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a-gal-with-taste · 2 years

Text

In Your Dreams

(Sequel to Tired)

Summary: "So... what? Is this you trying to tame me?" Your sarcastic comment only earned a raised brow, and after a beat, a hum.

"Now, why would I want to do a thing like that..." Leaning down close from above you, you are soon close enought to realize, that he has small, miniscule flecks of actual green in his natural eye, which peers down at you lazily, but entirely fixated as he murmurs, "... when it's so much more rewarding to rile you up?"

WC: 3.4 K, (Silco X F!Reader)

Warnings: SFW, but steamy. Language, brief dirty-talk, power-dynamics, boss/employee relationship, rough kissing, praising, body-worship, slight possessiveness, light manhandling/groping, also y'all are definitely going to yell at me, but I ain't sorry ;^P

With the sounds of thrashing, one would be forgiven to think that the two were in the middle of a heated, hateful brawl. Honestly, with a sneer fixed on your face, and the way you all but lunge to him between breaths, Silco himself wonders if he should feel concern that you might tear his throat out...

Your teeth do find his neck, but they leave bruising instead of blood. Any offhand worry of an attack is quelled, especially when your hands are working furiously at the clasps of his vest. It's clear you have no regard for his apparel, for the kingpin swears your nails are ripping through the dark leather to get at the golden-buckles.

"My, my... aren't you wild?"

His chuckle is swallowed by yet another slam of your mouth onto his, and the vest is half-frantically shouldered off, an impaitent grunt sounding when the strap catches on a cufflink. He has to furiously shake it off to-let crumble uncaringly to the ground. Arm wounds tight around your waist with nails digging around to your hip, as you let out a moan into his dark grin. His other palm finds the surface of the door from behind you, all but slamming it open for the two of you to stumble in.

Now it actually feels like a battle.

Though not one of hate and bloodlust - lustful, yes, but the sight of the bed causes another willful burst to take over your body. Your movements and grip now bruising, Silco finds himself laughing on your tongue when you tighten fingers on his belt-loops, trying to turn him around to shove him back-first onto the bed.

Oh, you're spirited, yes, and that alone could be enough of an advantage to get away with it; with your attempt to wrest a sense of dominance for yourself, while in Silco's own domain.

Admirable, and bold. But unfortunately, you forgot to account for the fact that the Eye of Zaun was impaitent.

You are able to bounce once on the rather comfortable mattress beneath you, before you quickly work to prop yourself up on your elbows. It's an instant, but an instant too late, as he's on you just as quickly. Pinning your thighs, then hips in place with his knees as your hands flash up and try to grab at him as he moves up and over your body.

"Eager now, are we? Funny..." Fingers were captured where they had been yanking his shirt from it's tucked position. The room was dim enough that light blended seamlessly into shadows, but his bright normal eye, and burning-red seemed to glow almost sunlike in the darkness. Watching you pant for breath with hands twitching as Silco smoothly interlocked your fingers with his, there was a glimmer of mirth in the green and black, mixed-crimson depths as he continued, "...last I remembered, you seemed to be more eager to run, than to do anything else. I can't lie to you, I'm afraid I am rather pleased by this new show of enthusiasm."

"Fuck you," You grumbled, and the blue-green eye became a slit. The almost-sweet handholding between the two of you ended, fingers sliding from between your own to lock around your wrists and hook on tight. Silco's hands became the shackles that pinned your hands to either side of your head, pressing them deep into the cushy sheets and mattress beneath you.

Jaw dropped and gapping at the sudden movements, you instinctively yanked and pulled at the grip locked around you, suddenly only now privy to the realization that you were completely vulnerable. Vulnerable, pinned, and trapped beneath the most powerful crimelord in all of Zaun, whose entire scope of attention was on you during your sudden bout of struggles.

"Oh please, don't stop on my account," Silco's tone was almost bored, calling out the bluff of your struggles, even as your legs kicked out once behind him. Safely out of striking-reach, but it was the thought that counted. "Keep wearing your self out. It's a good waste of time, and I think it only helps the two of us out in the end."

As if on cue, your body flopped back down entirely, chest heaving slightly for a breath as you scowled up at him. It wasn't heated though, and he noted this with a quirk of his eyebrow as you grumbled, almost peevishly, "Not seeing how this is helping us out."

"Consitering our last meeting ended with us... perhaps, going a bit fast," The admittance made you blink. "... resulting in your rapid exit and quite the headache, I feel that progress is more easily achieved when one takes their time."

The scarred side of his lips twitch, and there's something almost playful in the way his thumb swipes over your pulse-point. "Unfortunately, I don't think you know the meaning of slowing-down. Or if you do, you fail to understand how to exercise restraint."

"So... what? Is this you trying to tame me?" Your sarcastic comment only earned a raised brow, and after a beat, a hum. You felt the pads of his fingers actually having the nerve to tap against your wrists in thought, but any attempt to lurch beneath the man only earned a warning squeeze on the pinned-hands, and a low-chuckle in accompaniment.

"Now, why would I want to do a thing like that..." Leaning down close from above you, you are soon close enough for your air-supply to practically come entirely from his own mouth; and you realize, that he has small, miniscule flecks of actual green in his natural eye, which peers down at you lazily, but still entirely fixated as Silco murmurs, "... when it's so much more rewarding to rile you up?"

A sudden breath being sucked through your teeth as you feel the man shifting slightly over your body, lowering just enough that he could comfortably rest partially over your body. Silco receives no order to remove himself from you, and so closes the gap as you continue to stare up at him. Heavy breathing catching when his chest presses to yours, with gazes holding for only a heartbeat longer and then Silco tilts his head just as his nose brushes against yours.

Breath hitches suddenly at the feel of lips pressing almost delicately on your cheekbone. The thought of Silco doing anything delicate would make you cackle at the outrageousness of the image, in any other situation, but here, your own lips can only part wordlessly as he repeats the action.

"You are truly a fierce thing," The murmur vibrates against your skin, your tongue feeling dry as he traces the contour of your cheek. "Wild, truly. Even now, every nerve is sharp with fight, with passion..." A firmer press, just beneath the hollow of your eye, and you felt your lashes flicker close as a silent sigh hushed from your mouth.

Or perhaps not as silent as you thought, because you felt his lips freeze in place for several heartbeats. "... you indeed have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

"Oh... I could guess."

Another vibration along your skin, and you felt that damnable thumb rubbing slow circles onto the joint in your wrist as his lips trailed. Moving to give the other half of your face similar treatment, you shuddered at his words, and the faintest drag of his teeth along his skin as he spoke between unimaginably slow, intimate kisses to your skin.

"The moment I saw you, I knew I was looking at something truly ferocious. Unbroken, despite all the world can do in order to do so... every time I saw you, I knew I was witnessing something truly wild, fierce, strong... it's stunning, really. You, are stunning."

It was silly for Silco to claim that you had reinvented these concepts for him - the Eye of Zaun knew full-well you were born and bred on the streets, and these characteristics were far from rare with your breed...

Still. You had never, in all your life, been described as stunning before, and hearing him breathe the word so reverently, made your body shift beneath his own, and your chest jump a beat, before you managed to find your voice.

"Y..." You swallowed back the stutter the moment you felt it on your tongue, praying he didn't notice. Silco was paused above you though, so you made sure to say each ford as slow and carefully as possible, to avoid something as mortifying as a voice-crack. "You... could've said something. Why didn't you say s-something, fuck..." A rumble deep in his chest after he pulled the sputter from your collected-words.

"Oh, believe me, if I knew something as simple as kisses could bring you squirming beneath me... or how long it would take for you to read between the damn lines, I would've done something much, much sooner..."

The press of his hands over your wrists tightened at your sudden squirm, and Silco pulled back to watch you, smirk fading into surprise. Pressing your cheek firmly into the mattress beneath you, you were biting hard on your bottom lip as you gave him a stony glare out of the corner of your eye, to prevent from... that sound slipping out again.

Your glare was a terrifying thing, but this image was ruined by the dark blush that had immediately filled your face.

And combined with the echo of that sound, Silco found himself only blinking once, before a pure, evil grin crossed his face.

Giving you no time to prepare or quickly turn your head to attempt to block, that keen, that mewl slipped from your mouth yet again, when his lips closed around your earlobe. You felt the faintest hint of chipped teeth nip at the very edge of your, surprisingly to you and him, extremely sensitive skin and you desperately tried to hold in another whine at the sensuality.

"I adore watching you prove to be more feral than any other Zaunite I've seen... but I could get used to this," His voice rasped gently against your ear, but you were not free from the truly diabolical assault on your hypersensitive, as Silco, the bastard, actually blew a brief bit of air past. Your skin burst into goosebumps as you openly squirmed beneath him with a groan, and he was equally open with his amused laughter at the sight. "... this, is something I would love to bring you back to. Again, and again, and again... I doubt you've had many opportunities to fall apart. I'll be ecstatic to help start making up the difference."

"Silco..."

"I always thought a rough, quick fuck would leave you crawling back for me," The kingpin admitted in a whisper that was far too casual next to your ear, as his mouth finally took pity to start peppering the uppermost of your jawline while you sucked in a breath. "But wouldn't you love more of this? Me, making you come apart at the very seams from the smallest of touches? Faintest of words? I admit, I never imagined you as one for soft, nice things in the bedroom... but I suppose a good girl such as yourself deserves to be pampered, after being headstrong for so many years."

You knew Silco wasn't a good person. Productive, goal-oriented and passionate, he was even insistent on getting to his goals one way or another. You have never had a problem with how he decided to conduct his business - despite his neverending nagging over the years, you'd come to appreciate how relentlessly Silco worked to achieve his goals...

Now? You hated his fucking guts for how he was pulling out all-the-stops, in working to turn you into utter putty in his hands. And you loathed him deeply, with how, in two single words, he was closer than ever to succeeding.

"Whatever, however you want it, I would do it for you." The Eye of Zaun breathed, transferring both wrists to cross just atop your head, holding them in place with an unyielding grip of one hand. The other began to stroke down the side of your body, tracing every curve and dip while causing shivers to race through your entire form. With a tiny, helpless gasp, you pressed your head back, exposing your neck as his lips continued their assault between words.

"Hard, fast. Slow, sweet... However you want it. I could make you into my own, personal whore or I could raise you up to be my wild, stunning Queen. At my side, either way."

"Either w-way," You panted, letting out a whimper as you pushed your skull back, feeling his nose brushing your jawline as Silco started suckling a dark purple mark onto your neck. "... s-sounds like I'm all... fuckin' yours."

"And I would be yours."

It's a confession you would normally burst-out laughing at, for the clichèness, ridiculousness and particularly because it's Silco saying it. But he sounds so casual, so honest about it, and all the while he's nipping at your skin with the devilish nature his voice is lacking...

"You have no idea, how long I've wanted you to be mine," He rasped against the hollow of your throat. Shushing you as you whined from the feel of him, another firm, reassuring squeeze on your pinned wrists was soon followed by his tongue tracing up your jugular. You groaned needingly, arching your back up and whine even louder as his hand slips beneath you to pull your body even closer, heaving chest to his.

"No idea." A firm repeat is accompanied by his lips finally pressing sternly to your mouth, as if in chastising for your impatience, or taking out some frustration from his own. Desperately, you open your mouth to deepen the touch, but Silco leaves you chasing as he pulls his head back. Hand finally releasing your wrists to smooth down the side of your face, he cups his palm beneath your chin like he had done to kiss you for the first time.

The touch is impossibly softer now. Like it's not even real.

His eyes are bright. Impossibly bright, and you feel yourself squinting as his murmurs become more and more distant, "And I think it's in your best interest, not to keep me waiting much longer... or yourself."

With that, your eyes shot open with a gasp and you sat straight up, alone, in your own bed. A quick glance around proved several things; you were half-tangled in a net of sheets and blankets, pillows were askew both on your mattress and floor, and your damn curtains had been cracked just enough, for the day-store across from your apartment to awaken you with the flash of it's sign lights.

Forcing you from... that dream.

For the third night, in a fucking row.

It was absurd, you privately fumed with yourself, how much of a routine it was becoming. Jerk-awake, work for a minimum of five, embarrassing minutes to free yourself from the self-imposed entrapment of blankets, before stumbling into the apartment bathroom to splash cold, cold water onto your face.

Water dribbling off your hair and trickling down the sides of your face, you gave a death-glare to your reflection in the mirror.

Then you glanced up at the mirror-flipped image of a fading, purple splotch on your forehead, and swore tiredly as you grabbed the tube of lotion off the counter next to the sink. It was supposed to help minimize the coloring, and walking around with a straight-purple mark adorning your forehead...

You nearly slapped yourself, when you distantly thought about if Silco had a tube of this as well. You really were exhausted, from restless and interrupted sleeping, to be thinking about something as silly as whether or not your boss was doing alright...

"Stop, fucking stop it right there..." You growled to yourself as you massaged your fingertips into the bruised skin, supressing a wince at the tenderness as you started to pace along the floor.

Si-... he, was becoming an issue. Consuming your thoughts at night, now during the day, and you haven't even seen the man since you earned this mark on your forehead, and had given him it's twin.

The memory of the headbutt you had given to the Eye of Zaun, the ruling crimelord of the Undercity, and the unofficial King of Zaun, made your face not only colored in purple, but in a dark blush as well.

Not just for that memory, but also what exactly preluded the decision to slam your head to his.

The hottest, feralist of make-outs you'd ever had in your life, and the subject of your nocturnal thoughts as you stayed cooped up in your apartment. Half as an escape to recover and gather your thoughts, and also to wait for the inevitable in a place that brought you some comfort. The fact that Si- The Industrialist had kissed you wasn't a bother. As stated, it was hot, and obviously wouldn't be the subject of your slumbering-fantasies if it was a mediocre round of smooching.

It didn't even bother you that much, about the fact that it had initially seemed to come out of nowhere. The more you mentally reviewed it, his actions over the months, years of your employment, had always been underlined with... something. Not exactly tension, but it it was always hovering in the space, air between you too. Growing stronger with every passing day, you had always assumed it was something negative, something to be weary off, and avoid...

And, well, after your reaction at The Last Drop, you supposed you had a reason to be weary. But avoid?

'Don't keep me waiting much longer... or yourself.'

Damn it.

Could you avoid this much longer?

Logistically, no. Even if Si... yes, Silco, wasn't fuming at your stunt from three nights ago, you knew it would be impossible to step out of your apartment and do anything, without being 'invited' to an audience. And he would have full right to do so, not only as your employer, but also as the injured party.

Realistically, also no. Your rent was due by the end of the week, and unfortunately, payment was a direct hand-out at the base. Meaning unless you wanted to take your chances, and see if the years of comfort and stability hadn't worn down your natural street-instincts, you would need to go back to the club to get your wages. This might also put you in some sense of good-grace, as you would prove to have enough pride left in you to return to The Last Drop on your own two feet, instead of waiting for Sevika to kick the door and drag you into an awaiting carriage.

She would do it. Oh yes, she would indeed do it, and even if your contract wasn't already terminated, Sevika would not go easy on you as a fellow or ex-employee.

But those weren't the real questions. The real, honest question was... could you avoid it much longer?

This tension? The incident? The kisses, those damned dreams...?

The fact that, maybe, you hadn't loathing Silco as much as you thought you had been over the years? And the fact that, apparently, he had never loathed you at all?

Could you avoid answering those questions, or going out and figuring out for yourself, for much longer?

'Don't keep me waiting much longer... or yourself.'

"Damn it," You growled underbreath, resisting the urge to face-palm. "Damn it." You couldn't. You knew you couldn't; be it out of curiosity, logistics, realism, the total obsession your sleeping-mind seemed to have over the makeout session, or a million other reasons, you knew you couldn't keep avoiding it.

You knew, that you just couldn't wait much longer.

With that in mind, there was a single intake of breath, before you reaching up to smooth and work off the cold droplets of water from your face and hair. Shaking off the dreams from your mind as the water feel from you, you marched over to your dresser to start getting ready.

For your return, your private meeting, and whatever the hell was going to be the outcome of all three with Silco.

Unsurprisingly, despite the early-hour and the past days of interrupted, and rather busy sleeping, energy was coursing though your body as you got ready to go face what came next:

And you realized, despite it all, you weren't feeling even the least bit tired anymore. You were going to face Silco, not in your dreams, but wide-awake.

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#it's in the title so don't get huffy #y'all shouldve seen that twist coming :3 #arcane #silco #arcane silco #silco x reader #my writing #tired!verse #gimme that hotheaded streetrat and (wait you didn't know i was wooing you??) crimelord romance #just your typical zaunite rom com #steamy #female reader #arcane fanfiction

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whythinktoomuch · 3 years

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(pt. i) (pt. ii)

She keeps to the darkness, keeps quiet, and keeps her distance, just the way she’s been trained to. She watches Lena, and she does it quite well. The difficult part is settling on the one thing that she should be learning from these endeavors.

Lena does a great many things throughout her day—often up before the sun, and only homeward bound long after it’s set. But after three long days of research, there’s one feature in particular that seems to warrant the most attention: a dark fleck, nestled in the pale expanse of her vulnerable throat.

When she tries to encapsulate the entirety of that observation into words at her disposal, however, all she can manage is, “Lena, not ugly.”

Lex doesn’t reply for a long while, which isn’t typical of him. But his tone isn’t unkind when he finally asks, “Is that it?”

“Yes.” She frowns, because why couldn’t that be it?

But Lex sighs, and that soft sound uproots her peace at its very core. “I wanted you to bring me a fact,” he says. “Not develop an opinion.”

“Different how?” she demands.

“Well, I need evidence.” Lex takes her hand, turning it over to reveal her palm, forever marked and marred from her most recent encounter with Kryptonite. “I need you to show me something. Something real. Otherwise, it doesn’t count. Do you understand?”

And yes, that much is definitely understandable. Even to her.

With much repurposed effort, she watches and waits while Lena does her work. Then she watches Lena take her leave, then waits some more.

It’s only when the top floor of the building is emptied of all people that she flies over, slipping into Lena’s office through the balcony door that’s never locked. From there, it doesn’t take long to secure what she’s looking for.

The next time Lex pays her a visit, she drops an armful of her spoils right at his feet.

“Lena likes coffee,” she announces boldly.

Lex is clearly taken aback at first, blinking and still. But then he grabs one of the many empty coffee cups now littered across the floor, and a slow smile dawns on his face. “All right then. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She grins so wide that it strains the corners of her lips.

“Lena is cold,” she says the next time they meet, presenting a delicate black glove for his amusement and perusal.

“Yes, well, most people are when it snows,” Lex says.

“Not me.”

“Well, you’re not exactly most people now, are you?” Lex’s pride in her is absolutely infectious, so she grins. “Of course not. You’re… exquisite.”

“Good thing?” she asks. It’s usually the first question that wells up inside of her upon hearing new words.

“A very good thing,” Lex says with a playful wink.

Over the last two weeks, Lex’s visits have dropped from often to somewhat often enough, his precious attention now divided between her and another project of his. It’s been a near impossible change for her to weather, but moments like this make it a little easier.

That is, until Lex slips the glove on.

She watches him flex his fingers one by one, forcing the taut leather to crackle loudly in her ears, and retreats somewhere deep inside herself. She fights determinedly against the frown threatening to twist her features into something uglier.

The glove isn’t hers. It isn’t Lex’s either, but his hand fits so perfectly that it could very well be his if he wanted.

“Not actually all that warm,” Lex comments, snorting when he peeks inside the glove. “And yet, pricier than your average first class ticket to Paris… Tsk, a little superficial, if you ask me.”

She nods as appropriate, but most of her concern is still with the glove and how Lex stuffs it into his back pocket like it doesn’t mean a thing.

“Yes, her hair is indeed very long,” Lex says, accepting the offering of Lena’s hairbrush, complete with stray strands of dark hair still caught in its teeth as ample proof for this careful observation. “This, Bizarrogirl, is absolutely perfect.”

And it is. Because this isn’t just a handful of coffee cups tossed in the trash or a lone glove left behind in the snow during a hasty commute. No, this is something she actually had to break into Lena’s apartment for, in the middle of a workday, undetected even in broad daylight.

But even all that and more couldn’t outweigh the very simple fact that Lex has the means to kill her now.

Evidently, a big part of his new project has been synthesizing a strain of Kryptonite that would only be lethal to her, and he must have succeeded because today, he’s armed with blue-tipped syringes that can pierce her skin.

It’s for research purposes. It’s the only way that Lex can collect blood samples so as to better study her molecular makeup, which will only help her in the long run. Lex, of course, would never hurt her.

Except it does hurt. Each needle sinks into her arm in an acute twinge, and she can feel the aftereffects of the breach crawling inside her head. It’s worse than the green light. It makes her stomach dry out like a rock, and tugs cool drops of sweat onto the surface of her skin.

But Lex must notice this sudden unrest living inside her because he lets her keep the hairbrush.

“Mine?” she asks, cradling the brush in her hands. It’s been relieved of all traces of Lena, but that doesn’t matter. She’s seen Lena use it enough times that it’s still rightly precious.

“No, it’s still Lena’s,” Lex corrects her with a gentle smile. “But you can keep it,” which is the best possible answer he could have given her.

She’s watching Lena unwind at home from her favorite spot in the sky, drawing from her x-ray vision and super-hearing with an ease that is now very practiced.

Everything is pleasantly routine until Kara knocks on Lena’s door, which is still very routine until they start raising their voices at each other. They exchange some words that she doesn’t quite understand with many implications that perhaps she will never understand. Then Supergirl is leaving through the balcony, flying off into the night in a blur of boastful blues and reds, while Lena is left behind to yell at herself and cry in unpredictable bursts.

Eventually, Lena settles in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of something that makes the air taste bitter. She’s halfway through her third glass when she slumps forward, her head dropped into her folded arms, breath gradually slowing and deepening.

She watches Lena sleep, waiting until the waiting is unbearable. There are all sorts of reasons why she shouldn’t, but she touches down onto the balcony, sidling into the apartment like a fleeting shadow, and finds herself in Lena’s presence for the very first time.

The bitter taste is stronger in her nose now, but so is everything else to be perceived about Lena. Everything from her soft snores to the slight warmth her body gives off once within reach.

And she risks that everything for a single touch, brushing her fingertips right where Lena’s long hair starts to end. It’s light, yet stirs something pure, frenzied, and fluttering in her chest. Then Lena sniffles and mumbles into her own arm, “… Kara?” and the moment spills into reality.

Teeth bared, she plucks the glass from Lena’s fragile grip with just enough care that it doesn’t shatter and leaves the same way Supergirl had barely an hour before.

She sets the glass before Lex with a firm clack! that calls his attention away from his tablet.

