels too familiarly domestic, Lena’s finally convinced you to sit on her sofa and you’re eating pizza on the farthest end of the couch as she looks on at you amused between commercial breaks of whatever TV show she’s left on.

She’s allowed herself one glass of wine tonight, to which you’ve adamantly declined for yourself and she doesn’t give too much of an argument.

At some point in the night, Lena’s fallen asleep curled up on the couch and you saw the progression of it but still didn’t say anything. Now, you can’t exactly suggest for her to transfer to her bed, and you most definitely will not carry her there, but you contemplate the pros and cons and even you know rather well how inconvenient a sore neck is from an uncomfortable sleeping position.

You’re a coward, however, and instead of waking up a peaceful slumbering woman you opt to just take the blanket that’s draped over the couch behind you and put it onto her sleeping form, and you suppose it’s safe enough to just stand up to get her a glass of water.

When you come back with the water and have shut off the rest of the lights in her loft, she’s murmuring in her sleep and breathing slightly erratically.

You merely watch and wait for it to subside, but she only gets louder and more distressed, and you realize she’s having some sort of bad dream and you move to rouse her from it when she wakes fully and sits up roughly to get her bearings.

Her breaths come fragmented and hollow when she looks around her, and she startles before realizing who you are and you suspect that your hovering presence is probably not the most comforting sight in a dark room after having a nightmare.

“Sorry,” you murmur quietly, “I was just getting you water, I guess you were having a bad dream.”

Lena just rubs a hand over her face, and you can see the exhaustion in her eyes illuminated by the TV light. You hand her the glass without another word as you take your place beside her.

She thanks you softly before setting it on the coffee table after she’s taken a sip.

She moves to lay down on the couch again and you’re just a little late in remembering to use your voice, but you think you know better than to appeal to a sleepy woman and you just let her fall asleep beside you.

You’ve left your gun and knife stuffed into your side of the sofa in between the cushion and the couch.

You took off your jacket and dress shirt some time in the evening and it left you in a white tank top. You know better than to sleep in your suit pants, but you just can’t bring yourself to change into something else - not when you’re fine as you are anyway and it’s not totally imperative to sleep in something comfortable.

You suppose you’re not going to do much sleeping anyway, which is a bit of a bad idea especially on your second day of the job, but there’s a plethora of reasons why you can’t sleep and these reasons will keep you up for an undetermined amount of time.

Eventually, somewhere between 4am and 5am you suspect, you finally fall asleep sitting up with your arms crossed and your head leaning back against the couch.

At 6am, you open your eyes just briefly to find Lena’s changed positions in the night and her head is pressed up against your leg, and you grin sleepily as you fall back to sleep.

About an hour or so later, you wake up to some commotion and your eyes snap open, you stand up quickly and realize that was probably not the best thing to do the very first thing in the morning.

Lena’s gone, but you smell something coming from the kitchen and you turn around and see her working around the space, coffee and a plate of food in hand and she finally notices your figure.

“I suppose one con of working for me is having to get up when I do,” she says in jest.

“There’s coffee, I don’t think I’m complaining,” you say hoarsely, your voice still rough with sleep.

You watch as she works easily, her hair tied up in a messy bun and her shirt just a little lopsided as it hangs off a shoulder. You know you’re staring, but you’re waiting for her to tell you to come over and sit.

She feels your gaze on her and smirks when she looks up, raising her eyebrows slightly in expectation as she tilts her head to beckon you to get over here.

You decide you’re a little bit too sleep deprived to deal with whatever hold Lena’s apparently got on you, and the whole point of you is to make sure nothing surprises you, but this is a fight you’re willing to concede.

You sit down tentatively and she smiles, her gaze lingering on you unabashedly and she nudges a cup of coffee to you.

You regard her soft, pale eyes trailing over you. You’re captivated by how objectively beautiful she looks, a total juxtaposition of the sharp, cultivated lines of power and grace you’ve seen of her business look.

You can merely sit there wordlessly and watch her taking you in.

“How do you like it?”

“What?” your eyes widen and you try to ignore the blush that’s rushing to your face - somehow, you’ve successfully managed to trip over one simple word.

Lena smiles widely, an eyebrow raised in what you realize is a look you’ve seen too often and one that could very well cause trouble for you.

