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rosewaterandivy · 7 months

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Through Me Prequel - i. the hanged man

Summary: Steve may be slow on the draw, but hand to god, he's sure there's something ... off about you. Or, the three times Steve was a witness and the one time he wishes he wasn't.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, eventual Steddie x fem!reader in the series

WC: 5.2K

Warnings/Themes: cursing, criticism of religion (catholicism/xtiantiy mostly), religious themes, canon-typical violence, death, idolatry via smut, blasphemy, heretical notions, angst, occasional fluff (as a treat), Biblical & western literary canon and media references/allusions

A/N: This is the first of three prequels centering on the three main characters. If you're up on your tarot know-how, you can glean some info from the banner, etc. 👀 Special shout out to my beloved Jo (@jo-harrington) for looking this over way back when! If you haven't checked out As Above, So Below, wtf are you even doing with your life!?

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not. This (*) is a singal to check the footnote at the end!

Enjoy! 💜

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"I don't care how many angels can fit on the head of a pin. It's enough to know that for some people they exist, and that they dance."

— Mary Oliver, "Angels"

Wednesday, November 9, 1983

You first meet Steve Harrington on a cold day in early November. A feast day, memorializing one basilica or another according to your latest missive— it was hard to keep track, much less whether it was one to be observed.

A shrill ring from the phone in the motel room, this side of too loud and unfortunately, it’s enough to rouse you.

“What?”

“We have some concerns regarding a small Midwestern town, Hawkins, Indiana.”

Blearily you sit up, “Yeah?”

“Just a drive-by should suffice.”

A sigh, “Got anything else for me?”

The voice paused, as if annoyed by your tone. “We’ll be in touch, as always.”

The sound of the dial tone did nothing to elevate your mood. While presently not on a mission, you bided your time by locating relics and artifacts for future use. Yesterday’s attempt turned out to be more burden than boon— not only was the pawnshop owner a shyster but a gun-for-hire. So, no relic to be had and you had to disarm the guy, what a waste.

Luckily, Hawkins was only four hours drive from Lebanon and sounded like a pretty easy day.

But no one bothered to tell you that a boy and teenage girl were missing.

Driving down main street, the town seemed fairly normal. But the gooseflesh running up your arms and legs told a different story. As did the telltale scent of bleach in the air, signaling the presence of some high-voltage electrical discharge— ozone.

Flipping on your police scanner, you were able to glean the address of a witness and potential suspect. Consulting the map on the passenger seat, you turn off the main drag and head toward the outskirts of town.

In the driveway, there are two vehicles, one black sedan and one maroon BMW. Parking in front of the house, you grab a pen and a notebook along with a badge. After checking your hair briefly in the side-view mirror, you pull on a trench coat and knot it at the waist.

Walking up the pavement, you note the police tape against the double-doors and tire treads from other vehicles. Based on the number, you’d have to guess a party of some kind was thrown the night before.

Three quick raps on the door.

“Police, open up!”

A harried, but well-kept woman opens the door. “Yes, can I help you?” She asks politely, with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Are you Mrs. Harrington?” She nods. “Very well ma’am. I’m Detective Constantine with Hawkins P.D. May I come inside?” You display your badge for her viewing.

Another voice sounds out from the house, perturbed. “Tell her to come back with a warrant.”

The woman’s eyes blow wide, hesitant to refuse her husband. Her mouth opens to explain.

You sigh, pocketing the badge and raise your voice. “Sir, considering that a girl went missing here on your property last night, I am well within my rights to search your home without a warrant.” You smile, trying your best to remain civil. “But I am more than happy to radio the Chief from my car to relay your sentiments.”

The sound of shuffling papers and a creak from an old office chair. The door opens wider, revealing a man, Mr. Harrington, bags under his eyes and tie loose around his neck.

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary,” He says with a tight-lipped smile and opens the door wider.

With a nod, you enter, notebook out and pen ready. Assessing the home, you take a few cursory notes. Walking from the foyer to the living room, through the dining room and out onto the patio you stop— a young man in a pool chair grabbing your attention.

He looks dazed, staring at the covered pool. Legs pulled to his chest and chin resting on the tops of his knees. Dressed in a teal sweatshirt, sweatpants and socks you wonder how he isn’t shivering from the cold.

In an attempt to gently alert him of your presence, you softly clear your throat. His head jerks upward quickly, panicked eyes locked on you. “It’s okay,” you say, sitting on a chair to his left. “I’m just here to ask you some questions.”

He nods slowly, eyes never leaving you. A dull buzzing rattling in his chest.

Briefly consulting your notes, you lick your lips. “It’s Steve, right?”

“Y-yeah, Steve Harrington.”

“Great!” You smile and nod. “I’m Detective Constantine. Can you tell me about the party last night?”

He nods gaze fixed on you, on the hazy glow that seems to encircle your head; he blinks and scrubs a hand down his face; the image gone. “It was just a small thing, me, Tommy Hagan, Carol Perkins, and Nancy Wheeler.”

“And the missing girl?”

“Right, Barb Holland. Nance invited her.”

“Nancy Wheeler, she’s your girlfriend?”

Another nod.

“Did you notice anything odd about Barb or anyone else last night?”

“No, not really. She didn’t, uh, seem to want to be here.” He frowns, brows furrowing, a slight tremor runs through him, from the cold or the shock, who’s to say?

“I think she cut her hand opening a beer, maybe?”