“Oh hello…” Lex sits up with a small chuckle. “And what’s this? Are we celebrating?”

“Lena is sad.”

Lex is out of his chair, his stare wild as he promptly demands, “What happened? What did you see?”

“Kara came. They talked… Supergirl left.” She squeezes her right fist, digging her nails into her palm the way she’s supposed to when things overwhelm her. “And… Lena is sad.”

Lex bursts into laughter. He doesn’t stop laughing for the rest of the night.

She doesn’t want to learn things about Lena anymore.

Things are so different now. Lena is quieter, often alone. She spends most of her time at work and not nearly enough time maintaining habits that are meant to keep her alive.

But Lex still insists that she keep watch, so she does, and she still does it so well. She works at it even harder, in fact, now that his visits have become even fewer and farther in between as of late. Lex’s other project is supposedly not as important as she is, but it siphons off his time like it must be.

Lena’s new routine is polished, heavily sanitized, and well-established until the night she breaks it in favor of tasting the nighttime air. She steps onto her balcony in clothes made for sleep and with a glass filled with something more sweet than bitter. Her eyes narrow up at the darkened sky. She stares, as if expectant.

“Hello…? Is somebody out there?” Lena rests her elbows precariously against the railing, sighing between intermittent sips of her drink. Then, in a softened voice, “… Who are you?” And all of a sudden, Lena’s become tangible and more than just another person waiting for Supergirl to save her.

Bizarrogirl glides from shadow to shadow, trailing the darkness all the way down to the far corner of the balcony, where she settles in, secluded and silent. Lena doesn’t turn around, but her heartbeat is readily transparent enough for the both of them that it doesn’t matter. “Hello, Lena,” she says.

Lena sighs into her glass. “So, are you the one stealing my things then?”

“Yes.”

“You know… I really thought I was just going crazy. That I was just conjuring up senseless conspiracies because god forbid I ever misplace something like a normal person.” Lena pauses to take a small sip of her drink and chuckle. “But then, you went ahead and took my favorite glass right out of my hand, so…”

She smiles, even though she knows no one can see it. “You are smart.”

“Allegedly,” Lena says, shrugging. She looks over her shoulder, blinks blearily right into the darkness. “You’re really not going to show yourself, huh?”

“No. Never.” She holds her breath, but the follow-up question never comes.

Instead, Lena just turns back around with a small nod. “Believe me, I’d be doing the same thing if I could,” she says quietly, and leaves it at that.

“Not… scared?” she finally has to ask.

“Should I be?”

She shakes her head after some hesitation. “No.”

“Well, there we go then,” Lena says, rubbing at her eyes with a resigned sigh. “Listen… I’m just… so tired right now, and frankly, I just don’t have it in me to address whatever it is you’re trying to do. But to be honest—” she tosses back the last of her drink in a single swallow—“I have enough things. So… consider this a freebie.”

“… Freebie?”

Lena pushes off the railing, exhaling half-hearted laughter. “Yes, freebie. I’m leaving this for you right here, okay? No need to resort to petty theft or breaking and entering.” She sets the empty wineglass right outside her door, but pauses before stepping through. “… So, what’s your name anyway?”

The most obvious answer—so carefully practiced, her clumsy mouth sounding out the word over and over again for her own sake—feels wrong in the moment. A lie, somehow, in the face of Lena’s undeserved generosity.

“You do have a name, don’t you?” Lena glances over, head tilted curiously, and their eyes almost meet despite all the darkness cast between them.

“No,” she manages to say, her fingernails biting fiercely into her own palm.

Lena gives a hum, one so thoughtful and reminiscent of her brother. “Well… that’s something you’ll have to steal from someone else, I’m afraid.”

She watches Lena slide the door shut behind her, but waits until all the lights disappear before reaching for the glass.

It takes two more days for Lex to pay her another visit, and he walks into her room to find her turning the wineglass over and over in her hands. He frowns when she doesn’t immediately offer it up to him.

“So, did you learn anything?” Lex asks, and she just nods. “… And…?”

She rolls her right hand into a fist so tight that her entire hand feels like a bruise. “Not. Scared.”

“Lena’s… not scared.” Lex studies the wineglass carefully before directing his sharp gaze back at her face. “I see.”

He doesn’t ask for further clarification, or any other question, or anything at all, for that matter. He just leaves, and she feels nothing about it.

#i started writing this for one (1) specific scene #and that scene's... apparently just never coming #anyway this is exactly 2150 words because hashtag kicksngigglestm #my words.

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alderaani · 3 years

Text

conceal don’t feel

Summary: Fox removes his helmet in front of Riyo for the first time, and she very much likes what she sees. | AO3

Pairing: Foxiyo, no warnings.

A/N: I’m not even really sure where this came from, but it has been all my brain wanted to write for the past two days, so.......here she is.

Riyo knew what it was like to fall.

It was a rite of passage on Pantora to climb the cliffs outside the capital, the only high point disturbing the tarnished gleam of the marshlands for hundreds of miles. It usually took adolescents several tries to reach the top and Riyo had been no different, just one of many amongst the blue-and-purple sea of her peers. She’d been fifteen then, straddling the cusp of adulthood and desperate to prove herself. How funny, now, that she wanted to peel back a decade and tell that young girl to slow down, not rush, to cling on to her youth.

The day of her climbing she’d been so impatient, so sure that she would be among the first to reach the top. It had lasted as long as it took to leave the ground before all ambition had been wiped away, the world narrowing down to the tips of her fingers, the pads of her toes and the way she sought out crevices in which to place them. She wasn’t the first to fall, nor was she the last. The memory was sharp and clear, like the cold air near the top of the ridge, where the birds took flight from their nests and swirled, screaming, around their earthly intruders. She’d hesitated a beat too long, her fingers sliding on the slick rock, and then there had been the lurch of her stomach dropping out, the white noise of terror supernovaing inside her skull. The split second of free-fall, of feeling totally and utterly weightless, before gravity had set in. The sudden finality of the drop, of the way the air rushed through her horrifyingly empty fingers.

The ropes had caught her, of course, along with the eager, guiding hands of her friends, and before long she’d been stood on the peak, feeling the wind corral the backs of her legs and pull teasingly at her hair, victory surging in her gut. But the feeling had stayed with her - that long, eternal moment, like a drawn in breath.

It was the sort of thing most people didn’t experience twice. But now here she was, staring into Commander Fox’s face and stepping into free fall.

“Senator?” He was saying, his hands firm and solid on the curves of her shoulders. Her poncho had gone awry in the bomb blast that had shattered her windows and put the Senate into lockdown, and he pulled up the edges and tucked them round her almost absentmindedly. She shivered at the feeling of his gloved fingers brushing over her naked skin, despite the blunt efficiency of the touch.

“Senator Chuchi?” The commander repeated, his hands going tight. “Senator?”

When she didn’t reply, unable to do anything but stare, he released one of her shoulders in favour of putting his commlink to his mouth.

“I need a medic here stat. Think the Senator’s going into shock.”

That was enough for her to shake her head, feeling the scrape of her hair pieces against her scalp where they’d gone awry. Pulling some sort of composure together out of the rubble was harder, though she did her best seeing the worry in those brown eyes.

Was this always what he looked like under that helmet? Was there always so much feeling, fleeting and raw across his naked face? She was so used to having to parse out his emotions from the slant of his shoulders, the tight motions of his hands, the hard shape of his voice, that so much bare skin was almost overwhelming.

“Sorry, Commander, I’m well,” she murmured. His eyes were a brown she’d seen literally a thousand times, but somehow were completely different. The full lashes, the little creases developing at the corners, the flecks of gold sitting bold at their centres. The hard, piercing gaze that was all Fox, breathtaking without his helmet in the way. It was almost worth the ruin her office had been turned into to have seen the strong line of his jaw, the soft streaks of grey hair developing at his temples. His lips looked chapped and raw, and a not-insignificant part of her wanted to touch them with her thumb.

“Senator, you’ve been staring at me for five minutes,” Fox informed her flatly, voice deep and scratchy with a bass that the vocoder must usually filter out. “And - kriff, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Riyo reached up to touch her face, then squeaked when Fox caught her wrist and reached into his utility belt for a tissue, which he used to dab at her hairline. There was a flash of pain as it came away dark, and the cold night air funnelling through the open window sharded against her bare skin, sending shivers wracking through her body.

“Oh,” she breathed, as Fox cursed and pressed the tissue back down. As he shifted she caught sight of a thin line of red beading on his cheekbone and tilted her head. “You’re bleeding too.”

“Just stay still, Senator,” Fox said, ignoring her comment in favour of glancing over his shoulder and shifting so that his body was between her and the door. His uncovered curls lifted as a fresh gust of wind blew in, his shoulders hunching. She saw him glance at his helmet more than once, resting by his feet with the visor shattered, and considered how odd this must be for him too as she let herself be manhandled away from the window to one of the plush green chairs in the corner, stained now and blackened with soot.

“I’ve never seen your face before. It’s very nice,” she said before she could help it, fighting the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, or to phrase it like he’d picked it at a store.

Usually she was so careful around the Commander, so choosy with what she said. Riyo had learned early on that blunter commentary would make Fox withdraw, turning him back into a professional pillar of plastoid and paint. Too many nights of him leading her escort back to her apartment had gone by in silence before she’d mastered the knack of weedling him into polite conversation, like luring a baby loth-cat into the open.

She liked him - liked the way the harsh things seemed to roll impassively off his back, the way he turned to stone should anyone cross him or his brothers, the plainness of his feelings when you knew how to look. She didn’t know why she’d felt so compelled to learn his tells, and he hadn’t invited her in as much as she’d bothered to knock. Commenting on his face, bared without permission, felt much more like picking the lock and forcing entry to the tight facade he so carefully maintained.

It seemed to be a night for surprises, though. Fox just tilted his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“You’ve seen several of the Guard, before, yes?”

Riyo nodded, then winced as it sent pain skittering down her neck. Fox noticed, of course, and moved one hand to support the base of her skull while he continued to press down on the wound. Now that he’d mentioned it she could feel the blood trails tickling as they dried down her cheek.

“Then you have seen my face, Senator. I got the standard GAR issue, same as everyone else.”

She shook her head before she could think better of it, and realised suddenly that she was trembling, shivers wracking up her arms. Perhaps the Commander was onto something with his assertion of shock.

“Now that’s not true at all,” she murmured, aware that she was setting herself up for another fall but unable to stop the words tumbling out. “Now that I know it, I’d recognise yours anywhere, Fox.”

His brow crinkled, concern burning bright in those pretty eyes, and she realised, distantly and unable to care much, that she’d never called him by name before. Not without ‘Commander’ attached, at least. He raised his commlink again.

“What the Sith-hells is taking so long, Oops? Get your shebs up to level fifty now,” he hissed, then pressed down firmly when she shifted again. “Please stay still.”

“I’m cold,” Riyo said quietly, closing her eyes briefly until Fox made a low sound and shook her, just a little.

“Come on Senator, keep talking to me. Are you sure there’s no medkit in here?” He asked.

Riyo gestured at the still-smouldering remains of her desk. “There was one in the third draw down.”

Fox cursed, soft and sharp, and despite the cold and the way her head was swimming, it made her giggle.

“Sorry Commander,” Came a panting, tinny voice. “I’m in the stairwell now, moving to your location. It’s chaos down here, ‘m gettin’ run over by half the karking Senate.”

“Tell him corridor 847 is always empty,” Riyo murmured. “The maintenance tunnel half way down pops out just opposite my aide’s office.”

Fox raised an eyebrow but dutifully relayed the message, getting a laugh and an affirmative from the medic on the other end.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said, instantly regretting it when Fox’s expression shuttered. “No - I mean - you can laugh. I suppose it’s silly, but sometimes it’s the only way to avoid Senator Bronn. I climb in there with a datapad and pretend I’m out until he leaves. Courageous of me, isn’t it?”

Fox’s forehead creased. “Is he giving you trouble?”

Riyo laughed weakly. “No, no, it’s very kind of you to worry, Commander. He just likes to talk too much and orders the worst food - some sort of delicacy from his home, I think, but they taste awful. And it would cause offence to refuse.”

There was a short pause before Fox’s lips stretched into a small grin, his head ducking as if to hide it from view.

“So you hide in the maintenance halls?”

Riyo couldn’t help the answering smile that burst onto her face, even as her cheeks went hot. Their gazes met, and the jolt that ran through her was electric before she forced herself to look away. She swallowed thickly.

“I’ve never liked confrontation,” she shrugged. “So where I can, I avoid it. Perhaps not the best trait in a Senator.”

Where Fox’s hand still cupped the back of her neck she felt the gentlest pressure, the quick sweep of a thumb against the dip of her spine.

“Seems like we could sometimes do with more of that to me,” he said, voice soft but still amused. At this distance she could see the light stubble on his cheeks, a small scar on the bridge of his nose that had paled with time, the deep purple shadows ringing his eyes.

Riyo stilled, lost again in the thrill of every little detail, and still hadn’t responded by the time they heard a thump and a yelp from outside the door. Fox rolled his eyes, but she could see the tension drain out of his shoulders.

“That’ll be Oops.”

She smiled. “A promising name.”

Fox smirked. “He’s one of our best, Senator. I’ll let him in.”

The cold rushed back in from the moment he let her go, but she could almost still feel the imprint of his hand on her skin, the weight of his eyes on her. Fox stood from where he’d been kneeling next to the chair, then turned to go to the blast door.

Riyo cleared her throat.

“Commander Fox?”

He turned, the emergency lights slanting red over the bridge of his nose.

“I meant it - what I said. You do have a pretty face. And I’d recognise it anywhere, GAR standard issue or not.”

It seemed awfully important that he know, right now, before this moment ended, even though she couldn’t articulate why. She had to let him know that it mattered; that for however little it was worth, considering what she was and what the system she was part of made him do, she could see him.

“I think that may be your head wound talking, Senator. But...thank you.”

He raised his hand towards the control panel, his head ducked, but as he pressed a button and the lights went green, Riyo could see the shy, bashful smile forming on his lips.

She could only hope that he’d deem her worthy of that great privilege again.

taglist: @simping-for-fives @leias-left-hair-bun @nelba @iscream4clones @dom-i-nic @battletales | list here

#riyo chuchi #commander fox #cc-1010 #foxiyo #clone oc oops #alderwrites #star wars #the clone wars fanfiction #the clone wars

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listentothelittlebird · 3 years

Text

This was a first draft to Protect Our Own, from my Code Bat series on Ao3! It’s a reimagining of Jason Todd breaking into Titans tower, in a world where Robin is a myth and Tim Drake goes by Alvin, unnamed vigilante, with the Titans. Enjoy!

Shit. Jason was screwed.

Even as he held the tablet in his hands, watching the very concerning stalker-level footage that the League had gathered, he knew. He knew without a doubt that he was watching the new Robin. The target chosen for him was, of all the options the world could give him, Robin.

“This boy is a member of a group of young superheroes known as Young Justice. They recently went under the mentorship of older superheroes, to become the newest team of Teen Titans,” Talia Al Ghul explained passively, and Jason did not like the gleam in her eyes as she watched the young boy fight, “Lady Shiva met the boy, once, and agreed to train him. Even she is unaware of who his previous mentors were.”

Thank goodness for small mercies.

Then Talia turned to Jason. “You have done an admirable job of controlling your Pit Madness,” she smiled sharply, and Jason was reminded of all the deaths he had caused, all the people who had taught him and were murdered by him, using their own tactics, “And you have learnt fast. As promised, you will complete one contracted kill, and you will be released to exact your own revenge.”

Jason gave himself a mental pat on the shoulder, because even in the early days of crazed anger, not once had he given proper clues towards the fact that his killer - the one he wanted to exact his revenge upon - was the Joker himself. “White-faced asshole” could just be a white man, and “fucking green-haired piece of shit” could still just apply to anyone with green hair.

The Robin secret was still safe, surprisingly. Code Bat was still safe.

The assassin base was in the middle of nowhere, but there was still a little town nearby, with enough reception to surf the internet on a phone he had nicked from a particularly rich-looking traveller.

Talia did not control what he knew, the League did not control what he knew, so even while he learnt of the Joker still being alive, he also learnt about the helicopter crash, how Batman had purposefully fled empty-handed. Truthfully, he still wanted the Joker dead - but he recognised that there was a chance that no matter how many times they tried, the bastard would come back. He would rather not try than to get stuck in a never-ending loop, something that B- that Bruce must have realised.

There were other stories he found. Jason could not deny destroying several rooms in the base when he read the kid’s story. All the money in the world, and his very-much-alive parents could care less than Jason’s own barely-there mother had.

He had not known if the boy had taken up the mantle after him, but he was unsurprised at the confirmation in front of him. Robin was as much a part of the Wayne family as champagne, fancy suits and camera smiles.

“The boy is young, and already he is excelling in combat, research, and investigation. In a few years, he will be a real threat to the League. This is your final assignment. Kill the boy, and we will let you go.”

Well, fuck.

Jason carefully controlled his reaction, turning to meet Talia’s eye with his blue-green eyes. “You want me to kill a minor,” Jason spoke slowly, allowing his incredulity and a tinge of anger to slip into his voice.

“Either you take the job, or you will continue training, until another opportunity arises,” Talia replied evenly. Which meant anything from a week later to never.

Jason gritted his teeth, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed it all out at once. “When are we leaving?” he questioned. Talia’s grin was sharp, like a predator before their strike.

Double shit. This just got way more complicated.

Jason had bargained with Talia for a week of preparation work - a week to scout out the Titans tower, as if he had not memorised the layout of the old one. As if they had not built the new tower in the exact way as the old one had been.

“We will have League members surrounding the building,” Talia announced, a day after they had landed in the city. Jason raised an eyebrow at her.

“We are curious as to who has trained this boy,” Talia explained, “Subdue the boy’s teammates, and make him vulnerable. Don’t block radio transmissions. If the boy has maintained contact with his mentor, they would come running at their call.”

Jason cursed inwardly, keeping his face carefully blank as he nodded his assent.

He had to play this right.

“I don’t trust this,” Bruce rumbled for the fourth time, in full Batman mode despite being in a casual sweater and sweatpants.

Dick hummed along, casting a concerned glance Tim’s way.

On the table was a note, delivered through an unassuming envelope.

It stated a date and specific hour, and, Don’t call the Code.

“The code,” Tim mumbled, “Like, Code Bat? There’s no way they’d know that, though, right?”

The note was written on red paper, flecked with green and yellow. Tim’s tone was wavering, lacking its usual confidence. He was always so sure when it came to cases, but this?

“What’s happening at this time?” Dick wondered. Bruce pulled up his own schedule for the following week, and Tim mentally went through his own plans. Nothing of note, but-

“I’ll be in Titans tower,” Tim stated aloud, and there were gears turning in his brain. Wild gears that were nearly off their hinges, but they were the same gears that had made the Batman-is-Bruce-Wayne connection, and he had learnt to trust them.

“Is someone trying to warn us?” Tim voiced, “I get a lot of speculation from the public, about what my official superhero name is, but also where I came from, who I trained with. What if it’s not just the internet wondering?”

Bruce pursed his lips in thought. He turned to Tim, his eyes hard and determined in that certain manner that meant he was being overprotective.

“No,” Tim blurted, “I’m not staying at the Manor during that specific timeframe.” Bruce shut his mouth and blinked down at his adopted son.

“Whoever this is, they risk being found out if I don’t show up,” Tim gestured to the note, “It might just escalate from there, anyway, if we prolong whatever is supposed to happen.”

“It could be a trap,” Dick pointed out, and now he too had taken up the overprotective undertones of discomfort. Tim squared his shoulders and smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be fine,” he promised, “I’ll stay in the tower. Besides, all my teammates will be there. If anything happens, they’re right there.”

Bruce and Dick exchanged worried glances, but eventually Bruce sighed and clasped a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Code Bat has always been for your safety,” Bruce stated firmly, “I don’t care if our enemies find out about us - if it gets out of hand, if it looks like a trap, call us.”

The morning of the date stated on the note, Tim found another one in his Teen Titans bedroom.

They want you dead. Play along.

What jolted Tim was the symbol at the bottom right corner of the note - it was one of the made-up symbols that Dick had taught him. The symbol on the note meant “burn after reading”.

The handwriting was not Dick’s, nor was it Bruce’s. It was cursive, almost like Alfred’s, but it was also much more scrawled and uneven, like someone still unpractised in writing.

The gears in Tim’s brain must have really come unhinged this time, because the only name it could conjure was Jason. Jason was dead.

Tim was quietly uptight right until the hour came. He almost did not realise his teammates were being picked off, meticulously, skillfully, one by one. Almost.

Tim still had yet to press his emergency beacon. He had not activated Code Bat. He wanted to see where this went, before anything else.

Then the mysterious attacker descended on him, a blur of black and the smallest glimpse of white, and Tim was fighting for his life.

The man moved like an assassin - Tim had met some League of Assassins members, back when he had trained with Lady Shiva. He moved like them, but there was also something else to his movements.

Tim dodged a hit, and that was too short to be aiming for his throat, that would have been a non-lethal hit-

The man was not aiming to kill. He fought like Batman. He fought like one of them.

Tim opened his mouth, made to say something, although he was unsure what. He was swept off his feet before he got the chance.

“Who trained you, kid?” the voice growled, and it was a deep voice that should have unnerved him, but something struck him as familiar. The drawl, the barely-there accent.

Jason, his brain screamed.

Real answers, please, Tim pleaded.

The man pulled him by his tunic collar, and he shifted to pull him towards his face. There was a glint of metal on the man’s uniform - a recording device.

“Who are you?” he growled again, with Tim pulled close.

Tim got a good look at the man’s face, and while he instinctively bantered back, he was internally reeling. Looks like his gears were working, after all.

“Just a kid with a dream,” Tim smirked, a crooked smile already leaking some blood.

Jason - because this man was Jason, somehow, how was Jason alive - interrogated Tim while punching him out. His blows hurt for sure, but Tim swore that he was aiming for the areas that would cause the least injuries. He swore that when he grunted as a rib was broken, Jason had paused minutely, cringing slightly, before he barreled on.

Something was placed on his chest.

“Say goodnight, kid,” Jason sing-songed, and there was the sound of a gun cocking. Tim barely registered that when the gun shot, it had shot at him. There was the hard thump of something near his chest, just above his chest, but it had barely touched his tunic.

Jason tapped a finger-signal, a “stay low and don’t move”, and Tim remained where he was. He waited as footsteps receded, waited for several minutes, with a bag of fake blood leaking from his chest, bruises and other injuries blooming in pain underneath his uniform.

He felt rather than heard the presence appear beside him. The looming figure crouched down and gingerly maneuvered Tim into a firm grasp.