“Your coffee, how do you like it?” she elaborates.

You blink owlishly at her and then your eyes snap down at the cup.

“Right, uh, just two cream one sugar.”

Lena still hovers near you, leaning closer as she reaches for the cream and sugar containers and your eyes widen again with bated breath.

You know for certain Lena’s aware of your inner turmoil, what with her hyper-focused attentiveness on you, and you thank her feebly as you take a drink and try to make you burning your tongue on it look gracefully intentional.

You’re a mess and you both know that.

“Are you ready for another day with me?” she asks innocently enough when she’s finally sat down near you.

No, this is more difficult than I’d thought, and for entirely different reasons, you think.

“Of course, hopefully it’s as smooth sailing as yesterday,” you manage to say.

You think you should pat yourself on the back for your great effort of composure, and you’ve got this. You’re finally getting back into the swing of things and doing your job like you were meant to.

Just then, Lena winks at you and smiles behind her coffee cup, and the crashing revelation of you don’t got this comes falling all at once and you inhale sharply at her teasing.

You smile back - perhaps it’s more of a grimace, in reassurance and Lena’s eyes dance with mirth.

She picks up a piece of french toast with her fork and you demand your entire body to ignore the elegant fluidity of her motion - however, that requires physically moving your entire self away which is more work than you care to do at this time of the morning, so you concede to watch, fixated and entranced.

You have to tear your eyes away when your gaze lands on her lips. Frankly, you’re quite impressed by how close you are to falling off your chair even when you’ve been completely still, but it’s when her tongue comes out and licks the maple syrup from her lips that makes you feel like the entire Earth is shaking.

You understand, then, that you have only two options to deal with this arrangement, and it goes as such: you can make things difficult for yourself and deny every blatant reaction you feel to literally anything Lena does, or you can go along for the ride and fight worthier battles.

You concede to the latter and watch as Lena still misses the drip of syrup that’s fallen a little below her lip, and you wordlessly get a napkin and reach over to her slowly, her eyes widening imperceptibly as she watches you approach.

You bring your hand close to her mouth and linger, making eye contact with her and grinning slightly before you wipe the errant syrup away.

Lena looks at you, her jaw slightly slack, as you lean back and continue to work through your breakfast, smirking at your own apparent hold on her, and you really wonder just how much more interesting this job will get.

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wackygoofball · 7 years

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Jaime x Brienne: Undercover Officers AU

When Jaime Lannister received the order from his captain that he would go on the next undercover mission to take up yet another drug ring led by two of the most dangerous and influential men in King’s Landing’s underground scene, Petyr Baelish and Roose Bolton, he thought nothing much of it, a job like any other.

You live or you die playing the game. There is no middle ground.

The danger of the job is inevitable, Jaime knows. And over the years, he accustomed himself to the idea that any of those missions will likely mean his demise far sooner than later.

The DEA officer has a self-chosen mission to fulfill, after all, trying to wipe out one of the most dangerous and destructive drugs currently known around Westeros, Wildfire, a drug that annihilated his life in many ways, marking it with loss, regret, and the stigma of the Kingslayer that he inherited ever since that one fateful day that almost went up in endless green.

Jaime is assigned to Petyr Baelish, whose primary focus lies on the distribution of drugs and taking care of the prostitutes “under his care.” It’s no new story to Jaime that those drugs are used to keep the women in Littlefinger’s brothels, but that doesn’t stop the DEA officer from feeling the sincere need to open that guy’s throat the way he has done it to Aerys when he earned himself the nickname of the Kingslayer.

He is supposed to work himself to the top, starting out as a henchman meant to do odd jobs for Baelish to earn the man’s trust – and that is what Jaime is to do, under the alias of James Dayne.

The allowance into the ranks of Petyr Baelish goes smoother than Jaime hoped it would, but it becomes painfully obvious that the man is in dire need of able men, and James proves to be just that asset Littlefinger has been seeking.

“Chaos is a ladder. I need chaos to spread, and you… you have what it takes to create chaos in my name. So? Can you do the job? Can you spread chaos for me?”

“I don’t care about chaos theory or any of that shit, but of that I can assure you, if you tell me to do something, it will be done. What you make of it is up to you.”

“I think we will have a good time together, James. A very good time.”