His “assassin” stared down at him. He had switched out his black assassin get-up for casual clothing. He was… tall. Built like Bruce. His eyes were different, too, and he had a white lock of hair curling just above his eyebrows. Yet…

“Jason?” Tim croaked out, and Jason Todd smirked. Tim knew that smirk - Robin wore it a lot, when he watched him. “You better be damn glad no one can hear you, anymore,” Jason gruffed, and started moving with Tim in his grasp, “Let’s go somewhere else, though, for good measure.”

They ended up in Tim’s room - sound-proofed, and therefore the safest location in the tower for this conversation.

“You’re alive,” Tim blurted out, as Jason dressed his wounds. His hands stuttered before resuming their work. “I died,” Jason stated flatly, “And I dug myself out of my own grave. Talia found me, and threw me into a Lazarus Pit.”

Jason raised his eyes to meet Tim’s, and Tim could see the eerie green glow in his eyes.

“Don’t tell Bruce about me,” Jason rushed out, and Tim immediately jumped to object, but Jason was faster, “Don’t. Listen, I-” Jason breathed deeply, “I’ve killed, alright? I’ve broken his big rule and all that jazz. I might still find myself going back to the streets of Gotham, but to the Manor? I’m not ready to face that shit.”

Jason paused for real this time, having finished taking care of Tim’s more visible injuries. He cringed.

“You should get Alfie to check you out, just in case you have internal bleeding or whatever the fuck I gave you,” Jason waved his hand around uselessly, “Lie low for a few days, alright? I need to make myself scarce. They’ll find out I didn’t follow through with the deal, and I’ll need to have disappeared, by then.”

Tim was silent for a few long moments. “Will I see you again?” Tim finally asked, his eyes wide and hopeful, “They miss you, you know? We miss you. We all do.”

Jason swallowed, and blinked back the water gathering in his eyes. “How can you miss me?” he chose to ask, “S’not like you knew me very well, before… well, before.”

Tim grinned, bright and eager.

“You once snuck out for patrol on your own,” Tim informed him, “And got stuck on a rooftop that you flipped onto with your grappling hook, because the other buildings around you were all too far away to grapple towards. You had to slide down the water pipes and run across an empty street to make your way back home.”

Jason sputtered, because that had happened, he did remember that, but when the heck did he hear about it?

“How the hell do you know that?” Jason asked, unable to keep his dismay from leaking into his voice.

“I’ll tell you when I next see you,” Tim smiled cheekily. Smartass.

Jason checked the time. “Your Superboy buddy will be waking up soon,” Jason reported, “Don’t come looking for me, alright? I’ll… I’ll return to Gotham soon. I just have to make sure the League’s off my back.”

Jason got up and hesitated. “When I return to Gotham,” he warned, “I’ll come in guns blazing. There’ll be deaths. It won’t be pretty. Just- just stay out of my way.”

It would have been more convincing, if Jason had not spent the last thirty minutes treating Tim’s wounds.

“Who are you?” Tim called abruptly, Jason hovering at the door, “You come in and take us all out, one by one. They’d want a name. Who are you?”

Jason smirked sharply.

“Red Hood,” he droned, “Call me Red Hood.”

He slinked away, and like a true Bat, was out of the tower in seconds.

#Jason Todd #Tim Drake #bruce wayne #dick grayson #talia al ghul #fanfic #BatFam #straight from the trash doc #I seriously hyperfixated on this series for three months and haven't wrote anything since

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monrohakay · 3 years

Text

Flickering Green: A Wesper Fic

I wrote an angsty Wesper soulmate au! It has a happy ending thou! The timeline is a little off and Nina’s abilities aren’t canon compliant cuz I needed it for the fic to flow. There will be more parts to come, this is just the intro. Enjoy!

Part 1 / 2 / 3

The day Wylan turned sixteen was the first time he went on a job for the Dregs. Inej’s voice had been fond when she wished him a happy birthday. Jesper’s had been teasing when he told Wylan he had a special present for him, complete with a wink that made Wylan blush a furious shade of crimson.

He was currently trying not to dwell on those words, nervously waiting behind a stack of crates for his bomb to go off at exactly twelve bells. It would mark the end of their job, and the end of his birthday. The plan had gone off without a hitch, every detail perfectly executed. He should have been elated, running from an explosion he set off with Jesper at his side, decked out in one of his more subtle forest green suits. Yet Wylan couldn’t stop the disappointment that had settled in his heart when we looked around and nothing seemed different.

Inej’s outfit was still a deep purple. His hair was flopping into his eyes and proving it was still a ruddy gold. He could see a fleck of red blood on Jesper’s temple from where some debris must have nicked him. Ketterdam had always been dark and dreary, but it had never looked more colourful to Wylan.

On your sixteenth birthday, you lost a colour that represented your soulmate. You only got it back when you met them. His birthday was officially over now, and yet he still saw every colour he could think of.

He was pulled to a halt when a hand grabbed his wrist, dragging him to the ground behind something. He crouched next to Jesper, trying to catch his breath before realizing what they were hiding behind. A flower cart. He scanned the plants, praying one would be a dull grey, devoid of its colour. They were all annoyingly still bright and beautiful. The light blue hydrangeas mocking him as they blocked them from view of the stadwatch thundering by.

When the street cleared he heard a sigh of relief closer to his ear than he expected. He drew his gaze from the flowers, his eyes landing on Jesper’s stone grey one’s. He hasn’t realized Jesper had grey eyes before. Unless…

“Any chance your eyes used to be orange?” The question left his lips before he could stop them.

Jesper reached over him, hand brushing Wylan’s arm as it passed. Wylan drew in a sharp breath, their chests almost brushing from the proximity. All too soon Jesper was pulling back, a teasing smirk gracing his lips.

“Afraid not.” Jesper said, holding out a bright orange flower Wylan didn’t know the name of.

Wylan took it from his fingers, glaring at it with a hatred it didn’t deserve. He let out a huff, throwing it back at the cart in annoyance. He could see every colour. Which meant he didn’t have a soulmate.

He let his head drop, bangs falling over his eyes. Of course he didn’t have a soulmate. Why would Ghezen or the Saints or the Universe or whoever decided fate let him be happy for once? They hadn’t given him the ability to read or a loving father. They had taken his mother away from him. They had left him to rot in this godsforsaken town. And now they hadn’t given him a soulmate.

“Are you alright?”

Inej’s soft voice made him jump, not having expected her to be right behind him. He hadn’t seen where she hid from the stadwatch, or where she had just come from. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to her doing that.

“You didn’t get hurt did you?” Inej’s concern was apparent in her eyes and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He shook his head, trying his best to smile reassuringly at her. “Just a little tired I guess.”

She smiled back, nodding as she let her hand drop. “We should get back, report to Kaz.”

Wylan trailed after her, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him he was destined to end up alone. The only person to ever love him had been mother, and she was gone. His life in the Barrel was an empty one. He had been hoping, at the very least, his soulmate would help fill that emptiness.

An arm draped over his shoulders and he glanced up at Jesper. The older boy was staring ahead, a tight smile on his lips and an almost sorrowful look in his eyes. Wylan wanted to question him, wanted to know what had the usually cheerful sharpshooter look so down after a successful job. Instead he stayed silent, watching Inej disappear into the shadows, knowing she would stay close by. He let himself relax into Jesper’s embrace, taking comfort in the warmth he provided against the cold dampness of Ketterdam. Perhaps he wasn’t completely alone.

#six of crows #crooked kingdom #grishaverse #grishaverse spoilers #wesper #wylan van eck #wylan van sunshine #jesper fahey #inej ghafa #wylan deserves the world #jesper will give it to him #fic

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heartofsnark · 3 years

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Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Two): Here In Night City

Notes: This one has been done for a while, I’ve been pretty busy and overwhelmed with school for a while, but I’ve been having some fun silverv shenanigans on my personal account and I figured it was time to post it. I’m not sure how I feel about it? It went through some heavy edits, so there might be some typos and issues with that, and writing a montage...is new territory for me...

Word Count: 14799

Chapter Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Casual Discussion of Suicide (its fairly common in Night City according to lore), Talks of Sex but nothing explicit

If you haven’t yet, you can read the first chapter here.

V fiddles with the frayed edges of her hoodie, following behind Jackie. The night air chills her skin as they walk. It's not far from the bar where he stops a building, among the shorter cluster of buildings in Heywood, in no way stretching up into the heaven like many of the buildings in Night City. Jackie has no hesitation, taking the steps two at a time and swinging the front door open. She moves to take her mask off, not wanting to risk creeping his mom out, though her bruises and blood matted hair won’t do her any favors.

“Ma! I brought a friend home!” He yells out, like they’re kids asking to have a sleepover and V finds herself smiling. V bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking around the living room, the little collections of knick knacks, little calavera skulls. The couch covered in blankets and the warm little cozy touches within the home.

“Jaquito!” A woman’s accented voice rings out, Jackie’s mom coming into the living room, “where the hell have you been!? I’ve been worried sick!”

Jackie’s mom is a woman somewhere in her fifties, if V had to wager a guess, with gray hair that falls down past her shoulders and blue eyes. There’s a softness to her as she looks at her son, something inherently maternal to her gaze. There’s wrinkled lines of worry around her eyes.

“Ay, I told you Mama, it was just biz. Nothing to worry about,” Jackie waves off his mother’s concerns.

“And your friend?” The older woman’s eyes land on her, she looks down finding a spot on the floor to focus on.

“Ma, this is V.”

Jackie turns to introduce her and V starts to look up, then his green eyes widen for a moment. It’s the first time he’s seen her without the mask, she’s realized, and she finds herself hyperaware of her features, worrying about how they’re being viewed. Her hands fidget and nerves flush her face. She’s not even this anxious when a hookup sees her face for the first time. The idea of a potential bedmate rejecting her is nothing compared to this visceral fear that her new friend and his mother not approving of her .

“Hi,” she signs, slightly stilted in her movements, feeling as if she might combust.

Her already awkward gestures completely freeze when she feels Senora Welles cups her cheek, fingers rubbing over the purple bruises on V’s skin. The touch is kind and warm, stirring up memories of V’s own mother. Memories of being a child returning to camp after hours of scavenging through a landfill or exploring the new land just for her mother to come look over her for every bruise or mark she may have collected.

“My Jackie drag you into one of his messes?” Senora Welles asks before V can go further down the slippery nostalgia slope. Fingers brush across the blood in the back of V’s hair, the worry etching the older woman’s expression only grows. The intensity makes the former nomad look at the ground, unable to maintain eye contact.

“It was a client, mama,” Jackie answers for V, “First night in NC spent bleeding out in a dumpster, second will be spent on the street unle-”

“Say no more. I’ll get you some clean clothes, you can use our shower, and we’ll get some food in your belly, alright?”

“Alright, thank you, so much,” V signs as Senora Welles pulls away. She doesn’t know what she did to deserve their kindness, but she’s thankful for it, nonetheless.

She’s given a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants once Senora Welles has shown her to the bathroom. It’s modest with a tile floor, stickers on the mirror and sugar skulls beside it. V catches sight of herself in the mirror and blinks at what’s looking back at her, she understands Jackie and his mother’s reaction now. While she suspected and felt what she may look like. But her reflection staring back at her confirms it. Purples, blues, and greens scatter across her face like galaxies over her skin. Her eyeliner has smeared and smudged around her eyes. Her hair is in tangles, darkening red flecks of blood staining the bleached blonde and dark brown of her roots where it sticks to her scalp the ponytail she tied it back in is now knots. She needs a cut and a touch up. But bleach may have to wait, when she tries to brush it out, it hurts, pulling at the not quite healed wound on her scalp and bringing fresh blood to the surface. She does the best she can for now before deciding it’s enough.

V triple checks the lock on the door, not out of distrust for the Welles, but her own paranoia and habit. Then she strips out of her clothes and takes out her hearing aids, stashing them in the medicine cabinet in hopes of protecting them from steam. She rubs at the reddened skin of her ears. She knows they’re necessary, but they chap and rub her ears raw after too long. There’s cream she has for it, that’s in her duffle bag, that was in her Rattler. She pouts at the realization before she turns on the hot water, stepping under it’s spray.

The hot water is a welcomed relief to her aching muscles, as she washes away the grime, she starts to feel human again. She scrubs the blood and mess from her hair, careful of her still tender scalp as she washes away the mess that was her first day in Night City.

V dries off and slots her hearing aids back in, they seem to still be dry. She throws on the clothes she was given. The shirt hangs off her shoulders and the hem hits at her knees, she gets the idea the shirt may be Jackie’s. She’s less sure of the sweatpants, they do sag on her hips and the legs go well over her feet, but with enough tightening of the drawstring they manage to stay up. Baggy, soft, and warm. If not for the still steady pain in her temples and the cramping of her empty belly, she could curl up to sleep. Her hair is still in absolute knots, so she ops for putting it up in a bun to save for a time in which she can handle combing through it. Then finally she leaves the bathroom, peeking around the corner.

“Chica, in here!” Jackie’s voice booms and calls her into the kitchen.

She pads her way in there, Senora Welles and Jackie are gathered around a table in the kitchen. He’s thrown off his jacket, showing the muscle shirt he wore beneath it. And despite having seen him all night, she truly feels like she’s seeing him fully now in the cozy lighting of the kitchen. Freckled skin, biceps the size of her head, a black and red tattoo on his wrist and forearm that’s cut off by a gold bracelet. The light catches off the cyberware across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He grins widely as his mother fills a bowl with chili, the grown man shoveling it in his mouth without waiting for it to cool, like an overexcited child.

“Over here, mija, take a seat and a bowl,” Senora Welles beckons her over.

V climbs up into a seat, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. Senora Welles fills a bowl to the top with chilli for her; the smell of the tomato, synth beef, and veggies making her stomach growl. She’s torn between gratefulness and feeling a bit like a mangy dog Jackie dragged in. It’s fine line between kindness and pity, she can only hope it’s the former rather than the latter.

“Thank you, so much.”

The second she’s done signing another thanks, she’s shoving chili into her mouth and its so good. Perfectly cooked and with a hint of spice. She nearly inhales the rest of her bowl, barely coming up for air as she gobbles it up. A second bowl goes by just as quickly, she’s pretty sure Jackie’s on her third by the time she grabs the second. She’s slowing down by her third, her stomach not quite bursting, and she’s willing to push it just to keep eating.

“Aye, you’re as bad as Jaquito,” Senora Welles teases, smiling as she calmly eats her own food.

“Sorry, its just really good…” V signs with one hand, still eating with her other.

“Told you my ma made the best chili.”

“Hey, what did I say about talking with your mouth full, Jackie!” His mother scolds him.

“V did it first.”

“I don’t talk!”

“See, she did it again!” Jackie teases when she signs again. V swallows her mouthful of chili and sticks her tongue out at Jackie. The joking around has eased some of the tension for V, Jackie still treating her like a new friend and not some sad sack he’s trying to help.

“So, V,” Senora Welles says after a few moments, “where are you from?”

“All of the everywhere, I think I was born in North Carolina? Maybe?”

“You’re a nomad?”

V chews her lip, the media talk about nomads is far from good, usually painted as asshole outlaws. Corps don’t like them. Corps own the media. So they make sure the media tells everyone that nomads are the violent assholes who refuse to fall in line, refused to sell their land, and then ran away to ruin everyone’s life when they lost the battle. Not that it stops them from lining a nomad’s pocket when they need work done. Which, granted, her own nomad family are…violent assholes and criminals, but that doesn’t mean they all are. And she doesn’t want to be painted with that same brush. And there are good solid nomad families out there, she’s met more than a few in Bakkers, Aldecaldos, and Red Ochre Clan; to name just a handful.

“Formerly, yeah, was hoping to make a new life here.”

“Your nomad family ain’t waiting for you?”

“Uh, no, just…no.”

Tears prick at the back of V’s eyes, threatening to shed as she thinks of her mom, put down in a med tent. The first time her father held a captive bolt pistol to the base of her skull, ready to kill her for her newfound disability. The way everything seemed to change when she lost her hearing. Her sister hunting her down like a dog, not caring who she has to shake down, what she has to burn to the ground; just to kill her on the order of their father. She bites down harshly on her lower lip, she doesn’t want to think about it.

Then there’s an arm wrapping around her shoulders, Senora Welles having stood up at some point, and now gently tucking V’s head under her chin. A gentle one-armed hug, not tight or all-encompassing but warm and kind, without pushing her.

“No worries, mija,” the older woman speaks against V’s skin, “you can stay here as long as you need.”

“Thank you, that means a lot,” V’s not sure if at the angle, Senora Welles eyes can translate her signing, but she squeezes the older woman’s hand, hoping it can be communicated through touch if nothing else. Appreciative as she is, there’s a small pit in her stomach, she’s already becoming a burden to someone new.

A moment passes and then Senora Welles gives a soft kiss to the top of her head before taking away the dirty dishes. V starts to gather it as well, she’s eating their food and staying in their house, the least she can do. If she’s going to impose for any length of time, she needs to make herself worthwhile to have around, to some degree.

“No, no, no, V. You’re a guest, go on and get settled in,” Senora Welles stops her before she can help any further.

“Uh-“

“C’mon, jaina,” Jackie gives a quick pat to her shoulder, “I’ll show you where you can sleep tonight.”

She gets up from her seat, feet padding up the stairs after Jackie. He barely fits between the banisters, his wide muscular frame completely blocking her view as they move through the house. He takes her up to a bedroom, its not particularly big, and she can’t help but think he’s had it since he was a child. There’s fitness posters on the wall, weights that she imagines Jackie could juggle if he wanted, a vanity with a rosary, but it’s what stacked on top of one of the desks that catches her eye.

Two desks are flush against one of the walls, one with a large aquarium balanced on it. Vivid blue and white fluorescent lights illuminating the water. Only one fish swims through it, gray with a fin, like a mini shark. V can’t help the noise of excitement she makes as she bounces on the balls of her feet over to the tank, sitting in the chair at the desk. She wants a better look at this beautiful baby.

“V, meet Taco,” Jackie introduces her to the dwarf shark.

“I’d die for him,” she signs, with zero hesitation.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Heh,” she giggles at his response, “must have cost you an arm and a leg.”

“Think I bought him?”

V’s nose wrinkles as she laughs, hands forming words, “forbidden shark.”

V taps against the aquarium glass, getting Taco’s attention, she drags her finger back and forth across the glass watching the large fish chase her finger. Taco twirls and twists, trying to nibble at her finger through the glass.

“So, what happens tomorrow?” Jackie asks, bed creaking under his weight.

She turns in the chair, resting her arms and chin across the back of it as she shifts to face him. Jackie has sat down on the bed tucked into a cubby against a wall. Can he even fit on that bed? She’s still not even sure who’s sleeping where tonight, she has no intention of stealing the man’s bed, if anything she wishes you could buy him a bigger one to more comfortably fit him.

“Tomorrow? Gonna get my shit back, hopefully turn a quick profit off the cargo, and get myself a place. I don’t plan on making a nuisance out of myself, I promise.”

She’s thankful for the hospitality and as much as she maybe shouldn’t, she’ll take advantage for the night. But, she has no intention of leeching off of their kindness. They may be opening their door to her, but no one wants a mooch. She’s an adult and needs to take care of herself.

“Pfft, you ain’t no fucking nuisance, my ma’s probably just happy to have someone who’ll help with the dishes.”

“I don’t wan-“ she shifts gears mid-sentence, “you don’t help your mom with the dishes?”

“Eh, ya know,” he makes a vague wiggly hand gesture and scrunches his face up “it’s gross…” He shrugs.

“Of course it’s gross, you dummy! She cooks for you for god’s sake, the least you can do is help clean up!”

“I’m busy, okay!”

“Unbelievable.”

“Look,” he laughs, “ that, this was not the point, Chica. So, before you climb up my ass again… Lemme ask, what about the day after tomorrow? Day after that… you ice Sinclaire and then what? ”

“Hmmm,” she hums, tapping her fingers against the chair before signing, “I hate to disappoint but I haven’t come up with any grand plan since the last time you asked. ’

“Figured as much, you ever do any merc work before this?”

“Little things, smuggling jobs here and there, stayed out of cities so pickings were slim. You been doing it long?”

“Most of my life; work for yourself, live for yourself. Only way there is, if you ask me.”

“Probably be the easiest way to make eddies after I square away this cargo thing,” she admits, she never really put it into thoughts, but she always sort of assumed that’s where she’d end up once she landed in the city. The only other alternative would be some entry level job waiting tables or something and that might even be a pipe dream if they expect her to have cyberware or something resembling a formal education.

“Already got a fixer who likes you,” Jackie tells her, “and not to brag, but with me as your partner you’ll be getting preem jobs right out the gate.”

“Oh, so we’re partners now?”

“Don’t see why not, already know we work well together, I could use an extra pair of hands and you could use really any help you can get, and… ” he pauses for a moment, finding his words, “I just got a good feeling about this, ‘bout us.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah, that the two of us could make to the top.”

She’s trying not to laugh as she sees excitement fill his eyes, like a child on Christmas. It’s not as if merc work is new territory to her, she’s taken odd jobs in the Badlands. But, it is sparser than in the city and mostly smuggling. She can’t exactly proclaim it’s her dream job or what she wants to do forever, but she can’t think of a damn thing else she’d like to do. Death has been nipping at her heels since she was nine years old, she hasn’t thought far ahead, hasn’t felt she had any right to.

And, she can’t really say she gives a fuck about making it to the top. Riches, fame, notoriety, being a legend. She couldn’t care less. She just wants to be in control of her own life, to feel like she has no restraints, and to build a life that has meaning to her. To be the person she wants to be, even though she isn’t quite sure who that is yet… She’s twenty, twenty-one this year, and she never even thought she’d get that far. Its hard to really expect her to know exactly who she is or what she wants.

But… could she really even get that far? Jackie seems convinced, but could she be capable of that? Is she strong enough? Competent enough?

“I’m talking the major leagues, V. The top of the top, the mercs who get the best jobs, are swimming in eddies; Night City legends.”

“That what you want?”

“More than anything. Raised in shit, told I’d never climb out, but I’m gonna prove ‘em wrong. Don’t you want to? Show every son of a bitch who put you down, looked down their nose at you, that they didn’t know shit?”

Her father and his words come flooding to her mind; told she’s weak, worthless, defective, not worth the lead to blow her brains out. And yeah, she’d love to prove him wrong. To be strong and show she’s capable. To know she can take care of herself, that she doesn’t need anyone else to be okay. She’d love to prove to the people who told her she needed to get her hearing “fixed”, that she’s not fucking broken. Even now, people like Sinclaire take one look at her and see her as gutter trash. She wants respect, the security that comes with it, not notoriety. Proving her strength, her capability, her worth by taking any job that comes her way is more than a little enticing, it’d earn her that respect both from others.

But more importantly, she’d like to prove that to herself. To know in her heart she really isn’t any of those things. That she isn’t a burden. To prove to herself that she’s capable of more than being a burden, more than meandering along to her father’s orders. For once she’d like for others not to look at her like cockroach and more importantly to be able to look at herself and see more than a waste of space. To finally feel right in her own skin, take that voice of doubt that keeps asking her if she’s enough, and crush it.

She could give a fuck less who knows her name, hell she prefers no one ever does. Its not the notoriety or fame. V greatly prefers being unknowable, between the mask and alias she’s a few blurry photos away from going full cryptid. And she likes that. If she keeps the mask on for business, keep work and personal separate with it, she could keep her privacy. Keep skeletons in her closet from coming back to bite her...

For so long she was told she was weak by The Herd. Weak for her disability. Weak for accepting her mother’s protection.

An outcasts among outcasts, thats what the sheriff said, and he didn’t know the half of it. Nomads the outcasts of regular society, raffen shiv the outcasts of the nomads, and her an outcast among the raffen shiv. An outcast from the outcasts of the outcasts. So unwanted by the world and even her own fucking body. There has never in twenty years been a place for her in this world. But maybe she’s finally found it, working her ass off with Jackie and showing Night City just what she can do.

“Lets do it,” she decides, she wants this, not to be famous or major leagues but to be untouchable, to prove a point, to take control of her life, to be more than anyone thought she could be, and to like what she sees when she looks in the mirror.

“Fuck yeah,” he shifts to face her fully, catching her hand in shake, his large fingers blanketing her smaller ones, “this is the start of a beautiful thing, I just know it.”

That night, Jackie sleeps on the couch in the living room, despite V’s constant insistence that she’ doesn’t want to take over his bed; his stubbornness wins out. And as he leaves to the living room she’s left with the weight of loneliness, of trying to sleep without the warmth of another beside her. It’s a dumb issue to have, keeping the world at arm’s length and keeping her walls up at all times, but needing a hug to sleep. Years of safety in numbers being beat into her head, sleeping alone feels like baring her throat for the wolves and expecting herself to find peace.

As odd, creepy, weird as it may be V takes advantage of the benefit that sleeping in Jackie’s clothes and bed has for her. Burying her nose in the pillows and blankets that smell like him, smell like another person, trying to convince her senses she’s not alone. Letting the smell of cheap cologne and some oil she can’t quite place soothe her. It used to be a band tee she stole from Ava, before…everything, though the scent has steadily faded over time, its still a source of comfort. And it was in her bag…in her car. Who knows if she’ll find it again…

Then there’s her pictures and the old polaroid camera she fixed up to take them. A little treasure she found rummages through a landfill out towards Oregon. Photos of her sister, her mother, and Ava; of her life before she had to run. Back when she still thought that a family that doesn’t want you was worth having… Pictures from her time on the road; her and Sabrina, the sweet group of Bakkers who sold her the Rattler, and just any place, sight, or person that managed to make her day or make a few days. Loneliness colored a lot of that time, but she made her memories, people she’s sure forgot her when she left but whom she’ll never forget.

Her mom’s guitar… the one thing she went back for the night she left, doubling back and breaking into her father’s tent for it when she realized she had left. Stepping into the lion’s den just to have it, she can’t play, she gave up on learning when her hearing went. But those early memories of sitting in her mother’s lap at camp with the guitar in her hands, small fingers callusing as they plucked at the strings….

And all of those could be gone. Every memory and memento could be gone for good because of one asshole. She digs her nails into her scalp and knots her hair, anger and anxiety pitting in her stomach, bleeding into each other.

She burrows into the blankets and pillows, trying to prevent her thoughts from wandering, though it’s fighting an uphill battle, trying to think of the name of every star she knows in alphabetical order if only to bore her brain into sleep rather than letting it race in circles. She’s somewhere between Meissa and Merga when she finally falls asleep.

And she awakes in the dead of night; chest tight and lungs struggling to get a deep breath of air. No nightmare this time, but a sense of panic and dread pumping adrenaline into her blood, making her heart race as she jumps out of Jackie’s bed. She checks the door, she locked it before she went to bed, she needs doors locked. And she knows she did, but she needs to check it. She locks and unlocks it, no windows to check, so her focus is only on the door. And she does that until the tightness in her chest ease, until she can breathe a little easier, locking it for the last time before walking away from the door. Security, safety, a paranoia that tells her to never feel safe. That the world has always wanted her gone and one day death will knock at her door for the last time.

Her body feels heavy as she wanders to Taco’s tank, the shark swimming in circles, V’s face bathed in the blue light from it. There’s still a shake in her hands, but her limbs are leaden as she sits down at the desk. She watches him swim and swish around for a few moments, sprinkling some of his food into the tank to watch him eat.

“Really wish I could hold you, right now.”

She speaks it out loud, softly to the swimming shark, needing to put her thoughts into the world but hands too shaky to sign worth a damn. Though they still ache and twitch to do so. After a few more moments of watching the mini shark swim, she crawls back into bed to sleep for the rest of the night. Thankful, that she doesn’t wake until morning.

The newly appointed merc is dragging when she wakes, as always due to her lackluster sleeping patterns. To make matters worse, her eyes are red and itchy, sensitive even in the light of the house. A flare up, autoimmune disease coming back to kick her ass for stressing and not sleeping. Her joints ache, swollen, as she groggily stumbles her way from Jackie’s bedroom, when a sweet smell hits her nose, stomach growling. She

Senora Welles and Jackie are at the table, she made breakfast of course, because she’s entirely too nice. On the table is a spread of french toast with cinnamon whip cream on top. Jackie already has a stack nearly as tall as V on his plate, half eaten.

Jackie yells out something, his mouth full, and she realizes the world is still quiet as his mother scolds him. Her eyes are too irritated and her mind too groggy for her to be able to competently read lips. She holds up a finger, asking them to wait a moment, and doubles back to Jackie’s bedroom. She grabs her hearing aids and contemplates grabbing her mask, just so it can translate for her.

Optic translations are pretty advanced for sign language, but they have limitations. Like people needing to look at the signer the entire time and name signs being essentially untranslatable since they’re personal to the signer. But she wants to eat and having to hold up her mask everytime she wants to talk is a pain. She turns on her hearing aids and leaves the mask behind, hopefully Jackie and Senora Welles will look at her if she has to say anything or she’ll just stay silent as she stuffs her face. Jackie raises an eyebrow at her when she comes back to the kitchen.

“Forgot my ears,” she signs, tapping her hearing aid, and flinching when it gives a bit of feedback in reaction.

“Ahh, well come sit your ass down, ma made tres leche french toast.”

“Thank you,” she signs to Senora Welles who gives her a soft smile.

“Something up with your optics, jaina? Looking red.”

“I don’t have optic implants,” she signs before pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Really? Guess that’d be why you don’t got lipreading tech and explain why they look like you rubbed peppers in them.”

“That’s just a flare up.”

“Flare up?” Senora Welles asks, concern darkening her expression.

“Autoimmune disease, some days my body hates me more than others.”

“That what happen to your…?” Jackie taps his ear, rather than say it outright.

She nods, it attacked the inner ear most aggressively, completely destroying her hearing by nine. According to the clan doctor, all the times she complained about her ears hurting, dizziness, and ringing in her ears it’s because her immune system was aggressively attacking them. But, she was only ever told to walk it off, until inevitably the world went silent. It still flares up, deciding it doesn’t like the rest of her either. Her eyes are what worry her the most but what can she really do.

“There ain’t anything that can help with that.”

“Uh, heard medications can, but haven’t been to a doc since I was sixteen and I ain’t looking to break my streak,” she signs, unable to help the way she scrunches her nose.

She hates doctors. Her last experience with the clan doctor ensured she never wanted to deal with another, not to mention how many times she’s been told to pop by a ripper and just “fix” her hearing.

“Hmm, you got any chrome, V?”

“Nope.” she signs.

“Seriously, nothing?”

“Not even a personal link.” She shows the palms of her hands and wrists, thankful the sleeves of the sweatshirt lent to her cover the brand on her wrist.

“Hate to break it to you, V, but you're gonna need some chrome. Personal link, neural port, bare fuckin’ minimum if you wanna get by in Night City.”

She doesn’t answer, just pouting as she pours sugar and milk into her coffee, until there’s barely a hint of brown coloring. She isn’t against cyberware inherently and everyone’s choice is their own, but whether it’s the years of being told they’re cheap tools to make the weak feel strong or just her own discomfort with everything it entails, the whole thing makes her skin crawl. V already hates doctors and would rather dose up on bounce backs if she has to. She can stitch her own wounds, has before, whatever it takes to avoid them.

Add in the fact most cyberware is made and licensed by corps, no. Sure, black alley shit exists, but just the idea of a corp having the right to her eyes. What if they revoke someone’s usage of them, spy through them, confiscate them?

“Once your two finish your business, take her to Viktor,” Senora Welles tells Jackie, before turning to look at V, “he’s a good man, I’d trust to take care of anyone, mija. I’m sure he can help with whatever you need.”

“Okay, if he has your seal of approval, suppose I gotta at least see him.” V concedes, Senora Welles seems convinced this guy is good. Even if V decides to just try to go without, everything, it can’t hurt just to meet the guy.

“Vik’s one of my closest friends, he’ll take care of you, promise. Though, uh, keep taking your coffee like that, he might have his work cut out for him.”

“I like sweets,” she signs, shrugging before taking a drink of her coffee and another big bite of french toast. They’re incredible, cinnamon whip cream sticking to her lips.

“You might as well inhale sugar.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t.”

They finish up the breakfast, V stuffed with a good three or more stacks of french toast. Senora Welles begins to collect the dishes. And no, V’s not letting this happen again.

“We’ll do dishes,” she signs, starting to collect the plates.

“We?”

“No, no, you don’t have to, dear.”

“I insist please, you cooked, it’s only right for us to clean up afterwards,” she signs with one hand then looks to Jackie, “right?”

“Right… we’ll take care of it ma.”

“Thank you, Mija,” Senora Welles squeezes her shoulder, “I washed your clothes last night, I’ll leave them in the bathroom, once you two finish with the dishes you can wash up and get changed.”

“Thank you,” V signs again before taking the dishes to the sink with Jackie.

“One night here and you’re already the favorite, Jesucristo.”

V can’t resist giggling at the comment, smile on her face. They don’t talk much as they wash dishes, mostly because she can’t sign and clean at the same time. It doesn’t take long before they’ve finished up. V going to shower and change, then they’ll head to the chop shop Padre mentioned. Then it’s time to end Sinclaire.

“You ready to go, V?” Jackie asks when she comes back changed, mask with her for when she’ll need it.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Me and V are headed out, Ma! Be back in time for dinner, promise!”

The pair leave the house and make their way down the steps. The streets are jam packed with people and she’s still not used to the crowd, cringing as she has to weave through them. Jackie doesn’t have a car and her’s is indisposed wherever it is. She nearly trips over a bag of trash trying to keep up with her new partner. Why is the city so dirty? V never even let the camp site get this filthy and these city people just toss their trash out on the street?

“C’mon, we’ll take the train down to the chop shop, see if they got your car first,” Jackie’s voice cuts her off because she can start trying to clean the street.

“I still don’t have any-”

“I’ll pay for us both.”

“Sorry and thanks”

“How many times have you said sorry or thanks since we met?” Jackie asks.

“I wasn’t counting.”

The station is already crowded and she’s cringing at the sight of two many fucking people. They fall in line, jacking in personal links, eyes glowing as they pay the fee then wait for the train. Mothers holding their children’s hands, homeless people with signs at the sides of the station, begging for eddies.

“Too many times,” he says jacking in his personal link, eyes lighting up as he pays for both of their rides, “this is what friends and family are for, chica.”

“To pay my way in the world?” She asks as they step into the crowded subway train.

The crowd is forced to part around Jackie, everyone offering his broad frame more space, as his sheer size demands it. No one moves for V, she has to step and weave around people who easily crowd around her small figure without a second thought. Is it just the size difference? Or something more?

She curls in on herself, shrinking as she maneuvers through people. Too many voices, layering together into cacophony. She can feel the warmth of everyone’s body, the stench of body odor and contrasting perfumes or colognes. She needs her own car, for sure, this is agony. She can’t do this daily.

“To have your back, mija. Besides, acting like world’s doing you a favor by letting you exist, a good way to get your neck stepped on.”

“But, you and your ma are doing me a favor. You gonna step on my neck for thanking you?”

They’ve come to a stop, Jackie finding a empty pole on the subway train to hold onto. She looks up at him, waiting for his answer, blinking expectantly. He’s not seriously suggesting she not be grateful, is he? She’s no stranger to faking confidence or having an attitude, she’s not exactly a goodie two shoes. But she’s not about to be rude to people who don’t invite the behavior. Usually.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Look at you like what?” She asks, migraine forming as she’s surrounded by noise.

“With those puppy eyes.”

“Those are just my eyes, Jackie.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Fine,” she decides, kill two birds, one stone, “I’m gonna put my mask on and turn off my hearing aids for a bit.”

“Why?”

“Too much,” she signs and gesture vaguely to the entire subway.

“Ah, not used to the city noise are ya?” He asks just before she turns off her hearing aids, sliding her mask in place. She breathes a sigh of relief, silence, glorious silence.

“Its...a lot, but in general, world has either been silent or at least had a mute button since I was nine. First time I got my hearing aids, I broke down in tears, felt like the world was screaming at me and that was in the middle of nowhere. I’ve gotten use to them and its not even necessarly the volume, its just that its not cohesive if that makes sense. Not that any sound is too loud, just there’s too many of them.”

“I think, I get ya, if it’s one thing drowning out everything else it’s fine. But, when you got twenty different things going on, it feels like your brain is going in every direction?”

“Kinda? It’s just too much, like the world on low volume.”

“Eh, have a feel you’re gonna be hitting mute on Night City a lot.”

“Yeah, I kinda figure.”

“Hmmm, probably should figure out a better fix than the mask too, can’t wear it all the time.”

“I mean,” she shrugs, “ideally everyone in the world would just learn sign language to accommodate me.”

“Yeah?” He laughs, apparently catching the joke, “Night City ain’t one for accomadating.”

“A person can dream.”

“Tell you what though, chica, teach me sign language, I’ll teach you, Spanish.”

“You got it, and once you know ASL and I know Spanish, we can learn Spanish Sign Language, or if you prefer Mexican Sign Language. Or both.”

“How many different kinds of sign language are there again?”

“Not sure, but I probably can’t count that high. I mean there’s several variations even in just signing in English.”

“Oh…”

“You have ASL which is the most common, you have Signed Exact English which has a lot more fingerspellng. You have Conceptually Accurate Signed English, also sometimes called Pidgin Sign Language which essentially uses ASL signs but follows word order and grammar rules from English. And-”

“I’m regretting this already.”

“Then there’s different dialects used within different parts of the deaf community, like-”

“Well, lookie there, it’s our stop,” Jackie cuts her off when the subway train comes to a stop and she’s smiling behind her mask, watching the way the gears in his head turn trying to keep up with this information.

V stays close to his back as he leaves the crowded train, taking advantage of the space the crowd gives him to give herself some space. The chop shop is just a short walk from the station and despite struggling to keep up with Jackie’s longer strides, they reach it without much issue. V making sure to turn her hearing aids back on before she enters the store.

“Can I help you?” A worker grumbles when the pair walk through the door.

“I’m looking for a Galena Rattler, nomad vehicle, red. Someone brought it in here.”

The worker scratches at the cybernetics etching his face, searching his memory for a moment before he finally speaks up.

“Had something like that come in a day or two ago, had a dog bobblehead on the dash?’

“That’s the one.”

“Bucket of rust was sent to the landfill as soon as it got here, probably scrapped by now.”

Her heart sinks into her chest, her first car, her fucking home for the past four or so years; gone. All because some asshole had to fuck her over. She wants to scream, cry a little bit, kick something.

“Sorry, kid, uh, I can get you the stuff we got out of it. About all I can offer you.”

“Okay…”

She nudges the floor with the toe of her boot, fingers fiddling with the hem of her shirt as she waits. It isn’t long until the worker emerges from the back room with her dufflebag, the guitar case, and her dog bobblehead. V checks through, all weapons and first aid shit gone. But her holophone, her clothes, the clunky old little computer, her photos, and her mother’s guitar are all still there. Basically anything they couldn’t feasibly make a profit off of is still there. Photos mean nothing, a crappy landfill camera worthless, beat up acoustic guitar, and tech that dates back a good couple years don’t amount to much when you want cash. At least being generations behind everyone else has done her some good. Even if she still lost her car.

Most of her mementos were saved, but a pit still forms in her stomach at losing her car, essentially her closest thing to home since she left The Herd.

“C’mere, chica.”

Jackie wraps his arms around her smaller frame, large arms encompassing her, threatening to crush the air from her lungs. Unlike the one-armed hug from his mother, this is overwhelmingly affectionate, surrounded by his warmth. She tries to think back the last time she was hugged like this, probably by her own mother, when she was fifteen? V freezes in his grasp, arms awkwardly hanging at her sides before she brings them up to lightly pat at his back. Not quite able to commit herself to hugging him back fully.

“…”

“Aye, Santa Madre. Is that how you hug, V?”

She shrugs within his hold, unable to sign while being pulled so close to him. He pulls away, leaving only a hand on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong with how I hug?”

“Everything, don’t worry though, we’ll work on it,” he tells her.

“You’re weird.”

“So,” Jackie switches gears, “Sinclaire, you got a plan yet?”

“Sinclaire lives in the penthouse of a megabuilding. Intel says he should be there today, taking a day off tricking nomads I guess. Need to get in, figure out where the cargo is, and gut Sinclaire.”

“Got a netrunner who owes me a favor, she might be able to get in the subnet for the building, trip the cameras and get us in.”

“Seriously, you wanna waste that favor on me?”

“Eh, T-Bug will help me out again, even if she says otherwise.”

Jackie rolls his eyes and pulls out his holophone, his optics lighting up bright blue as he dials a number, like many folks he has his phone hooked up to his eyes. .

“Hey, Bug, calling in my favor.”

V can’t hear the other side of the conversation, shaking her bobblehead as she waits patiently. Bobble bobble, the dog’s head bounces up and down.

“We’re trying to get into Megabuilding 12, huh…oh I got myself a new partner, she’s cool, don’t worry. Just need you to hack the subnet, get us access, kill the cameras. Can you do that for me?”

A smirk comes across Jackie’s face and he rolls his eyes, before looking to V, “Bug says she wants to be patched through to you, ain’t helping someone she don’t know. “

“That’s fine,” she signs, “I can sync my holophone to my mask just like optics.”

Her mask will display the person just like optic tech can, she has it set so her avatar displays instead of her face so all they’ll see is a picture of the same expression on her mask, and they’ll hear the AI voice as she signs. Jackie taps at his phone as he sends the call to V’s phone as well. Her mask lights up to let her know of the incoming call and she taps accept on her phone, a little video square shows up in the corner of her vision.

T-bug is older than V, most folks are, with dark hair shaved down nearly to her scalp and dark makeup surrounding her big brown eyes. A skin tight black net runner suit clings to what’s visible of her body.

“Hello,” V signs, letting the AI voice resonate through the connection.

“No face, no voice; the hell are you dragging me into Jackie?”

“Stop worrying Bug, V is good people, she just needs to get back at a client who fucked her over. You said you owed me one.”

“Fine, but this goes sideways and I’m frying you both.”

“Not sure you can fry V, but alright. Let’s get our asses moving.”

They opt to walk to the megabuilding, not to leave any trace of traveling out there. It’s not far out and before too long they’re standing before the stairs up to the towering building. Megabuildings are impressive to say the least, giant ecosystems in their own right, rows of rows of the same apartments until you hit the top floors and lower floors dedicated to shops. V tucks her bobblehead into her dufflebag and puts her bag down in a corner by the stairs along with the guitar case, preferring to travel lightly as they axe Sinclaire, she doesn’t need to worry about bashing a guitar into a wall while she’s taking him down.

“You play?” Jackie asks her after a beat of silence, eyes on the guitar case.

“No.” Her answer is flat, monotone through the translator, and she offers no other explanation.

“…talking to you is really gonna be like pulling teeth, ain’t it?”

“You asked a question, I answered.”

“Nah, nah, it’s okay, I spill my soul, let you in my home, my family, my bed; and you give me half assed hugs and one word answers, I get it, chica.”

“There’s nothing to get!”

“No worries, I got time, I’ll know you better than you know yourself, before you…well, know it,” his grin drops as he realized he said ‘know’ entirely too many times in that sentence

“Didn’t think that sentence through, did ya?”

“Shaddup, let’s get this asshole.”

T-bug’s avatar and quick flashes of technological info flashes at a camera as they enter the megabuilding. The imagery showing through to Jackie and V while none of the hundred or so residents buzzing around are any the wiser to what’s about to go down.

“I’m in the subnet, I can see you on cams and cut off the feed to security. Getting you penthouse access now.”

“Efficient as fuck,” V can’t help but sign, forever amazed at netrunners in general, let alone just how quickly T-bug has managed to take care of this.

“Don’t work any other way, besides Megabuildings have shoddy security at best, this is nothing.”

“Honestly, you could hack a toaster and I’d be impressed, this stuff is way beyond my comprehension,” V admits as her and Jackie reach the elevator, T-bug’s avatar just flashing before it opens for them.

“Your mask can work for scanning, get a cyberdeck and I could send you some quickhacks and daemons; set you up with the basics.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind, never hurts to learn.” Even if she’s fairly convinced she’s too stupid to figure it out.

“So, V’s managed to win you over already?” Jackie comments, grinning.

“More like I’m trying to make sure you don’t call me over petty shit again,” T-bug insists, though there’s no real malice to her voice.

V leans against the elevator wall as it lurches into movement, screens playing the news around them. She smiles behind her mask as Jackie grins, winking before he responds to T-bug.

“You say that but you and I both know you like being part of the team, Bug.”

“Oh, brother,” T-bug says with a roll of her eyes and V can’t help but crack up, she can’t really imagine the two being fast friends; a loud energetic solo and a stoic netrunner. It makes her wonder how exactly they met or what favor T-bug might owe Jackie.

“On your toes,” T-bug speaks up as the elevator comes to a stop, “two guards outside the penthouse door, I’ll run a quick hack to distract them.”

“Get their backs to us and we’ll drop ‘em quiet, T.”