Soon, Jaime is introduced to “the dear family,” Baelish’s “business partner,” Roose Bolton and his sinister son Ramsay Snow, who is taking over the gambling and secret disposal of enemies threatening their profit. And a first glimpse at the business practices through Roose Bolton is not far away as Jaime comes face-to-face with the ominous man for the first time: “You must know, Mr. Dayne, there is a fine if crucial difference between punching a man’s teeth out after he didn’t pay for the drugs he received – and ensuring that someone disappears from the face of the earth, so he may never speak again. It is an art.”

“One that you paint with a lot of red, I assume.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How sharp the knife is with which the task is carried out. The sharper the knife, the more effective the cut, the les blood… the less of a mess.”

Jaime finds his cover almost blown when Mr. Bolton’s bookkeeper, a tall woman with blonde hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a way too sharp tongue for her own good, starts to ask uneasy questions about his background, a history that is nothing more but fiction and some faked IDs. While Jaime manages to talk himself out of the situation at the last second, the undercover officer notes that Gale Morne may prove to be more dangerous to him than the assassin or the drug lord. Because if she blows his cover, Jaime knows, he is done for, and all the hard work to trace down the biggest distributor of Wildfire will slip through his fingers. And he can’t let that happen.

Not again.

In dire need of a Scotch and a cigarette after that introduction to the family, Jaime seeks out the next best bar, but as he makes his way down the dark alleys of King’s Landing, he spots Bolton’s bookkeeper. Wanting to investigate, the DEA officer abandons the Scotch to tail the woman instead.

However, the investigation comes to an abrupt end after rounding some dark corner, only to be knocked to the ground out of nowhere – by the bookkeeper in business suit.

“Why do you little shit keep following me around?” she barks, one knee solidly over his sternum as she keeps pressing him into the pavement to the point that Jaime sees stars.

“The boss said that we will… likely get to work together… more closely… so I thought… I thought we might just as well… get to know one another,” he rasps, though Gale only hits him across the face in return.

“Liar. So now, you will tell me what you want, tailing me ever since the mini mart down main street, or else you will walk around with your mouth sewn shut after I am done with your jaw.”

Jaime wastes no time, using one moment of distraction to turn tables, his mind entirely set on survival now. He manages to flip her over, and the two start a fight. While Jaime does not want to kill that woman, he will do it if she gives him a reason. He can’t afford to have his cover blown now, or else all will be for nothing.

They draw guns at the exact same moment, aiming at each other, ready to fire.

“Listen now. I don't want to kill you,” Jaime curses through gritted teeth. “Don’t give a reason to shoot you dead.”

“For that, you would have to hit first,” she hisses.

“No, you don’t understand. I am not your enemy, woman! It doesn’t have to end like this… Listen, we can end this peacefully and go our ways again.”

“Who sent you? Baelish himself?”

“For what would he send me?”

“Why would you tail me if you didn’t get the order from someone?” she retorts. “And now you listen: I have no interest in you, just like I have no interest in killing you. But I will do it. What I am doing here is far more important than you are.”

“Playing secretary for a murderer, you mean?” Jaime snarls.

He can spot something shift in her face, though the woman seems to know better than to let on. She licks her lips, tightening her grip on the gun. “Rich coming from a guy doing odd jobs for said murderer’s business partner, who has about as much blood on his hands as Bolton does. You don’t even want to know how many prostitutes they threw into the water after they got overdosed on Wildfire, and rarely by their own choice.”

Jaime ponders the options, but finds none other than one that still bears a lot of danger, to say the least.

“Let’s make a truce.”

“You need trust to have a truce.”

“I trust you,” he replies. And Jaime can’t explain it to himself as he does it, but he lowers his gun to show her just that. “See?”

The woman looks at him in shock.

Good.

“I am an officer of the DEA. I am undercover to hopefully take up both these assholes. And judging by the way you look at me, you don’t want them to continue either. So… if you want that to end, you better lower your gun, too.”

To his surprise, Gale actually does, but then… breaks out laughing.

Wait, what?

“You should have said that sooner,” the blonde woman huffs, her attitude completely changing a she steps closer, stuffing the gun away again, wiping blood from her nose off with her sleeve with the other hand. “The departments have shitty communication.”

Jaime blinks, still trying to catch on to the new information.