The elevator door opens and there’s a clanging mechanical sound that rings out on the top floor halls. Jackie and V stay low as they leave the elevator; turning a corner to see two of Sinclaire’s guards. They’re looking over a vending machine that’s began to spew energy drinks out on the floor. She suddenly wishes she brought her duffle bag up with her, if only to take advantage and stockpile some drinks.

They creep up behind them, V points at the guard at the left then herself, making it clear she’ll take him and Jackie nods. She gets behind her mark and lurches forward, snapping his neck with a crunch, feeling him go limp under her touch. From her peripheral she watches as Jackie crushes his target’s windpipe with one heavy press of his forearm. Two guards in a pile they stand up straight and make a beeline to the penthouse door. Jackie takes out his pistol, making sure its loaded, while V gets her own gun out, the one she stole from the 6th Street fuck.

“You get a peek inside the penthouse, Bug?”

“No more muscle inside, Sinclaire is in his office, its second door on the left going past the living room.”

“’Preciate it, T-bug.” V signs as the penthouse door slides open. Jackie and her have weapons at the ready as they go in.

Sinclaire’s penthouse is bougie as they come, more proof for her theory that rich people just have no fucking taste. Tacky and gaudy decorations in a lavish open room plan. The disgusting lack of taste nearly distracts from what he has that is of legitimate value; a bar stocked with expensive booze and a tv nearly as wide as a car.

“Doesn’t seem like Sinclaire was hurting for eddies.”

“That’s fine, plenty to sell off if he already moved the cargo.”

“Place giving you sticky fingers?”

“Mmhmm,” she hums as she rubs the dirty heel of her boot against the tacky zebra rug, satisfied when she leaves a smudge of filth in the white of it.

They move through the penthouse, finding the office door, Jackie doesn’t jump to do anything, instead giving her a nod. He’s letting her lead the charge, take care of her own business on her own terms and she’s beyond thankful for it. No desire to be subtle, V kicks the door in, slamming her boot into the door and watching it burst open under her force.

Sinclaire yells out, jolting at the sight of the two mercs bursting into his office. He’s still sat at his desk, hands raised in surrender as he looks at V, then his eyes drag over to Jackie. Staring down two barrels, he still finds it in him to sneer.

“V…see you managed to find yourself a friend in the trash.”

“Pair of crosshairs, both on ya, wouldn’t be mouthing off if I was you,” Jackie warns.

“Someone wi-“

“Already iced your muscle and got control of the cams,” V explains, smirking as his ego deflates, “the only way you’re getting out of here alive is if you tell me where the cargo is.”

“Seriously, all this over some ca-“

V cocks her gun and presses it to his forehead, finger on the trigger, held in one hand so she can still sign.

“Either I get the cargo or I get revenge; take your pick.”

“In the tank behind you.”

“Jackie.” She doesn’t want them to both turn their back on Sinclaire, slimy fuck that he is.

“What don’t trust me?”

She cracks her pistol across his cheek, the force of it knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor. V steps on his back, gun still pointed at his dome as she presses her weight down on him. The pale of his cheek starts to turn purple and she feels just a touch of satisfaction knowing she’s dealt him even a fraction of the harm he dealt her.

“Iguana, lesser Antillean I think,” Jackie calls out and with the new position she’s put Sinclaire in she’s able to crane her neck to see. A large tank with a bright green lizard, black around his face, and red spines down it’s back.

“What!?” Her voice comes out along with her signing, distorting and layering over the artificial one, unable to contain her temper as she looks down at Sinclaire, pressing her foot down harder on him, “did you try to kill me over a fuckin’ lizard!?”

“You got any idea how much that thing’s worth?”

She pulls her foot off of him just to grab his shirt collar, dragging Sinclaire back up to his feet. V keeps one hand wrapped up in his collar and uses the other to press the gun against his back. She shoves him, he tries to resist, but despite their size difference V is easily able to out strength him. The former nomad drags him through his penthouse and out the door, across the hallway towards a door. Jackie’s steps echo through the building as he covers her, keeping a lookout for any new guards that may show. She kicks the door open from behind Sinclaire, the flights of stairs greeting them, one’s going down and the ones that go up to the roof.

“T-bug, roof?” V asks, voice still distorted and echoing through the filter of her mask, unable to sign with her hand full.

“No muscle up there, you’re good.”

“Look, we can talk about this V, w-“

“Move.” She jabs her gun into the small of his back, emphasizing her point. Sinclaire marches up the stairs as she forces him upwards, they reach the final door that leads out and V kicks it open like she did the last before making him walk through.

The former nomad forces him out onto the roof of the megabuilding, cool air hitting her fevered skin. They don’t stop moving, V’s eyes trained on the edge of the roof as she pushes him forward. He babbles, utterances and insistence that they can work this out; but she’s pissed and he has to pay. He’s not going to get away with it, no one is ever going to get away with treating her like this again.

Sinclaire stops moving, feet cemented in place just before he hits the edge, still trying to beg for his life as he resists her pushing on his back and neck.

“V, please, please we can ta-“

His voice cuts to a scream as she shoves him as hard as she can with both hands, knocking him off balance and sending him over the side of the building. She watches as his body plummets; a low whistle ringing out beside her.

“Long way down, ya know I heard folks die before they even hit the ground on falls like that.”

“That’s a shame,” she signs, shaking her head, she wanted him to feel it when his head hits the concrete.

“Feel any better?”

“Yeah, lets klep the lizard and run before someone asks questions.”

“No rush, pigs will just think he offed himself, happens all the time.”

“Good to know.”

“Still wouldn’t throw yourselves a party up there, NCPD might come check the area once it’s reported.” T-bug warns over the comms.

“Yeah, in like two days, chill Bug,” Jackie assures her as him and V leave the roof, taking the stairs back down to the penthouse.

There’s a weight off of V’s shoulders as she and Jackie return to Sinclaire’s penthouse office. She hefts a little sigh as she sees the bright green iguana and she’s reminded of Jackie’s earlier comment, called it a lesser antil-something.

“You know a lot about iguanas?” she asks him, he has Taco after all, he seems to like fish and lizards.

“Ah, saw something about ‘em on the science channel,” he looks to the iguana, calmly sitting in it’s tank, “you come a long way, my scaley friend.”

She can see a softness in Jackie’s smile, and she can’t blame him, the iguana is adorable. Tentatively, V lowers her hand down into the terrarium. She nudges her fingers against the lizard, feeling it’s bumpy skin that’s been warmed under a heat lamp. It’s tail flicks against her just before it turns to knock it’s face against her hand, nuzzling under the touch. She can’t help but smile, signing with her free hand to Jackie.

“Yeah, I’d kill me for him too.”

Jackie laughs as the iguana latches it’s claws into her hoodie sleeve, before climbing up the length of her arm. She lets out a soft little exclamation as the reptile makes it’s way to her shoulder, burrowing itself into the junction where her neck and shoulder meet.

“Awww cuddly fucker,” Jackie coos, smiling softly at V and her new snuggle buddy.

“He’s…probably worth a lot…” She slowly signs, unable to have much energy at the idea of selling him. V wants to make the money she meant to make, iguanas are rare, but…he’s very cute. And maybe she’s too much of a softie for animals.

“Yeah, a shame too, been wanting another pet, Taco’s got some age on him now…Had the name Manny all figured out too.”

“Are the two of you, serious?” T-bug comments, rolling her eyes in the holoview, “all of this and you want to keep the lizard?”

“I mean…I don’t want him to fall into the wrong hands,” V tries to defend herself.

“Iguanas have very specific needs, not just anyone can take care of ‘em,” Jackie adds.

“But you’re like, an iguana expert, basically.”

“Basically.”

“And I mean, if you and Mama Welles don’t mind having me around a while longer, I won’t need the cash right away.”

“Hell no, we don’t mind.”

“Just keep the damn thing and shut up,” T-bug scolds, sick of them trying to justify it.

“C’mon, let’s get Manny home and set up,” Jackie explains, unplugging the heat lamp so he can grab it along with the tank.

“We gotta keep him warm, right?”

“Yep, can’t let him get chilled.”

She nods, deciding to scoop up Manny and move him from her shoulder to putting him in her hoodie, hugging him close to her body over the fabric. V feels a bit like she’s cradling a baby, which isn’t terribly off base. Manny is now her child, she has decided. Jackie starts to carry the iguana stuff out of the penthouse, cutting through the kitchen with V trailing behind him.

V jumps and yelps, a loud popping noises and sparks flying out of a toaster as she walks past. She clutches Manny to her chest, the iguana clinging to her under her hoodie after the startle.

“Impressed?” T-bug asks, raising an eyebrow and V tries desperately to suppress her smile at the joke. A part of her mad that she was caught off guard by the trick, damn netrunners.

“I’m something, alright, scared the shit out of me.”

“Holy shit,” Jackie says with a smile teasing at the corner of his lips, “Bug making jokes, I must be dying.”

“Fuck off, cutting comms, now.”

“Talk to you later, Bug.”

“Hmm, maybe, we’ll see how I feel,” T-bug teases, “nice meeting you V.”

“Thanks again for the help, and the minor heart attack I guess.”

“Anytime.”

“I’m not sure if you mean the help or the heart attack.”

“Could go either way.” T-bug tells her before cutting communication, the woman’s face blinking from V’s mask. The merc laughs, softly at the exchange as she pushes the mask up onto her head. T-bug seems nice underneath it all, colder than Jackie, but most people are. The teddy bear of a guy is hard to compete with warmth wise.

She trails behind Jackie as the pair leave to the elevator. V leans against one wall of the elevator, against one of the bright screens that play ads, looking down at Manny tucked in her hoodie. He’s too cute. Jackie gives her a wink before he hits the button on the elevator and it lurches into movement.

“Once we get little mano here set up, we’ll head over to Misty’s.”

“Misty?” She fingerspells the name out, cocking her head to the side in question.

“My mainline,” he gets a dreamy little smile on his face, “mi amada, you’ll love her, she’s the sweetest thing”

“Oooooh~”

“Jesus fuck!” V yells out and jumps to hide behind Jackie at the sudden keening moan in her ear, holding Manny tighter to her chest.

“Pfff,” Jackie’s shoulders shake, before he busts out in laughter, clutching at his stomach.

Heat flushes up to V’s hairline as she sees the source of her distress, the screen she’d been leaning against now display an advertisement for Milfgaard some cougar website with a scantily clad older woman spreading her legs and moaning. She threw a man off a building and the scariest parts of her day have been a toaster and a porn ad.

“My god, you’re wound tighter than a clock, Jaina,” he teases her.

“Shut up.”

“We have got to loosen you up,” he tells her as they step out the elevator and back out the lobby of the megabuilding.

She carefully pulls her bag and her mother’s guitar case on her shoulders, making sure not to shuffle Manny too much before she trots off behind Jackie. There’s already cop cars pulling up behind the megabuilding as the two mercs disappear into the crowd.

Once Manny is settled in his tank next to Taco’s and V’s stuff is put aside in Jackie’s room; her new friend is pulling her back out of the house. He’s pure excitement accentuated by a wide grin as he shows her the city and god it has it’s problems, what place doesn’t, but there’s something to it. She could write a list of flaws from the corps to the trash, to the cruelty, to the poverty, and homelessness that run rampant there.

‘Hellooooo there Night City!’

But there’s an energy she can’t describe.

Night City has a magic to it, it’s the only way she can define it. Neon lights distract her from the trash that covers every corner. The constant thrum of music helping drown out the just as constant sound of gunfire. Something is magnetic and she understands why so many people are drawn to such a place.

‘Stanley, here with you and we got another day ahead of us in this city of dreams!’

She meets Misty; Jackie’s mainline in her candle lit shop for tarot readings and chakra realignments. The pair adorable as Jackie spins the blonde goth around in his arms. She says V has a nice aura but her chakras are misalligned, which sounds dumb to the merc, but Misty says it with such a sweet smile and V loses the will to tell her as much. Turns out the oil smell in Jackie’s blankets is diluted cedarwood oil that Misty gives him to keep away negative energy and aura blockages.

Misty reads her tarot cards not long after they meet, her cards frayed and worn, as she tells V what the hanged man card means. V doesn’t buy into any of it; but Misty is kind and earnest, the merc willing to entertain her eccentricities if only to say in Misty’s company. V learns her aura is a bright cyan blue, is given a chrysocolla crystal which provides energy for a fresh start, and lavender oil to encourage relaxation and sleep. How Misty knew her sleep struggles, she has no idea, but the lavender does help her relax so why look a gift horse in the mouth. She signs a thanks while tucking the rollerball of oil into her pocket.

‘Ooh, I love this town!’

V meets Vik the same day, trying to hide her nerves at being in a clinic as Jackie and the ripperdoc playfully punch at each other. He’s a sweet older man, tattoos and jewelry showing his love for boxing. He doesn’t even get mad the first time he tries to even look over her and she has a panic attack, accidentally kicking him in the groin, before the ripperdoc glove can even touch her. She apologizes like her life depends on it, hands aching by the time she’s done signing it. He laughs it off, laughs harder when she jokes about not getting candy for being a good patient.

The next time he tries, he stops himself. Face contorting when he’s able to get as far as a diagnostic report this time, seeming stressed by the results. He asks about her autoimmune disease, diagnostics picking up on her overactive antibodies. She can nearly see his heart sinking, like she’s his own child and not just a stranger who freaked out on his table one time. He’s horrified to know her condition has gone completely untreated, that her fear of doctors kept her from getting the treatment she needed. She doesn’t explain where the fear comes from, not wanting to recount her experiences with the clan doctor, the fear of having treatments done against her will. He warns her that while it’s not attacking her eyes or joints as aggressively, overtime and without any treatment it could take the eyes next, the muscles, the joints, the organs. Her entire body could with time destroy itself. Before he fathoms giving her implants, he puts her on immunosuppressants. Making her sure her health is stable, that her body has calmed in attacking itself . Only then, do they go back to the idea of installing cyberware, she even gets a lolly along with her shot and pills; Vik leaning into her dumb joke.

She takes the personal link and neural slots well, cyberdeck and the like added. But the idea of losing her eyes is too much, he says he’ll work with her. He works with her lot, both on the money and with her own discomfort. Vik doesn’t press a “fix” for her hearing, instead beefing up her hearing aids so she has more control over the volume and so she can tune it to police scanners; not that she has any intention of doing contract work for the pigs, but it’s good to know what they’re up to if nothing else. He doesn’t even get mad when she nearly breaks her personal link a day after him installing it, unable to stop playing with the damn thing.

‘Love it like you might love a mother who popped you out on the steps of an orphanage once and now stops to ask you if you got a smoke for her!’

In a few weeks he’s gotten her contacts that work like optics and helped her fashion a choker with the same AI translator of sign language; for when she chooses to ditch the mask. He also has candy, leaning into her dumb joke, and for the first time she feels like she can trust a doctor. And she doesn’t go anywhere else, even if she catches a bullet in Pacifica, she makes Jackie haul her ass to Watson to see Vik.

She soon learns that she and Jackie just work. There’s a synergy to their partnership, an understanding and balance that shows in their merc work. He’s stronger than her, knows the streets and people of Night City better than she could ever hope. But she’s stealthier, quieter, and cleaner in her work. She leads the charge when dropping targets quietly and he runs the show when they’re going in guns ablazing. Though he always tries to keep her safe, perhaps out of care and perhaps out of a sense of obligation. It’d be smothering if it weren’t endearing.

‘Every new day here, means another hundred new arrivals!’

It’s not all cherries on sundaes, the two don’t always get along and butt heads more than once. Mostly over gigs; money vs morality. She won’t take corp or cop cash, unless it’s stolen; they want work they can find some other gonk. Jackie says cash is cash, no matter who’s paying. She gets the pragmatism but can’t do it, shutting down a fixer the second she learns their money is coming from Biotechnica. Jackie isn’t happy, but he respects the call. They agree to disagree, if he wants to take those gigs, he can do them without her. He doesn’t take it in the end, she wonders if he doesn’t want to solo it or if she managed to get him thinking about where his money comes from.

“But only half these gonks will survive a year and that’s if it’s a good one.”

They find a steady routine and flow; working gigs, grabbing lunch with Misty and Vik, more gigs, dinner with Mama Welles, maybe a few more jobs and maybe hitting the bars to spend the eddies they just made. Regular trips to the black market to pick up some ammo and firearms. He has a date with Misty about every week, something V always takes the time to mock. But it’s all in good fun. Some night her and Jackie fall asleep on the couch in a heap watching movies, waking up with Mama Welles having thrown a blanket over them. Other nights she spends at a Kabuki motel, wrapped up in whoever she picked up at the bar.

She experiences her first braindance, loses a tooth when they sneak into the Riot nightclub, gets in another police chase, and sees her first pair of Mantis Blades when they’re coming for her head. V realizes Mama Welles runs the Coyote Cujo and gets better introduced to the staff there; including a busboy named Jake who finds his way into her pants quite easily.

‘And why do these peeps come to NC?’

And then a month has gone by and she has no idea where it went.

V spends her saved back money on a car before she rents an apartment; sick of using the train. Nothing like trying to move a dead body on public transit. Jackie helps her pick it out, the car sold to her by Padre, because every fixer apparently doubles as a car salesman. It only seemed right for her to buy from him and to get Jackie’s approval before she made the purchase. Her bobblehead sits on the dashboard proudly.

She helps Jackie pick out a new deck of tarot cards for Misty, spending an entire day browsing mystical shops before they find the perfect one. Misty adores them and gives the mercs readings as soon as she opens the box, feeling a connection to the cards.

‘Well, to be street samurai like Morgan Blackhand and Waylon Boa Boa!”

Misty and Vik hear her voice, no mask, for the first time on a sunny day after she accidentally launched herself down the stairs in front of the doc’s clinic in an office chair. Laughing as Vik asked her if she was stupid and telling him, “yes.” Because who is she to deny the truth?

In between gigs, Jackie drags her down to Jig Jig street, the most perverse section of Night City. Sex shops, strippers, and joytoys as far as the eye can see. He gives her hell for the way cheeks flush red, they’re there for fun and not business so the mask is off, she’s still not used to the brazen displays of sexuality a person finds in the city. But, despite her awkwardness, she’s far from opposed to it.

‘The greater the risk, the bigger the bounty!”

She childishly demands Vik and Jackie teach her how to box when she finds out there’s a club for it that they both attend. V manages to last a round with Jackie, but only by being fast enough not to get hit, taunting him until he gets a punch in on the second round and knocks her ass to the ground. He apologized a thousand times but all she could do was laugh. Misty has it on camera, as she should.

Misty shows V her little rooftop get away on top of her shop, her zen garden with plastic chairs where they can spend time together when they need a nicer view during lunch, Misty, Jackie, Vik, and V eat their Chinese food takeout or whatever they’ve decided on up there. Once or twice V finds herself going up there alone at night, just to take in the way the neon lights of the city hit the black sky. The city may have been named after its founder, but she finds it more apt to describe when the city is at its most beautiful.

She also gets to witness a rare spat between Misty and Jackie when she catches the merc’s dangling a target over the side of said roof to get information. Jackie letting go of the guy to try to apologize for ruining the aura of the roof; while V struggled to hold him up…and eventually dropped him. But Jackie bought Misty some sage to cleanse the roof, so all well that ends well.

‘Or so they say!’

Another month gone by like she blinked it away.

T-bug starts to work with them again, off and on. Jackie told her she only owed him a favor and didn’t work with him long term. But she reconnects, helping get them more jobs and helping the jobs run even smoother with a trusted security expert on their side. She teaches V how to use quick hacks, but the merc still prefers blades and baseball bats. Mostly just using them to blind folks before she stabs them.

She catches a bullet in Santo Domingo, a 6th street member trying to settle a score and she refuses to go to anyone but Vik. The merc holds her hand to her wound as Jackie drives them to Watson. It’s the first time she’s ever seen Vik mad, he patches her up but he scolds her for hours after, that she should have seen the nearest doc. That she could have died. And she has no excuse, but she knows she’d do it again.

‘But you can only be a major league player for so long!”

A gig drags V and Jackie out to a supposedly haunted old building; Misty tags along, nearly bouncing at the prospect of contacting spirits. V learns that Jackie is afraid of ghosts and spends the entire job trying to entice the supposed specters into eviscerating her. They all leave unscathed though Jackie looked on the verge of tears.

T-bug hacks a Militch training datashard at some point and V decides to try to play through it, interested in learning any new tips or tricks that could help her. The netrunning lessons are the most useful, Bug managing to help even an idiot like V figure out how to do some quick hacks and use daemons. She also gains a new appreciation for being called maggot by her friend. Bug definitely had way too much fun play sergeant.

During a job, Jackie and V hear a man yelling into his phone demanding to know if the person on the other end fucked his wife. They lose their minds laughing and lose the person they were tracking for a good hour. Misty and Vik think they’ve gone nuts when they spend the rest of the day mimicking the stranger to make each other laugh; seeing who can scream “did you fuck my wife!?” the loudest without shame. Jackie wins.

‘The faster you live, the faster you burn out!’

Vik catches her eyeing the projectile launcher system implant; essentially a rocket launcher that goes into the forearm. She’d love to have that sheer amount of firepower at will, plus unlike other weapon implants it’s only on one arm, less intrusive for the cyberware shy merc. The ripper offers to install it for her on credit and she nearly chokes, amazed that he’d be so kind, maybe he just trusts her when she says she doesn’t go to any other doc. But she refuses, not willing to take advantage of his good graces. Deciding instead to save up once she gets the apartment.

She meets Cecelia, a waitress at Tom’s Diner, an older woman with pretty eyes. Jackie nearly rolls his eyes out of his head when V starts flirting, giving her even more shit about V’s taste in older men and women after she gets Cecelia in bed. Along with Jake, she becomes one of her rare repeat bedmates. They’re both significantly older than the young merc, each with children, and not interested in anything deeper than rolling around in the sheets, after all anyone with eyes can see V’s not stepparent material. There’s no danger of them wanting more, so V’s happy to return to them when she wants something more familiar than a one-night stand.

‘If you don’t get a bullet to the brain first!’

Misty gets confused when V signs Jackie’s name sign, instead of fingerspelling it. Optics getting the translation off and muddled. So, the merc is left explaining the inability of optic tech to translate name signs due to their highly individualized nature. Jackie’s name sign to her is only that, his name sign to her. It’s not mind reading tech…yet. Her cheeks flush red when she has to explain that Jackie’s name sign for her is a combination of the sign for the letter ‘J’ and the sign for ‘brother. Fingerspelling J, then bringing that fist with the pinky out onto an “L” shape formed by her other hand. Jackie pulls her into a hug immediately after, nearly crushing the air out of her lungs. She’s less timid during this hug, he tells her she’s getting better, but it still needs work.

Vik, Misty, and Jackie take to trying to learn more sign language; letting V teach them whenever they all find a spare moment. Mama Welles even uses a few, picking them up from V and Jackie. The merc tears up, none of them are fluent, but they’re trying. Trying to learn for her and she’s so rarely had anyone care enough to try for her; her sister and mother the only one of the nomad family who knew it fluently, who took the time to learn. Ava learned a few then stopped bothering. Years of no one caring enough to learn for her, but even with all the tech in the world to get around it, they still try. She doesn’t explain her tears, and no one makes her, Misty just gently rubbing her back as they continue with the lesson.

Jackie helps her with Spanish in return, just as they talked about. Some things are intentionally taught to her, other just picked up. Pendejo is forever ingrained in her head. Though, a part of her wonders how much use it really will be, if maybe Jackie just likes that she has to talk during these lessons. She’s become more comfortable with talking with him verbally. It happens naturally, over their time together. That when it’s just him and her, she’ll find herself talking along with her sign language. But, she’s still tight-lipped when she ventures outside her new social circle. She doesn’t think she’ll ever have it in her to be completely verbal.

Another month gone…

“NC’s Legends! Know where you’ll find most of them?”

Taco passes away, the mini-shark was an older pet even when Jackie first got him. He knew it was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. They hold a makeshift funeral for Taco, Misty and V hugging Jackie as he cries. Mama Welles makes his favorite foods for dinner and V stays with him through a movie night. It doesn’t make things magically okay, he hurts and he grieves the lost of his friend. But he’s not alone and they fall asleep on the couch in a heap. He spends the next night at Misty’s and V finds herself wishing that Misty and Mama Welles got along better, that they all could have been there to support Jackie that first night.

She knows he’s back on the upswing when they find an abandoned grocery cart and he offers to push her around in it. V calls it a dumb idea than promptly climbs inside. Jackie gets a long running start and heavy push of his foot before putting both feet up, letting them ride out the distance, giggling like children. Then they hit a hill and flip at the bottom of it, on the ground staring at the stars and giggling like concussed children.

At some point in the month a client invites them to an orgy after they drop off the goods they were asked to steal. V finally gets her revenge for Jig Jig street, Jackie’s face turning red all the way to the tips of his ears. He refuses and runs to tell Misty as soon as he can, as if even getting the invite makes him feel guilty. Jackie’s the only one who ever finds out about whether V went, a secret she likes to keep close to her heart.

V gets…acquainted with her first exotic partner, that is to say someone who’s had animal based body mods done. She’s seen the cat ears and tails and nearly got bit by a ganger with fangs; but the full anthropomorphic furry mods took her by surprise. Some people played Sonic as a kid and just never looked back, she supposes. Not that she can judge, she did spot the heavily modded bunny exotic girl across a bar and decide why not. It was an interesting night, the fur took getting use to, and she thinks the girl was a little sick of V petting her ears after a while.

Her and Jackie find an illegal firearms dealer, her best friend finding a pair of pistols he loves. They’re embellished with gold and he proudly brandishes them, spinning them in his hands and giving her a grin a mile wide.

And another month finds it’s end.

“The Graveyard.”

She’s fallen into the habit of using her mask during her work and using the choker with the contacts during her personal time. It keeps business a bit more separate and she feels more secure in the hiding of her identity this way, most fixers and clients don’t know what V looks like. not that she worries much about The Herd anymore. The days blink by faster and faster without her ever thinking that her former family might have an inkling of where she is. Despite the polluted air, she’s breathing easier.

There’s a few rumors among mercs and fixers about what her deal is, why she hides her face. From burns, cyberware gone wrong, to some mutated twin stuck on her head. She encourages them, finding each new crazy idea funnier than the last. Her favorite is just telling people she was born with a bad case of ugly and seeing their reaction. None of them are any the wiser when they pass her unmasked on the street, thinking her just some other Night City citizen and not the same merc.

“Matters not where you’re from.”

In her six month in Night City, she finally gets an apartment to herself. Not wanting to have spent half a year mooching off of the Welles family. Even if Mama Welles insists it’s no trouble, that she’s a delight to have around and her stress cleaning has done wonders for their home. She still can’t bring herself to spend the rest of her day living off their good graces. Mama Welles holds her face and kisses the top of her head before she leaves, making her promise to come see her again.

Her apartment is in a megabuilding in Watson, one of the worst districts in Night City, though better than Pacifica she supposes. She’s on the eighth floor, the buildings all get nicer the higher up you get and have at least twenty levels. It is far from grand but it’s hers. Jackie and Misty help her move in, as well as decorate. Putting pictures and fairy lights up over her enclosed bed, another strand of lights across the opening for it and over top of the shuddered windows. And install a sensor on the door that will make a bright red light shine if someone knocks, so she can see it if she has her hearing aids out. The apartment only comes with a microwave and vending machine as far as food goes, no kitchen or fridge. But there is a stash room for weaponry because guns are more important than getting to cook for herself. But beggars can’t be choosers, Misty even brings some purifying crystals and burns sage to keep the energy clean even if the apartment floor isn’t.

She gets to know some of her neighbors and people who run businesses on the services floor of the megabuilding. Wilson runs the Second Amendment gun store on the floor below hers, he’s a curmudgeon of an older guy who runs away most customers with his consistent yelling about respecting firearms. But he doesn’t seem to mind her, maybe because his yelling didn’t scare her away.

“Matter not where you start.”

Brooks is an enby with green cat ears on the floor above her sells V edibles, pot brownies and cookies whenever she has the spare eddies. It helps her sleep a little easier on nights where she doesn’t have a partner and eases some of her anxiety that still pops up every now and again.

The guy who lives in the apartment just below her own is a beat cop named Barry. Something she learns when she’s playing music with her hearing aids out, top volume so she can feel the vibrations rattling her bones and shaking the walls. It apparently shook his walls too and he came knocking on the door. She didn’t get a chance to read his lips when she answered the door, but judging by the drop on his face when she started signing, she suspects he might have been demanding to know if she was ‘fuckin’ deaf or something’. Despite his job, he’s an alright guy and they find themselves talking a few times after laughing off the exchange. If he quit, maybe she’d consider calling him a friend someday.

“What matters here is the walk you walk.”

Things in Night City are good, really good for her. There’s conflict and struggles along the way, she collects new scars. The bullet in Santa Domingo, a mantis blade catching her gut, wolvers skimming her back, and bit by a ganger with vampire mods just to name a few. Night City rattles and rolls her, some days she craves the clean air and open road of the Badlands. She’d be lying if she said otherwise. But there’s an ease in the city, in the people she’s found that make it feel like another home.

She’s laughing and smiling more than she has ever before. V’s able to joke and play around, find a sense of humor and excitement in her life rather than just fear. She’s free to do her merc work, set her own rules and still make a mark. Her and Jackie are steadily carving their place into the ecosystem of the city. She’s showing her strength, her capability, her resilience. She’s not defective, she’s a merc on the rise, a couple fixers go to. She’s got money in her pocket; a roof and food she got with said money.

And she’s got a family, a real one, not made of blood but love. At least she loves them and she hopes they’ve managed to find something in her worth loving. In a dirty city of neon, she managed to find her place in this world, not where she expected but she’s exactly where she needs to be.

‘In Night City, the city of dreams!’

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #fem v #silverv #johnny silverhand #jackie welles #i hope its not disingenuous to tag johnny when he hasn't shown up yet #can you feel the sun?#aidan becker #aidan v becker

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vidalinav · 4 years

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Queen of Monsters: Chapter 3

Chapter summary: Nesta worms her way into the infirmaries and friendships are started.

I don't even know what to say right now because you know the state of the U.S. is still up in the air but (shrugs) happy reading I guess!

Chapter List, Masterlist

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep coming here looking like a wet dog,” the Illyrian said, raising a brow. “And I don’t treat animals.”

Nesta merely lifted her head in greeting, not at all concerned with the fiery depths of her glare or the deep, authoritative note of her voice. She’d heard harsher, been harsher than the female in front of her. She’d withstood colder days than this one, too.

“I am here to work.” She repeated and the Illyrian scoffed, rolling her eyes at the phrase she’d heard every day since last. Nesta raised her chin at the challenge.

The Illyrian’s shoulders squared, the brown pelt of fur shifting to reveal a plain shirt tucked into pleats, and Nesta noted the chain around her neck with an emblem to match. The necklace decorated in obsidian beads.

“I have no job for you here.”

“Then I’ll wait.” She said, leaning against the tent walls, already prepared with a book in her hand.

The female sniffed and Nesta gripped the book harder. Her knuckles tight against the pages even if she didn’t so much as grimace.

She knew that look. The prideful nonchalance. The I am better than you turn of her lips. Arrogance and conceit. It reminded her of her mother. That stern look that made Nesta remember wanting her room, her door ready to hide her behind its wood, behind the slam of its hinges. Such comforting, familiar anxiety. Nesta wished she had the talent to capture the look, even envied Feyre for her skill to keep memories on canvas and across frames.

Her wings painted the morning in crisp amber veins, and the female seemed to grow taller right before her eyes. Nesta's temper rose to the occasion as she took a step forward.

Her mother always did say her worst trait was that she was stubborn. If Nesta didn’t want the porridge, she wouldn’t eat it, no matter how many times the maids put it in front of her. If she didn’t want to learn to waltz, she would sit on the foyer, crossing her arms, and not even the prospects of extra dessert or the lure of new toys would make her get up from the ground.

Nesta’s father on the other hand had laughed. Her antics reminding him of successful business deals across the sea. This was her best trait, he’d said, because he worked with others less headstrong than her and only, she could come out with an outcome so lucrative. When he had told her this, Nesta had made it a point to be as stubborn as possible.

So, Nesta did not back down even if the female pointedly glared, huffing in annoyance as Nesta refused to leave from her idle threats. She merely walked through the tent flaps, wisps of her dark hair flying behind, untucked from her scarf.

Nesta resumed her position leaning against the green material and began reading once more. Suddenly lost in dreams of ships going out to sea and porridge getting colder.

The infirmary was run by an Illyrian named Ira, Nesta learned. She had hailed from Dunravar, on the coast of the Great Sea and moved to Windhaven when her sister had married. And she had always been like that—no nonsense and just a tad crass.

“I was scared of her when I was young.” Emerie spoke. “Her long witchy fingers, the pointed nose. She’d poke and prod at me and I was certain she was feeling how tender I was so she could cook me later.”

Nesta sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “Whether she’s scary or not, I still want to work there.”

But the look Emerie gave her did not fill her with confidence.

Nesta couldn’t say she was either. She had been sitting outside that tent for weeks and she had yet to be invited inside. The last time she did enter, all she heard were yells from the female about minding her own when she’d inadvertently run in on a rather thorough exam of some war-torn soldier. Nesta didn’t have the patience that day to continue waiting outside.

“Are you still going to the kitchens later?”

She nodded her head, her lips forming a thin line. “Yes, I work in the evenings, now.”

Emerie reached up, dusting the tallest shelf and Nesta couldn’t help but grimace as the flecks of dust sprinkled down on the freshly polished floor.

“And you still have to walk back?” Emerie offered incredulously. “Don’t you think that’s a little bit late for you to work?”

“Why would it be?” Nesta asked, her voice not at all looking for an answer. She’d heard this argument before, and the thought of his voice made her want yell vulgar profanities. So, what if she worked all day? Wasn’t he always complaining that she’d slept all day? Or that she drank all night? It seemed that it didn’t matter what she did, Nesta did everything wrong by his standards, backwards by her sisters’ standards, and thoroughly disgraceful to her sister’s buffoon of friends.

She couldn’t win in any likelihood and so Nesta wouldn’t try. Their approval an impossible task.

“Aren’t you ever afraid of being out at all hours of the night? What if something were to happen to you?”

Nesta snickered, “Like a beast runs out of the forest and eats me.”

“Like a male waits for you to be alone and corners you in some alley.”

Been there, done that, Nesta wanted to say, but she swallowed the remark.

“So, a beast runs out of a tent and eats me? Interesting.”

Emerie jumped down from the chair, stepping towards her as she placed her hands on her hips. The grey feathers still sprinkling dust down and down. Nesta had to resist the urge to kick the trash bin under the brush.

“You should be more careful.” The Illyrian warned sternly. Grumbling as she said, “Why do you even work in the kitchens, it’s not like your obligated to do it?”

Nesta leaned back on the counter, tapping her fingers on the glass.

It was a good question, one Nesta had asked herself many times and one she didn’t think she had the right answer to even now. In the beginning, it had been a moment to get out of the house and in another it was to piss Cassian off, because she’d learned he hated the chores. The obligation of them, and Nesta knew all about obligation. It had been her life for years before it was deemed meaningless women’s work that she shouldn’t be happy to partake in. Not that Nesta ever really did.

“Because one day Lord Devlon had asked why I wasn’t upheld to chores if I lived in this camp and was expected to be treated the same… and Cassian, he had told him I was not like them and I had wondered what he meant by them. By me and... you all. What difference did he see between us?”

“You are not Illyrian.” Emerie stated simply. Suddenly serious and not that female who opened her door and left it wide open the next time, when Nesta pretended she’d lost her gloves. She could see the difference even as Emerie didn’t seem too different before her now. But Nesta could tell.

It was in the eyes, she thought, and Nesta wondered what it all meant to be looked at like that. With bright, furious eyes.

“Does that matter?” She asked lightly.

“It matters to them—to us.” Emerie corrected harshly. “It matters to us because tradition is more important than glory. It is more important than even war though the males are raised to yearn for it and the females to encourage it. Perhaps the males train because that too is a tradition.”

Emerie whipped the duster towards her, pointing it as if it was her finger. The dust sprinkled at her feet, falling like ash and snow and Nesta kicked the dust aside, refusing to be buried under it. She noted the red in her cheeks, the purse of Emerie’s lips. It was a look she’d before in a mirror or two. Something undeniably bitter and angry.

"I say this just in case you believe you can change their minds by being obstinate.”

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Because doing chores is such an honor.” She gestured to the walls, the leather. “And I suppose owning a shop is child’s play. Mother forbid you give it all up now to go boil water and skin tomorrow’s lamb.”

“Many beings here would rather die than give up their ways… Including Ira. She’s one of the oldest beings in this camp. People say she saw Devlon when he was in swaddling.”

Nesta stared at her questioning, wondering for whom Emerie was talking and what exactly she meant by it all.

“A High Fae learning what your kind has always called simple and archaic? If you weren’t standing right in front of me, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I took over this shop, what rightfully belonged to me based on my blood, and still they don’t want to visit. I have every cloth they might need, and no one is at my door. You may think you can go help in the kitchens or wait outside the infirmary at all hours of the day, but... don’t be disappointed if they still don’t let you in.”

Nesta felt the words settle in the pit of her stomach, felt them bubble up as she rose to stand. Emerie crossed her arms and Nesta glared, though she couldn’t say why the words agitated her so swiftly. But it made her nauseous and Nesta did not have time to swallow the bile that had risen up her throat.

“It’s not my fault they don’t want you.” She heard herself say.

Emerie’s gaze turned ferocious. The rims of her eyes turning red, and Nesta wanted to continue. To tell her that she looked equally as likely to cry as she did to attack. But Nesta did not get the chance to say this to the Illyrian whose chest was still heaving, her hands scrunched and shaking.

"Get out.” Emerie spoke. A quiet, stern phrase.

Nesta picked up her coat, as graceful as she could muster, her shoulders still poised and precise. She pretended to wipe the dust off it, though there was none that she could see, and Emerie merely watched her all the way to the door. Some vicious monster in her midst.

Nesta didn’t bother putting on her coat as she left the small shop, as she welcomed the frigid temperatures.

The cold had already become her dearest friend.

Nesta wasn’t sure why she always felt angry when she looked at Cassian. At first, he’d been nothing but a pebble in her shoe—irritating because he brought of things, he knew nothing about. And then, he became someone who made her temper swell into such fine-tuned fury that she’d wanted to scratch out his eyes and feed them to the crows she’d seen pecking away at Elain’s garden.

But somewhere between their cantankerous voices crescendoing into insults and ire, somewhere between all the noise... Cassian had been exciting. Finally, there was someone who could match her blow by blow and wipe it away like dust off an old book. He was in fact as bitter as she was. Even if he did smile and laugh like nothing at all was wrong.

He had cared for her then, promised things she never wanted to hear again, even if she heard those words incessantly. In her nightmares. In her dreams.

And Nesta had liked making him angry. The teasing turn of his lips filled with enough sensuality, she had wanted to reach up and find exactly what those words tasted like coming from his lips. It was fun to see his eyes burn when he looked at her—that look that made him seem to question whether he wanted to push her out the window or wanted to take her to bed. It made her feel... powerful, more so than any of the magic hidden in her veins. More so than even the bitter, rotting hate that allowed her to walk with a crown over her head, though it was indeed made of thorns.

She had gotten used to looking at Cassian, yearning for a glimpse of him. But now...

Now... as she looked him over sitting on the soft grey of the couch, his wings expanding behind as if he’d lounge there for eternity, Nesta could only think that she’d wished he’d suffered more. She didn’t know why she thought of such things, when she laid her body across his. Hadn’t she felt something then? Something other than her veins catching fire. But the thought itched all the way up to her ears, harmonized with the fire’s roar.

Nesta burned with it all, and quite enjoyed the warmth.

Cassian, turning his head to look at her, only wore a solemn face. A look she’d seen plenty.

“You okay?” He breathed.

Nesta didn’t answer his question. She looked at the walls, the shadows forming on the paint as if it oozed out of its crevices. The flames scratching up the wood. And the sound—gnarling animals and who knows what else devouring her whole, chewing on her bones. Emerie had been right to compare beasts and arrogant males.

Here sat one right in front of her. Tall and unknowingly malicious. Hungry, perhaps. Waiting for her to come back so he might just take one bite.

Her eyes scanned him head to toe, her hands bulging into fists, and something in her body snapped awake. Something in her body going, oh that’s right.

I’m here because of you.

Nesta could see her breath puff out before her. What she wouldn’t give to tell her father that she was made of smoke when he always believed she was fire incarnate. Living flames. Always burning. Angry to the core.

She held her palm out, collecting the flakes that settled on her gloves. Each speck of snow completely unaware that it had landed on someone without a home, without a job, and without any meaningful life. How it remained on the leather without melting to get away, Nesta would never know.

She had almost not come to the infirmary that morning, the words of yesterday blurring into tomorrows and she hadn’t gotten much sleep that night. With Emeries gaze still in her mind and Cassian’s... everything else.

It was always like this. It would always be like this, Nesta thought. How she wasn’t used to the disappointment by now, she didn't know. But it was the thought of forever's that made her stomach ache. Her hand pulling at her bodice when it was harder to breathe.

Eternity was a long time to hate oneself. She couldn’t imagine being a hundred, or two, or three, and still be here. Not this place, but in this body. In this head of hers that couldn’t move past yesterday. How she wished to take another one. Another face. Another name. Another being, entirely.

Nesta wondered if perhaps she was still drowning in that cauldron. If she had not actually emerged fae. Maybe she was still being pulled apart in its moving depths. Re-arranged. None of the pieces fitting back together but being stitched sideways and upside down and backwards.

Oh, how Nesta wished she’d only been made backwards. How easy it would be to rip herself open and sew herself correctly. A new name, a new face, a new being entirely.

But Nesta was here.

And though she often felt like she was sinking, the ground was solid as she stepped. The tent green and bright and not the dark, unknown parts of a world she could not hide from. Her toes might have been blue from where the snow seeped into her boots, but Nesta was not being grabbed by the feet, dragged further and further down.

This place was familiar.

Familiar she could handle. The sky a hue of blue with a single streak of orange? Nesta had seen that before. The tent flaps parted at the seams, Nesta recognized. But it was the light of the tent that had Nesta pacing forward. A sudden drop in her stomach that said she was late, late, late.

Ira must have been there already.

Nesta’s shoulders sunk at the thought.

This was not how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to stand beside the entrance way, a book at the ready and a stubborn expression permanently painted on her face. Ira was supposed to give her a glare, followed by a snarky reply. Nesta would tell her she wanted to work, and Ira would tell her no. Just like every other day she had done this. A comfortable and familiar routine.

Ira was not supposed to get there before her, and Nesta cursed herself for not coming in early, for not anticipating the move of her opponent.

Ira had won this game, Nesta thought, for catching her by surprise.

She looked towards that spot, the spot she’d proclaimed as her own for how often she’d been there. Nesta expected to find it empty. The space eerily cold without her body to fill it, but when her gaze crossed the premises, a stool had taken her place.

Nesta rushed to greet it, her face warming in the frigid air.

Sure enough, a stool marked her position, and she wondered if Ira had put it there to stave her off. If you will stand, you will not stand here, she could imagine her saying with that twisted smirk. Her long fingers tapping away any chances of her being welcomed inside.

But as a stool stood there, so did a book. The leather a deep shade of charcoal.

Nesta picked it up, feeling the symbol etched into the surface, trying to make out a title in a language she couldn’t read. She could hear the bustle coming from inside the tent, but Nesta didn’t care to go inside. She plopped on the stool instead, her own book forgotten as she shoved her bag to the floor.

Nesta flipped through the book, flowers blooming in every page. She traced her hand on the etchings and imagined the unknown words planting themselves like seeds in her mind. Growing such deep roots that Nesta could hear them being whispered in her ears. The language soothed a wound that Nesta could only bandage up, and where a fire once raged, having only left smoldering ash, wildflowers sprung from the dirt.

Try again, the words said.

Emerie’s brows crinkled like crumbled paper and Nesta’s words were tossed to the ground in littered thoughts. She didn’t know what to say to the female who stood on the steps leading down from her room. Her hair tucked into a braid; a simple apron tied at her waist. Emerie didn’t say anything, either. For all intents, they could have been frozen there. The mountainous winds finally catching up with the frigid winter skies.

“I was in the area.” Nesta began, cursing at herself for sounding so odd to her ears.

Emerie only nodded, “Alright…”

Nesta looked towards the book in her hands, some part of her already dreading the idea that Emerie knew more than her. She knew that Nesta had not just walked by. She knew that she was unable to stay away, that she had enjoyed her company even if she wanted to forget it all.

And forget it all, she tried.

The emblem at the front depicted a sickle, the weapon carving away at a plant she couldn’t name growing from the leather. She held it up for Emerie to see.

“I was wondering if you could help me with this.” She spoke, sliding it across the counter as Emerie caught it with little effort.

The Illyrian flipped through the pages, her hands grazing against each picture as if she were in the forest herself, picking them stem by stem. Nesta had done the same, such a mirrored image that she couldn’t help imagining a world where she had met this female earlier. When she’d not been so disastrous and had wanted someone to talk to, to laugh with.