“You are not the only one trying to drain the swamp, just that I work on it from the other end. Homicide Special Section.” She holds out her hand to help him stand, which Jaime accepts gratefully, because his sides are nearly killing him after getting kicked by her repeatedly – because damn, that woman is strong.

“Jaime Lannister.”

“Brienne of Tarth.”

“Well, as it appears, we will be working that case together from now on, then.”

“What? Seven Hells no. You will resign the first chance you get.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I was here first.”

“For real? That is your argument?”

“We are investigating murder cases. My department has higher stakes in this. I am undercover for far longer than you are. I have established myself as Bolton’s right hand. So, the best you can do is to pull out now so that I can do my job. You pose a danger to my cover.”

“I won’t pull out. Even if you capture Bolton, that doesn’t mean you get Baelish and those who distribute the drugs. If we blow them up, we have to be sure both are right at the epicenter.”

“I can take care of that myself.”

“Just that I won’t leave, sorry about that, wench.”

“Wench?”

He shrugs. “Get used to the idea, you are not the only one who has made sacrifices and put in much effort to get here. So curb your territorial attitude and be reasonable.”

“I should just call you out as a snitch.”

“If you do that, the dynamic duo will only ever be more cautious about potential more snitches. And you think they won’t target you, after exposing me? That is the first address to turn to. You know that. Face it, Brienne, we are stuck in this together.”

“… Fine, but if you act stupid just once, I will have you out.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise.”

And so, the two undercover agents now encounter the reality of having to stage everything for an epic blow-up to take down both Roose Bolton and Petyr Baelish, to destroy their underground empire once and for all, and that against the odds of very differing tactics and the ongoing arguments between the two.

However, danger is only just inches away, under the watchful eyes of the bosses as well as their own henchmen looming behind every corner. Just like the two find themselves dragged deeper and deeper into the darkest corners of the city, caught between drugs, gambling, blackmail, and murder.

As the two are increasingly forced to work together, Jaime is bound to learn more about the other undercover agent, who, like him, is here for much more personal reasons than Brienne lets on, trying her best to keep it strictly professional, though even the strong agent in disguise seems to have reached her breaking point far sooner than later.

“Every day I wake up, knowing that I will have to serve the guy who is responsible for my big brother’s murder. Every day I wake up, knowing I will have to smile at him, advise him, bring him beverages, make sure his business keeps running. Every day I wake up, having to wait for him to make a wrong step so that, at last, I can stop the murders that keep happening on my watch. Every single day. It has to end. It just has to, because if it doesn’t end any time soon… I will shoot him in the head. Him and his bastard of a son. For Galladon. I just can't do this for much longer. It’s eating me alive.”

More and more, Jaime and Brienne have to wrestle not just with their own demons, but also with their desolation drawing them closer to one another than it should, granted that they have a job to do, a mission to fulfill, that they cannot afford to fail, cannot afford to make it personal.

“Because people live and die in the game, and you cannot afford to get too attached. If you do, you will end up making choices based on your heart, not your mind. And in this game, we cannot afford to make just one wrong move, or else we will both end up like my brother, in a body bag drifting by the shore.”

However, that doesn’t make their threatening, growing attraction any less real, any less palpable, any less of the one escape in a mission that brings them to the breaking point, which has them function as the one thing that keeps them from coming apart.

A big drug delivery to the Dornish underground scene led by Ellaria Sand may finally bring the turn in the game that the two have been waiting for, for what feels like an eternity already. If they manage to expose them with their hands right in the “Dornish plum’s jar,” this may bring them victory at last.

Brienne is tasked to use a moment of distraction to be created by Jaime to steal the neatly stored information Bolton keeps on his customers as well as his “achievements” from his computer, to finally confirm Roose Bolton responsible for all those murders, including that of Galladon of Tarth.

Jaime, meanwhile, is supposed to take care of the drugs meant to go to Dorne, so that Baelish also gets his well-deserved punishment.

However, things take a sudden turn when the two have to realize that they were exposed, understanding far too late that they were not the only ones designing a plot to blow the others up.

A battle against the clock ensues, a game of cat-and-mouse, as Jaime and Brienne try to get each other out danger, try to save one another from sure death at the hands of some of the most dangerous men in all of Westeros.

Will they succeed?

Or will they go under forever?

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