But Nesta knew... There had never been a time like that. She had never been soft.

“What language is it?” Nesta asked in spite of wandering thoughts. For she had not seen such a language before. The letters curving into loops and lines. Such beautiful print for how harsh Illyrians seemed to her.

“It’s called Divumar.” Emerie replied, shutting the book with a thump and passing it back to her. “It means... voice of the sky people. Roughly—In the Common Tongue.”

“Can you teach me to read it?” Nesta asked, her voice edged with enough excitement she could barely hold it in. Just the word Divumar made Nesta want to float in space and she repeated it silently to herself. How amazing it must have been to be free amongst the clouds, so much that the language sounded holy to her ears.

But it was not freedom that had trailed after Emerie, as she went to stand near the window. The snow burdening the dirt. Her wings drooping to the ground.

“Why did you come back?” She asked, her voice reticent and small.

Nesta could only knock her fingers against the counter. The sound pounding in her ears. She’d never been good with talking, even now as out of practice as she was. Her sisters made friends so easily and Nesta couldn't very well now embody sweet, pretty Elain who only needed to bat her lashes, or Feyre whose laugh made people join in.

Even her sister’s rambunctious, elusive friends were able to hold on to each other. Mor with her bright, happy gaze. Too much like the sun Nesta had wanted to hold a hand across her face and shield herself away. Rhys—she'd wanted to roll her eyes at. Her sister’s mate much too flashy and extreme. Much too pig-headed, too, she’d come to learn. And Azriel had been quiet, studious, veiled in ways that Nesta could understand, but could not empathize with. She was sure it could not be easy making friends with him.

No, Nesta had only one person she’d called a friend—or someone close enough to visit—and Nesta had taught Amren to hate her too. She was so good at being cold most days.

Emerie was not like Amren, though. Not like the Inner Circle, or Feyre or Elain... Not like any of them because no one knew her at all.

The thought made Nesta want to keep her—hide her away from the Inner Circle’s antics, from their judging stares, their obligatory smiles. The one person who was similar to her in ways she had only begun to imagine, who would know her and not hate.

But Nesta had to win her over first and she thought of Cassian in that moment. Though on instinct she wanted to curse his name, she’d seen the way he acted. People liked him, she considered. Always teasing, hiding away everything he felt in the brightness of his grin.

She could do that, she supposed. She could laugh to cover heartbreaks, smile to cover fear...

“It must have been the delightful company,” Nesta joked, her voice strained and forced.

Emerie was not amused. Her mouth set in a stern line and Nesta had to force herself not to back away into a corner somewhere. No, she would keep her head raised until the final moment.

Nesta shrugged, gulping down the insecurity like a scratch in her throat.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She spoke, her words so quiet Emerie wouldn’t have heard them had she not been fae. Nesta almost wished she wasn’t.

“I can’t help you read it.” Emerie answered in turn, “I don’t know how.”

“To read?”

Emerie shook her head, “Not even in the common tongue.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say as Emerie shuffled back and forth, her hand clenched around the cream-colored apron. She turned over the book in her hands, the pages some of her finest jewels and Emerie watched her, a touch of envy in those furrowed brows.

Stories had been her solace all these years. The voices, her many friends. It had always seemed a shame that she couldn’t see what worlds lied beyond the sea, but Nesta had books at least. Her world had not been so small.

The deep sorrow in her bones rivaled the feeling of when Feyre told her the same. A heavy weight like sigh drawing from every crevice. Her sister could not share in her joy, and Nesta didn’t remember ever offering her the chance. All the stories lost in their poverty.

There was no beautiful way to say she was sorry for their lives, that there were so many ways that freedom could be taken away from them. Starting from the first story to the simplest cut.

So instead, Nesta extended a hand, Emerie looking at it. A strange proposition in the midst of them that Nesta wasn’t exactly sure she was making.

“Even exchange of services.” She said, smiling as the Illyrian reached out cautiously. “You teach me to speak and I’ll teach you to read.”

Nesta stood outside the tent when two Illyrians were taken into the infirmary. Carried by a group of males, they were lugged through the open, awaiting tent. They groaned charnel tunes, and Nesta smelled the blood before she saw it drip two trails in the perfect snow.

The wind blew harsh around them as if the sky, itself, knew who had made the wreckage, but the Illyrians paid no mind. One simply commanding orders as another nodded swiftly, hitching the male’s body up higher.

Nesta stepped far away.

The first male, clothed in leathers and fur, looked as pale as the winter morning. His foot pouring blood where it was caught in a trap, the mechanics still biting away at his limb. The second, though not making as much noise, hung dazed in his ragged clothing. His eyes empty and lost. Nesta had to cover her mouth as she took in the arrows logged into his back. His wings torn in places that brought back bad memories.

She wanted to throw up, wanted to huddle in the corner and rock herself as she closed her eyes. The picture of broken limbs and snapped necks, and headless bodies following her even now.

But Nesta did none of those things. She merely stood there, watching as she blinked. The world slowing down enough that even the noise was silenced.

She took a seat, the stool still planted by the entrance way, and picked up the book again. The words for plant, herb, and healing still floating through her mind. She repeated the words. Nabata, traven, and saluber. Nabata, traven, and saluber.

It wasn’t long before the space was quiet again, the wind howling but unable to reach her where she sat. Nesta pointedly ignored the shouts from inside the tent, pretending that it was covered by music. The notes playing some tune she could barely remember.

She was lost to it all.

Until Ira walked out the room… a towel tinged pink in her hands. Nesta stood straighter at the female who grimaced but did not shy away from her gaze.

“You,” She pointed, her wings flaring and wide. Her back straight and indignant. She tapped her foot on the ground and Nesta thought she saw regret in her eyes, but Ira still parted the tent flap. “Do not get in the way.”

Nesta simply pursed her lips, raised her nose dismissively and followed her inside.

@my-fan-side @ekaterinakostrova @anastasia-orlov @lord-douglas-the-third @autumnsletters @soitsgorgeous @sjm-things @courtofjurdan

(Let me know if you want to be tagged, I forgot to tag, or you don’t want to be tagged)

I plan to update every Tuesday btw. So far so good. Also more Nesta/Cassian contact in the next chapter, and some Azriel I think. YAY!

Anyways, like, comment, reblog, if you happened to enjoy and want to read more. :D

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #cassian x nesta #acosf #post acofas #acomaf #acotar #acowar #qom #vidalinav

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fictional-thoughts · 4 years

Note

Howdy😊 can you please do a Mandalorian x reader where he gets turned in watching them fight?

it’s not as smutty but there’s kind of sexual tension

The mandalorian is paused in the middle of a small battle, frozen in the midst of flying dirt and smoke; a group of wild scavengers have attacked the small base camp you and the mandalorian have set up, but he’s caught in time, bodies under his feet he’s stopped in time as she’s taking two of them at once, using her long bladed weapon with such fierceness he’s only in awe, you’re fast and strong, it’s a whirlwind mess of smoke and bloodshed as you finish the brave contender, it’s a quick win, and the dark crimson blood of the slain splashed over the ground and you’ve got flecks of the stuff over your face.

you’re not concerned with nor notice the stunned mandalorian stopped to watch you flip the blades in your hand to get a better grip and you’re wiping the victims blood off the sharp end of the blade to your thigh and mando slowly inhales, his ire only drawn to you, so fearful, stunning, powerful. he’s finding himself engraved in the dance of battle, but you’re the only one on the stage, spotlight on you it’s all he can see.

you’re good, and you know it — and that’s what makes it all the more entrapping.

he’s sure you’ve always been like this, powerful and cunning, merciless you take down another scavenger, pulling a blaster from your thigh holster the mandalorian finds himself anxiously watching you, the world falls out of focus around him. how could he have not noticed before? you shoot and the recoil of the blaster forced you to concentrate more, gnawing your bottom lip the mandalorian is having trouble not letting his once controlled mind slip somewhere secret and sinful.

the mandalorian never really believed you when you said the way that he fought was easily the most attractive thing you’ve seen. the strong movements and articulated hits, perfect shots and the way he used his broad shoulders to take down the enemy could be described as seductive, alluring, the dramatics of death and protecting ones self with such perfection and ability.

but you’re moving so brilliantly it’s hard for him to not think of the times you’ve been that way with him, alive, expressive and so so so in depth with movement he can only think to describe you as a work of art.

his chest rises and falls a little more deeply and the palms of his hands are warm, he wants to take you in his arms and keep you to himself, tear you from the battle but use the adrenaline to stroke the flames, keep the bloodthirsty version of you that’s got him so hot that he only wants a taste. he’s imagining you in your armour, pushed against the wall of his ship with your hands on him and his in your hair, he’s got that familiar tug in his stomach and shit, he’s realizing just how attractive you are in the middle of a battle, blood streaks and powerful.

forgetting the oath and the Way of the mandalorian he’s wondering just what it would feel like to kiss you, to trail over your skin with a brush of his fingertips and lips on your pretty throat.

this isn’t good.

he’s inwardly beating himself up but can’t help but watch you, the world around you blurry, red rimmed and stunning. he’s still staring and doesn’t noticed a scavenger break free from your bonds and tear through the trees toward the mandalorian. he’s caught in your trap and doesn’t fall back to the planet until he’s literally crashing to the ground, the scavengers got him pinned.

the force of it pulls the air from the lungs and the armour is pushed roughly into his skin, his head knocks around in the helmet and he feels the bridge of his nose cut and ooze warm blood. he’s swearing and realizes his blasters been dropped. all thoughts of you vanish quite quickly as the scavenger is on him in an instant, bloody yelllow teeth and rotten breath obscure the mandalorians surroundings, it’s a blaring alarm in his mind and he can’t get a grip on his knife. god, it’s a mess and he’s just wondering what’s happening to you now that he can’t see you. he’s pushing back the scavenger with his hands on its shoulders, grunting with effort while his muscles strain.

the thing atop him is shrieking and suddenly goes silent. thick and bubbly green blood leaks from its mouth and lands on his chest piece of beskar metal. it’s dead. he’s breathing hard and looks around in confusion. then the body is shoved off of him and your face appears over him. mando sighs in defeat and drops back into the forest floor, shaking his head in slight embarrassment

what is wrong with him?

“a little distracted, were we?” you’re teasing and helping him up from the grass, his armour clicking and he’s groaning, that scavenger got him good. you’re smiling and watching the masked man search for his fallen weapon.

“distracted,” he mumbles and picks up the fallen blaster, it was right beside him the whole time. he straightens up, “yeah.” distracted is a good word for it.

you’re close to him and he’s still so tangled in the idea of you alone with him, closer than you got during the battle, under him and saying his name and your hands trailing downwards and— “you okay?” she’s asking him and under the mask he feels his face heat up. maybe he should get a medical, he’s confused and nothing liken this has ever happened to him before. but, in turn, he’s never seen you fight before.

“yes i’m fine, thank you.” he’s back to his cool demeanour and brushes past you to begin the long trek back to his ship. he’s done with this planet and he’s done thinking of you tackling another scavenger to the ground with your thighs around them.

you’re following him through the mess of bodies of the injured and the dead attackers. picking up some of their weapons you think of why he’d been attacked. surely he wasn’t getting rusty, he’s a better fighter than you and that’s saying something. “mando, you sure? that fall looked pretty hard.”

you’ve stopped him from stalking away from you like he normally does when he doesn’t want to talk by holding his arm, your hand on the thick and soft material of his shirt. the mandalorian looks down then back up at you, he feels a swooping surge of warmth when you touched him, of gentle fires and buried emotions. shit.

“i’m bleeding,” he’s telling you and pulling his arm away, now really wanting to get the hell out of there. “it’s fine, i’ll fix it when we get back.”

“i could help,” innocent, doesn’t mean a thing but mando cant help but picture you, that face of concentration and the feeling of your body so close to his, gently fixing his wounds. “if you want.”

“i’ll do it later,” his deep voice is smooth as the helmet contours it to sound all the more pleasuring to you. “can’t remove my helmet off in front of you,”

she doesn’t answer but smiles slyly and walks past him. he’s trying not to stare after her, to figure out what happened, dissect the rather heated situation, what made everything so different that he thinks of her in such a way?

then she’s turning to look back at the mandalorian over her shoulder, “too bad, there could be lots of things we can do without that helmet in the way.”

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian imagines #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #the mandalorian fluff #the mandalorian smut #star wars #star wars imagine #baby yoda #my writing

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

Text

Kingdom Collisions XII

Masterlist for other parts, more jercy, crackships and bad ideas

writing fic=more description=(hopefully) improve writing

no prewritten chapters=sporadic updates=as surprised as you about what happens

The water always lies.

"Grover," Prince Percy Jackson squealed excitedly, "Grover, Grover, Grover!"

The boy, barely as tall as the countertop, smiled at his friend with sparkling eyes, "Yes Prince?"

"Will you tell me a story?"

"What about Prince?"

"About the magic world." He said in a conspiratorial whisper.

"How about why the rocks in the river are black?"

Little Percy scrunched his nose, already uninterested in anything about rocks but his friend interrupted before he could protest, "You will like this story I promise." The little boy winked.

His sea green eyes lit up like water droplets in the sun. "Tell me!"

So they sat down cross-legged in the grass, the shade of a willow tree protecting them, and looked at each other as if there was no-one else in the world.

"Once upon a time, long long ago..." Grover started. "There lived two kingdoms, at peace and thriving. One was the Kingdom of Sun or as it was known then the Kingdom of ilanga. The buildings were white, their streets were cobbled grey and the people were beautiful beyond words. They looked like me. Dark skin, and coiled hair. With noses that could smell from miles away, and ears that could hear the softest whispers, and mouths that spoke the kindest words."

"What about their eyes Grover?" Little Percy bounced, energy pulsating from him.

"Oh Prince their eyes were the most beautiful of all. For they were every shade of earth. They were the brown of the sand, and the green of the trees, and the yellow of the sun. Gorgeous worldly shades. The people loved living in their kingdom with its endless summer and it's long days. There was hardly anytime to experience the night for it blinked in and out faster than they could catch it. The streets were always filled with brightness, parades and markets and celebration. Ribbons wrapped around every pole and doors were the colour of rainbows.” Life twinkled bright in Grover’s eyes, and Percy felt so proud just then to have such a lovely friend

“On the opposite side,” He continued, “Joined only by a small brook was the Kingdom of Alina. The night. They were always in darkness, stars twinkling like diamonds above them and the moon always full. Their buildings were made from black rock with tiny flecks of starlight in them so that when it caught the light of the moon it seemed to sparkle. Make no mistake they were not covered in inky blackness all the time. For their streets were lined with precious stones. Emeralds encrusted on their poles. And sapphires for their roofs. Aquamarine where the water met the land. And rubies for the pavements. The Kingdom was rich with jewels. But the people did not consider themselves wealthy for it. No, the stones were as much a part of the city as they were. And oh how the people looked. They were as pale as the moon and with hair as bright as their stars. Curiously they shared much of the same features as their friends across the way. Nose, and mouth, and listening ears. But their eyes," Grover stopped to take in a deep breath

" Their eyes were the colours of their precious gems. Zircon and amethyst and opal and every shade possible. There was no real day except for one or two hours in the early morning when they sky morphed into the palest of blues. It was at that time everyday when the two kingdoms met, the light of ilanga and the dark of Alina. Though they never interacted beyond their shared brook they loved each other intently. Loved each other the only way you can love something that is at peace. Gently and without disturbance. They loved each other alone."

The water always lies.

"Wow," Little Percy blinked, awe radiating from him. "The kingdoms sound wonderful."

"Yes but now we must get to why I'm telling you this story. The people and the land lived peacefully side by side, though not interacting but always knowing, understanding. It was not that they weren't allowed to see one another it was that they couldn't. For they were not made for each others cities. They could not withstand the atmosphere. But-” He placed great emphasis on the word “One day two babies were born at the exact same time on the exact same day. One to the Kingdom of Alina and one to the Kingdom of ilanga."

Little Percy gasped, small hands covering his mouth in shock.

Grover gave a look, "The baby of Alina looked exactly like a child of ilanga and the baby of ilanga looked exactly like a child of Alina. The people were confused and it is the nature of living things to be wary when they are disoriented. So when someone suggested kidnapping there was nothing to be done as the worlds folded in on themselves and the kingdoms declared war. Peace was not an option when children were the cause. Peace was not in their heart when these children were not theirs. So they discarded the two bundles of beating hearts and destroyed each other. But if they had just looked, had just taken the time they would have seen what was right in front of them. For the baby of ilanga that was born in Alina, although had dark skin and black hair had eyes like emeralds. And the child of Alina, born in ilanga, although had skin as pale as starlight and hair as white as moonlight, had eyes the colour of an ilangan sky, a common earthly occurnce in the kingdom. But the people saw none of that and so the children were abandoned and the peace was lost and lands were bloodied. For 25 years. By the tenth year the citizens no longer knew the reason they fought. By the fifteenth year they had lost more than they gained. By the twentieth year their only hope of survival was each other. But nothing changed. The fought, and destroyed, and killed with all the vengeance of the first sword strike.

Grover takes a deep breath, “The first day of the twenty-fifth year two beings, long since grown from the discarded children they had been, stepped onto the battlefield, hand in hand. They stood in that brook, once clear enough to see white stone and flecks of gemstone, now red with blood. Stood in that brook and looked on at the battle still raging around them. They did not say anything, did not do anything but stand. Slowly people stopped to watch them. For they looked as foreign, and strange among the crowd as they once did.

The one with green eyes looked to them and said, "We are the children you fight this war over. We are the ones you shed blood for. We are the ones you have killed for. But today that ends. Today we join as one peoples and stop this madness."

The water always lies.

"For remember I told you Prince," Grover looked at him, "That they had killed too many to live separately. Their only hope of survival was to join forces. But the people did not want that. They had been fighting this war for twenty five years and many had not know any other way. Another thing you must know about the nature of living things is that it does not like change. So they refused and they fought more and they continued as if those two beings did not stand before them offering peace. The beings, seeing nothing was going to change did the only thing they could do. The one with emerald eyes slammed their fist into the earth and destroyed the field. And the one with cerulean eyes took that cracked earth and flung it into the air. When it was all over there was no-one left standing, not even them. No, in their place stood a river, with obsidian rocks and water that glistened rainbows. White stone surrounded it on either side. It was the perfect product of both kingdoms."

"So that's why the rocks are black." Little Percy nodded knowingly.

"Yes and the legend is,” His voice lowers, barely a breath, “When the healer and the destroyer finally meet again the obsidian will give away to diamond, the river will once more run clear, and the people will finally be at peace once more."

"I love that story Grover!" He squealed, falling back into the grass with joy.

"I'm glad you do Prince. It is very close to my heart."

The water always lies.

Percy Jackson gasps, and inhales mouthfuls of water. The memory fades, disintegrates from his mind. He grapples for it but it's gone. He is still underwater, although how much time had passed he doesn't know.

His body is bare and his skin is icy but for some reason he can breathe. So he does. Big lungfuls of air. He doesn't have time to think about the Princess of Hekima's attempt at murder, he needs to find his husband. Dead or alive he needs to find Jason.

He let's the current drag him out while some semblance of a plan takes form in his head. He doesn't know who he can trust right now. And he doesn't enjoy being made fool twice. But suddenly something is pulling him up, up, and out of the water. He comes up with a gasp, the world blinding. He is dropped on sun-warmed rock and he blinks himself back into existence.

The water always lies.

Standing over him is Grover.

"What the fuck." He mutters, staring up at his....... friend?

"Why were you in the river? You were drowning."

"I wasn't," He frowns, trying to get his brain started, get his priorities straight. "Where is Jason?"

"Why were you in there?" It is the voice of a King that talks to him.

Percy ignores the question. "Where is my husband?"

"Why were you in the river Prince?" Grover has never gotten angry, but there is a waver in his voice that makes the Prince hesitate. He looks up, into those dark eyes and there is worry and concern, and something wholly unnatural reflecting in them.

"The Princess of Hekima, Annabeth Chase, pushed me in."

Something flashes across the King's expression but he doesn't quite catch it. "I will take you to the Prince."

And then Grover is walking away, through the waterfall and out of sight. Percy doesn't have time to question the uneasy look, or the events that have occurred because the King is already out of sight and he can't lose him in this maze. He doesn't even know it they're still in the tree he woke up in. Gods it seems like days and weeks ago, but it was really only this morning.

"Grover?" He calls, moving through the waterfall and into a cave.

He sees his advisor's silhouette and races to catch up.

"Is your entire Kingdom inside a tree?" He asks, finally reaching him.

It is not Grover who walks beside him. It is a creature as vile and deathly as rotting flesh. It is a creature made of horrors. It is nightmares themselves.

"Gro—Grover—" He mutters, slowly stepping back.

The creature just looks on, eyes ever changing but hollow all the same.

"King!" His voice is full of alarm but he tries to be quiet. He doesn't know what sets this creature off and being the cause of his own demise doesn't sound particularly worthy.

"Grover please."

"Will you make your wish Crown Prince Perseus Jackson?" It hisses abruptly.

"What— what wish?" He's caught so off guard some of his fear slips away.

"You have a wish Prince of Mare, I hear it in your heart."

"I—" He doesn't know what to say, do, be. He wants to run. But those long spindly legs look devastatingly fast and he knows he doesn't stand a chance. "I don't have a wish."

It chuckles, throaty and unpleasant. The sounds scrapes in his ears. "Oh but you do little prince. Tell me your wish and you can go."

The water always lies.

He takes a deep breath. And another. And another. It was easier underwater. "I wish to see my husband."

The creature laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and the sound dissolves into the cave, echoes like broken shards.

"Are you sure Prince?"

"Who are you?"

"I am the partidari." It gives some twisted form of a smile. "And your wish is my command."

Before he can protest, stop it, end this, the creature becomes dust and then disappears altogether and in its place is the unmoving body of Prince Jason Grace.

Something cracks in his chest as he dives for his husband, and when his arms go through him he breaks altogether.

"Where are you?" He sobs.

Thousands of meters below, at the bottom of the river, nestled like a sleeping God between charcoal black rocks, is Prince Jason Grace. Unmoving, unconscious, and alive.

Prince Percy Jackson curls into a ball and cries for the life he no longer recognizes, the friends he no longer has, and the husband he had once hated so vehemently it became something else, something different, more.

And down below in that river of rainbows, obsidian rock give away to diamond.

the destroyer cries.

the healer dies.

and the water never lies.

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

Tags (if you want to be added to/ taken off the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

@nishlicious-01

@queen-of-demons-and-hell

@leydiangelo

@sparkythunderstorm

@makos-bi-awakening

@aalikun

#Kingdom Collisions #Part 12 #jercy royalty au #Jercy #Baby fanfic #Baby fanfic series #PJJG fanfic #PJJG series #Jason grace #Percy Jackson #PJSSG fanfic #PJSSG series #sorry there's no empires on the horizon update this week #i haven't felt like writing

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inkrabbit · 3 years

Text

I haven't posted much, but I have been writing little snippets here and there when I'm not doing something else. So I decided to gather all the snippets I liked and put them together to show what I'm working on, and what I want to eventually work on. Most of these are stories I have planned for WD: Legion, but a couple are for my own personal works.

Unnamed Prison Love Story

Of course the other inmates had liked her. Most of them hadn't even seen a woman in years. But apparently she had more to offer them than just a pretty face to stare at. Everyone had said how nice she had been, talked softly and treated them with respect. She let them vent and talk about whatever they wanted, and she was a lot more lenient than any guard would ever dream of being. She would remove their cuffs and set it on the desk next to her chair, and she would sit only a few feet away. She pushed every boundary she could, and she took every chance with the inmates. She even argued with the guards who told her otherwise.

Sitting before her now, he finally understood the excited rumors he heard in passing. A calm and serene vibe had filled the warm room, and for a moment, he almost forgot he was trapped in prison and would soon be escorted back to his small, cold cell. She had kept a smile on her face, spoke softly and respected his boundaries when he didn't want to talk about a subject. She made him feel safe and acknowledged, encouraging him to talk about his day or how certain things made him feel. She made him feel like he was more than just another number in the system.

What's more, the woman was free. She didn't dress in the finest threads, opting for shirts that displayed band names he had almost forgotten, and her hair was never pulled back like it should've been. Another boundary she pushed; a test for him. To see if he would lunge at her like some of the others would try, use her hair to their advantage. But why would he? Sitting across from him, a notepad in hand, she didn't ignite anything violent inside him. If anything, she calmed down whatever fire stayed lit.

She became his breath of fresh air, and he found himself almost anxious for each session with her. The sweet scent of her perfume would always make his head spin as it filled the room. He had considered asking her once before in the beginning what it was, but the Devil on his shoulder had forced him to stay quiet. Back then, he had hated the woman and would refuse to talk, figuring she was just as bad as everyone else and that these little “therapy” sessions were just a way to find any weaknesses he had. But she never seemed exhausted or irritated by his silence. She gave him time, sat there with her soft smile and blank notepad and told him they would talk whenever he was ready. He never intended on giving in, but the one day he had gotten blood on his hands, he heard that change in tone.

The soft voice turned to concern, but she didn't throw accusations at him like he had expected. Oh no, she had actually asked him what the other inmate did to make him upset. The adrenaline that coursed through him had calmed down and he had finally opened his mouth. Not once did she interrupt him. She sat there and listened, scribbled down whatever she seemed important, and went back to listening. And when he was done, fists clenched and his body barely shaking at the rage that threatened to rise up, she finally moved. Slow and almost hesitant, testing the waters. He watched her carefully, how her rings shone in the bright sunlight that poured in through the windows, silver bands with various symbols. He let her approach him, and he let her take a seat on the old couch with her. Her touch was gentle and warm when she took his hand in her own, admiring his bruised and busted knuckles, flecks of dried blood decorating the skin that hadn't been properly washed.

“You did what you felt you had to,” she told him softly, “Maybe you overdid it. Maybe you should've stopped sooner. But you stood your ground for what you believed in. There's nothing wrong with that.”

It was the first time he had looked her in the eye, and he had immediately gotten lost within them. The feeling that quelled his rage had scared him, a certain type of vulnerability that made it seem like the woman could read his deepest and darkest thoughts. And yet, a part of that excited him.

WD: Legion – Dark AU – Love Path

“Daniel!” Sabine’s steps are hesitant as she walks forward, gun trained on the Irishman sitting on the edge with his back to her. He’s fiddling with something in his hand, a soft light illuminating his glove.

“Don’t suppose you found her on the way up?” he calls back, not even picking up his head.

“Who are you talking about?” He hadn’t mistook her for one of his members, had he? No, she was certain he recognized her voice. He had easily picked her out before.

She flinches when he starts to move, fist closing around the item in his hand as he slowly curls his legs back and lifts himself up. It’s the first time she’s seen him actually hunch over, and those once cold hazel eyes are alight with an emotion she’s not certain of. Still, there’s a slight smile that’s pulling at his lips, but it’s not the normal confident and smug grin she’s grown accustomed to.

“I always thought Dalton was a right idiot for liking you,” Dan laughs softly, “Didn’t understand what he felt until I experienced it meself...”

Dalton’s name leaves a bitter taste on her tongue, but she’s still focused on the man standing before her. The way he’s speaking isn’t normal, a distant tone in his voice instead of calm and velvety. Her eyes flicker over to his wrist, a silver bracelet glistening in the dull light that surrounded them. That was new. From what she knew, the only jewelry he wore were the piercings he had in his ears. He seems to perk up at this, extending his left arm and showing the bracelet off.

“She gave this to me. I’m guessing you didn’t hear?” She furrows her brows. Hear what? “Met a young woman that actually liked me. Made me feel... something. Enough to actually try and get help. I even stepped down as leader from DedSec. Let Jeremy take over.” This was news to her. From what she knew, Dan still led the group. Guess that wasn’t the case anymore. “She’s disappeared again. I thought Jeremy had something to do with it, but...” He opens his hand, tossing the item out. It was an optik, still glowing as it clattered to the ground. “I only found this when I got up here. I take it you didn’t see anyone on your way up?”

“No,” Her response draws a soft but sad chuckle from him. His step forward forces her to take one back.

“Well come on, then!” he calls out, raising his voice and straightening up, outstretching his arms to the side. She can tell he’s doing his damnedest to look normal, but that faulty smile on his face is throwing it off. It all looked wrong and out of place. She has gotten so used to doing the cocky and manipulative man. “Don’t think I wanna stick around if I can’t find her. Medicine and “fixing meself” don’t mean shite if I’m doing it for nothing.”

Something Stupid – 50's Love Story

“Did you want anything while I'm out?”

Of course he knew the answer, his second-in-command, Luciano, having been annoying him about pancakes all morning. But the look on the younger man's face was priceless, honey colored eyes widening as he stands from his crouched position. A bright smile spreads across his face as he wipes away the dirt on his hands, standing straight before his leader.

“You're finally gonna get me those pancakes?!” he squeals, “I just want those with extra syrup.”

“You're lucky I'm gettin' 'em at all,” Lighting up a cigarette, Kazimir turns his heels, headed for his car. “If that's all, I'll see you later. Gonna see if Nick is gonna cooperate this time and give us that protection money.”

“Good luck!” Starting up the engine, he waves goodbye to his friend and pulls away from the old compound, keeping the window rolled down as he takes a drag from his cigarette. There was a little diner the gang frequented that was a few minutes away. The food was average, and he hated how stubborn the owner was with the protection fee, but there was one waitress in that establishment that made it all worth while: Aurora Rossi, a beautiful Italian woman with the personality of a saint. She had treated the gang just like she would any other customer, and she indulged in the small conversations they had dragged her into here and there. He stayed quiet most of the time, knowing if he got too rowdy himself he would lose control of everyone, but he could never take his eyes off of the woman.

The parking lot is thankfully empty as he pulls in, parking in a spot closest to the door. He wouldn't be long; he knew the workers there hated him and his crew, always desperate to make them leave quickly. The little chime of the bell atop the door rings in his ears as he enters the diner, eyeing the staff. He can see them talking among themselves, scared eyes flickering back and forth between coworkers and himself. He was used to this treatment, especially in this little restaurant. No one ever wanted to help him, and if it weren't for the fact they all had a job to do, they probably would've went running.

Oh, but there's his little angel he had been dying to see, her red lips curled back in a genuine, friendly smile. He leans against the counter as she approaches, hands folded in front of her.

“Did you need to look at the menu, sir?” she asks. Her sweet voice makes his heart flutter, but he maintains his cool, shaking his head.

“Just a couple things to go,” He watches her dig out the notepad from the pocket of her apron, sliding the pen out of the metal spirals. A small smirk forms. “Nick also in today?”

“Not today, sorry. He should be back tomorrow though!” Ah, so the old man was hiding from him. Nothing new. They would come back day after day if they had to for that money. But for now, he loses himself in those green eyes, purring out his order and watching her hastily write it down. Pancakes with extra syrup, a ham and cheese omelet, some coffee to go; the list goes on and she stops him occasionally to ask for any sides, how he'd want the toast to be or how the eggs were supposed to be cooked. He knew the gang's order by now. There weren't many who hung around him and the compound they worked out of, but he preferred it this way. He had a group of members he considered close and actually cared about, and the rest ran the odd job for him when he couldn't be bothered.

Aurora rings him up and he makes sure to pull the twenty dollar bill out of his pocket, holding it between his index and middle finger as he hands it over. She looks hesitant, eyebrows raised as she inspects it, and Kazimir chuckles when she asks if he's sure.

“You deal with enough here, sweetheart,” he coos at her, “You deserve to be compensated.”

“Well, that's why I get paid,” Sweet as ever, but he finally coaxes her into taking the money, and she won't stop thanking him as she tucks it into the pocket of her apron. She gives him the estimated time it would take for the food to be ready as she disappears back into the kitchen, and Kazimir takes a seat on one of the stools at the front. He looks around the old diner, the light peach colored walls almost looking white in the afternoon sunlight, and the teal accents popping. Heaven's Diner was known for its bright but calming colors, and the staff were friendly to everyone except Kazimir's gang. Then again, he didn't blame them.

He listens to the soft music playing from the nearby radio, some blues band he didn't know the name of. It's calming, but not something he's used to. Maybe he had just gotten so used to the rock and roll that would play throughout the compound. Still, the music doesn't drown out the clanking of kitchenware in the back, and the occasional barking order from one of the chefs. He rests his elbows on the counter, lacing his fingers together and hooking his thumbs under his chin to keep his head up. Hazel eyes slip shut as he drinks in the ambiance. It was always nice when the diner was empty. He didn't have to deal with the judging looks, or the sour remarks thrown his way from some holier-than-thou old patron. The funny thing was, all of the staff workers would agree with the customers about how horrible he was. Aurora was the only one who never judged him, and had shown a hint of defense when anyone would bring up the gang.

“It's none of my business what they do. I just come here to work,” Those responses were the only time he had ever heard the woman lost her natural bubbly and friendly attitude, her tone turning firm as she would end the conversation there. Maybe that was why he liked her? She never judged them, and never shied away from taking their orders like the other waitstaff had many times before. In fact, Luciano had joked about how she was their personal waitress many times before. The group loved her personality just as much as he did, and they always made sure to leave a tip that went well over that old twenty percent rule. They normally left before they could see the look on her face, but Kazimir had caught her reaction through the window a couple times. A look of surprise that soon turned to excitement, and he cherished those memories.

When Aurora finally returns, she has little to-go boxes piled up on top of a tray with the drinks on the other side. She always was careful bringing everything out, and it's something he appreciates. He knew some of the waitresses would “accidentally” spill drinks on themselves in order to receive larger tips, but his little waitress would always take her time and set everything down gently. Maybe that was another thing he loved about her? Her dignity and pure attitude. He watches her pack them into a bag and slowly load up the drinks in a cup holder. She's slow, diligent, making sure nothing is lopsided and won't move. He can't stop the smile forming on his face as he watches her. A part of him hated how the woman affected him, wiping away that permanent scowl on his face and making his whole body feel lighter than normal. He takes the bag from her, his fingers brushing her as he hooks it around his arm before grabbing the cup holder. She stands before him just like every other time he would order his food to go: a sweet smile on her face, hands folded in front of her as she makes sure he has everything, occasionally smoothing out her apron if she felt a wrinkle in an odd spot.

“Have a good day, sir!” she calls out to him as he makes his way for the door, and he turns his head just enough to shoot a smile back at her. The bell chimes again as he opens the door and walks out, unlocking his car and sitting everything in the passenger seat, even going so far as to put the seat belt over his items so they don't fall on his way back. One last glance inside the diner, and he almost feels disappointed when he sees Aurora has disappeared. Well, he would be back tomorrow to talk to Nick anyway. Maybe he could find an excuse to get the woman's attention as well?

Unnamed WIP

By the time he pulls himself up and trudges to the bathroom, the stinging pain in his throat has faded. He looks at himself in the mirror, his neck and cheek bruised, and his eyes dark. He looks horrible, but he supposes it's not a surprise. What the Kelleys did to him – what the woman just did to him. There's no doubt his body is littered with bruises and cuts, but he can't bring himself to look again. It already caught him off guard when he had bathed in that freezing water. He didn't want to be reminded of the abuse.

The spacious bathroom in itself is cute, albeit bland. White tiles were devoid of any imperfections and dirt, and the bar of soap seated atop a colorful orange dish seems brand new. He leans against the counter, bringing his hands forward and admiring his wrists. They're still bleeding, drops of blood dripping into the sink and staining the once spotless white surface. Hesitantly, he reaches down to open the drawers, stopping once he sees a first aid kit placed in one of them. He's slow to bring it out, the ache in his wrists forcing him to move like a snail.

Everything's new when he opens it. Had the woman just bought these? He picks up the peroxide that was laying inside, tearing into the protective coating and unscrewing the cap. One more seal and it's open. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the bottle and splashes the contents onto to his left wrist, making him cry out. It stung as the cuts started to bubble, white foam covering his skin and dripping into the sink, mixing with the blood. His body is shaking, but he forces himself to douse his right next. It almost feels worse, and he has to hold onto the counter for support, his knees buckling underneath the pain. Deep breaths, anything to calm him down. He sets the peroxide on the counter, picking up the bandages next. He wraps it around his left wrist first, then the right. It stings, but in some odd way, he feels better. The bandages are soft against his skin, comforting and the only thing that feels secure.

He leans against the counter, lips pursed as he focuses on the blood and foam slowly rolling down the drain. He's lost as his body slowly stops shaking, mind blank and eyes stuck. He listens to everything going on around him. That soft hum of the light bulbs above, the beating of his heart, the sizzling in the drain as the excess peroxide runs down. Finally, he moves, turning his wrist to admire it. Blood easily shows up, a stark contrast against the white bandages, staining the area red. Why did any of this have to happen?

He glances to the side of the bathroom, a luxurious bathtub installed, the tiled walls surrounding it shining in the bathroom's light. It seemed so welcoming, the thought of a hot bath, but he can't bring himself to indulge in it. Not yet. He's too tired and too lost in his own thoughts about everything going on. So instead, he moves to the door, flicking off the light and crossing over the bedroom. The bed is soft as he lays down, trying his hardest to keep his weight off of his wrists as he lays on his side. Suppose this was his little home for now. He was scared to know what he was listed as. No doubt the woman would tell him soon enough.

WD: Legion – This Time, I'm staying – Beginning

“Arthur: the one that got away. What does that mean? The one that got away?”

“It's about losing someone you don't want to. Human stuff.”

“Am I… getting away?”

No matter how hard he had tried, that conversation replayed itself over and over, and try as he might, he couldn’t make it stop. It was like a busted record player, stuck in a loop and it was driving him crazy. The snippets he could remember before he was shut down, the thoughts of where he’d go and that fear he finally felt. It was all disgusting, to feel that weak and vulnerable. And yet… he craved more. To finally understand what the operatives felt – what they went through on a daily basis. He had heard them laugh and he had seen them smile. The fading fear in their eyes as they would return from being kidnapped, and the anger in their voices whenever they would pick fights. He wanted to finally understand.

It wasn’t exactly a request on his part, oh no. One of the operatives had caught his attention one day after they had figured out the truth, conjuring up all sorts of ideas. Make a body for Bagley, sort of like the androids and let him roam freely. At first, he had scoffed at the idea, hurling insults his way, but when the concept came up again, he gave it more thought. He was always sending out the operatives on missions, guiding them through everything. Sometimes they couldn’t even complete them properly, either being apprehended or landing themselves in the hospital. So with a bit less hostility, Bagley let the man continue.

Bradley was to be used as the base model. Same facial structure, eye color, body build – the works. Give him back the life he had lost, and the first thing that came to mind was Arthur. Perhaps, after he learned how to act more human, he could track the man down and see why he was so important to him in the first place.

WD: Legion – This Time, I'm Staying – Finding Arthur

“Down, boy,” He watches Dan reluctantly release the man and move back to stand by his side, though his pistol is still drawn. A soft sigh escapes Bagley's lips as he scans the Kelley's optik, just to be sure. Arthur Evans – Johnny Kelley's second-in-command.He knew he was right, but had hoped that he had made some sort of mistake somewhere. Still, he doesn't feel the connection he had hoped he would. Anything that would jar his memories and give him a hint of what he had with the man before Skye Larson had taken it all away from him.

“Who the fuck are you?!” The question is directed solely at Bagley, Arthur's blue eyes wide and looking horrified. Oh, the thoughts that must be going through his head right now.

“I'm Bagley!” he announces proudly, jabbing his elbow against Dan's rib when he hears a soft chuckle. He had a whole speech prepared before this, but looking at Arthur now... had he chosen the right words? He knew how complex human emotions were, and he knew how hostile the Kelleys were. And yet, the curiosity he saw in the man was enough for him to make his decision. “Dan, step outside, will you?”

“And let ya stay in here with this fucker?” he counters. Instead of replying, Bagley just shoos him away, and he's pleasantly surprised when the Irishman takes his leave. The moment the door closes, he steps forward, extending his hand.

“None of this is making sense,” Arthur whimpers out. It's not the tone, or even reaction, he was expecting. He seems dazed, confused, and almost scared. “Just who the hell are you?!”

“I told you. I'm Bagley,” He cocks his head. Had the man not heard him the first time? “I think you know me better as Bradley Lar-”

“Don't,” There's the hostility he was expecting, the hateful look as he grit his teeth. “You don't deserve to say his name!”

“Fine. Since you want to act as a child,” Bagley extends his arms to the side, showing himself off. Arthur is watching him carefully as he turns around, showing off his body and clothes. “I'm Bagley, DedSec's definitely-not-stolen, highly-advanced AI assistant! Do you know who created me? Skye Larson! And do you know whois my neural template?”

“Bradley Larson...” There's a moment where everything goes quiet and still. Before he can say anything else, Arthur is wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace and burying his face in the crook of his neck. It startles him, the feeling of Arthur's breath tickling his neck. He awkwardly brings his hands up, resting them on his back and stroking like he had seen other operatives do when they were consoling someone. This was supposed to make humans feel better right?

“You bastard...” There's a wavering in his voice, something Bagley can't detect. He only realizes the man is close to crying when he pulls back, tears filling his eyes. “You left me, you know that? Planned the wedding and fucking left...”

“I didn't mean to,” he tells him softly, “Or rather, Bradley didn't mean to. I'm still trying to figure this out. I just-”

Arthur is pressing his lips against his, something Bagley easily recognizes as a kiss. This was meant to be a sign of affection, right? This was good, right? He's slow but he finally pushes back against the man, his hands traveling down to rest comfortably on his hips. He knows there's something he should be feeling right now; positive he should be feeling as desperate as Arthur is acting. There is something deep inside him that feels like it wants to awaken, but for some reason he can't make it come out.

WD: Legion – Even if I Die Tonight – Ending of Chapter 9

When the doors open, he follows her down the hall and in front of her flat, waiting patiently as she unlocks the door and flicks on the light. He nearly jumps when he sees Michael groggily sit up, eyes squinted as he looks at them. He finally smiles brightly after a few seconds, waving at Dan.

“Didn't think she'd be bringing you over!” he laughs out, “You guys couldn't have gone next door? It's late.”

Dan can feel his face heating up as he follows Rabbit to another room, the woman yelling at her friend to stay quiet. She tries to ease his nerves, telling him to not listen to him as she sits him down on the bed. The room smells exactly like her perfume and he can't help but look around, laying his jacket on the covers next to him. Just like the rest of the flat, there isn't much. A couple dressers and the bed he sat on, along with a bedside table that held a small, porcelain lamp. However, he can see the stack of books piled up across the room, though it's hard to make out the titles.

“You read?” he asks, catching her attention. She's over by the window, and he can hear things clanking around. Did she store items in a mug?

“Sometimes, when I can actually focus,” she responds. He's surprised to see a small pair of scissors in her hand as she walks back over. Just like last time, her touch is gentle as she cups his face, using her thumb to pull his lip ever so slightly. A soft warning and he hears that little snip as she cuts the thread. There's a little bit of pressure he almost doesn't even register, and once she's set the thread on the bedside table, she cut the remaining stitch.

“Do you read?” The question catches him off guard and he looks up at her. She's not smiling at him but her eyes... oh, he could easily get lost in them. There's a sort of serenity in there, overpowering other emotions he couldn't quite explain, but it drags him in and all he can do is nod. “What do you like?”

“History, mostly,” This seems to make her perk up, and he's pleasantly surprised to hear that was her favored subject. He can't help but smile, especially when she takes a seat next to him on the bed. Their conversation carries on about books, what subjects they prefer to read, and what they like overall. He's not surprised when they don't share many stories, but it's still interesting to listen to. She brings up being interested in psychology, but scoffs when he asks if she ever read any good books regarding the topic. “They're all a load of self-help bullshit.” He can only chuckle. He never really was interested in psychology himself, but she did make it sound interesting; knowing how the human mind worked, what made people tick. He supposed he saw the appeal.

He doesn't stay too long, guilt setting in that he's keeping the woman up so late. Grabbing his jacket and standing up, he follows Rabbit as she walks him out, and he can only laugh when she picks up a pillow to hit Michael when he makes another comment regarding the two. Still, they both wish him a goodnight as he exits the flat, and he can hear their muffled voices on the other side as he closes the door. He shakes his head, though he can't pull the smile from his face as he works on unlocking the door to his flat and slipping inside.

He brushes his fingers over his lip, an odd feeling of relief washing over him when he only feels skin and doesn't come in contact with that damned thread. With a small smile, he makes his way to his room, shedding his clothes and kicking off his boots. Hesitating for just a bit, he makes his way over to the dresser, pulling open one of the drawers and peering inside. He tries to bury the feeling of surprise that comes over him when he sees his gun is still tucked beneath some clothes, sitting right where he had left it.

Shutting the drawer, he moves over to his bed, crawling inside and underneath the blankets. He's not too tired; not enough to the point he'll fall asleep as soon as he head hits the pillow, but he also doesn't have enough energy to find something to pass the time. So instead, he settles on closing his eyes, letting his mind wander here and there. The new job, the hope of getting Bagley back, the newly taken out stitches, the smug look on Michael's face and the peaceful feeling Rabbit radiated. Before he knows it, he's fast asleep.

#snippets

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