Jotting down a few more notes, you nod. “But didn’t make a call or say anything about making plans to leave?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Nance and I went inside, Barb stayed out by the pool. Didn’t hear anything from upstairs.”

Glancing up from your notes, you pause. Steve’s warmed up to you during the brief conversation, legs crossed in front of him instead of drawn to his chest. He looks tired, looks scared.

“Your room, I presume.”

He blushes at that, nods. Takes a tense breath in, inhaling the tangy scent and taste of newly forged metal - sharp and pure at the back of his throat.

“Can you point to where you last saw Barb?”

He does so, drawing your eyes to the far lip of the pool where the Harrington lot backs into the woods. There’s a tinge of ozone in the air, albeit fading, and a tang of copper. That’s to be expected from a cut on the hand, but the electrical discharge—

“There wasn’t a storm last night? Lightning or anything like that?”

Steve shakes his head, opens his mouth to say something when the sliding door opens.

“He wants a lawyer!” Mr. Harrington shouts, “Steve, I told you to request a lawyer before speaking with the cops.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns back toward the house, “It’s fine, dad.”

Before Mr. Harrington can get his panties in a twist, you decide to take your leave. Standing, you pocket your notebook with one hand and place the pen behind your ear with the other. Extending a hand toward Steve, you smile.

“Thanks for your cooperation Steve.”

His hand clasps yours—warm and oddly familiar. “You’re welcome, I’m happy to help.”

Cocking your head, your eyes narrow to where your hand meets his. The feeling subsides, quelling any suspicions you may have had.

“Mr. Harrington.” You drop Steve’s hand and nod to his father, “The precinct will be in touch should there be any further questions. Your patience and cooperation are appreciated.”

And with a turn of your heel, you walk away.

A few hours later, there’s another knock at the door.

Steve answers it, waking from a nap on the couch. Eyes slowly opening, mouth like dried cotton.

The advil he’d swallowed earlier clearly did nothing to alleviate his headache, and the nap proved less than helpful.

At least the buzzing had died down. The newfound shortness of breath, however, had lingered.

He pulls the door open with a huff to reveal none other than Chief Hopper and his deputy.

“Afternoon, Steve,” he greets, eyes scanning the entryway. “Your parents home?”

Steve shakes his head, rubs the sleep from his eyes. “A detective already stopped by, earlier today.”

Hopper’s lips pull tight. “Huh.” He nods to the deputy and they leave to assess the scene, “Well, s’it alright if was take a look around here?”

He sighs, growing weary. “Yeah, sure.”

“Get some rest kid,” the Chief says and turns on his heel to go.

Steve shuts the door and drags himself upstairs. Falls face-first into bed with hopes to sleep off his headache and exhaustion.

Doesn’t hear the phone ring or Nancy leave a message.

In fact, he sleeps for three days. Specters of light dancing behind the darkness of his eyelids, and wakes with dried blood in his ears.

Sunday, January 1, 1984

He recognizes the buzzing first, the reverberation lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Knows the headache is likely to follow and shoves his sunglasses on, as if that could possibly help.

Steve’s idling in the parking lot of St. Mary’s waiting for Nancy while she attends Mass. Something about a feast for Mary or the circumcision of the Christ-child, he stopped listening and looped the curls of the telephone cord around his finger.

Parents already gone after the Christmas holiday, never staying longer than necessary.

He’d hemmed and hawed at all the right parts, while scanning through the paper for showtimes. Circled Scarface— as if she’d see that, Silkwood— a maybe, if he’s being honest, and finally Terms of Endearment— god help him.

And now, it was 30 minutes to showtime, and she was running late.

In the distance, he sees a bright flash of light. Hears the rattle and hum that follows.

Soon after, a black impala pulls into the parking lot. Correction, a smoking impala peels into the lot, sliding into a nearby parking spot expertly.

Well, that's new.

He watches as you exit the vehicle, slowly, casually, not with haste. Brushing the plumes of gray smoke aside flippantly, as if it wasn't cause for concern. A pair of sunglasses affixed to your face, frames and lenses dark resting on your nose and cheekbones.

A tiny lift of your crimson mouth is all it takes to send the blood rushing to his head. You nod in greeting to the congregants as they exit the church, as they shake hands with the priest and visit in the narthex.

You share a look with the priest, meaningful and urgent.

A tingling sensation as Nancy opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

“Sorry about that.” She leans over to kiss him on the cheek, but Steve can’t stop staring at you.

Thank god for sunglasses.

“You okay?” Her voice is tinged with concern.

“Yeah, fine.” He says absently, shifting the car into gear, “Thought I was getting a headache but—”

“Another one?”

Steve sucks his teeth, he really doesn’t want to have this conversation again. “It’s not a big deal Nance.”

The tension in his neck and shoulders alleviated, a dull roar in his ears.

Pulling out of the parking lot, they pass where you’ve parked. His sunglasses slip minutely, just enough for him to glance at you over the bridge of them.

Catching his eye, you send a redolent wink in response.

“Do you know her?”

He clears his throat, letting the pedestrians pass by. “Uh, maybe?”

Nancy turns quickly, hazarding a glance, licks her lips while Steve clenches his jaw.

“Wow,” She breathes. “She’s—”

Steve speeds out of the parking lot like a bat outta hell. And Nancy never got to complete that thought.

Saturday, November 3, 1984

He doesn’t see you again that year, but Nancy does.

Saturday, June 29, 1985

The heat on this bus is oppressive. Offensive, even.

Even more so combined with the sweat 70-odd middle schoolers. The green ringer t-shirt with the unfortunate goldenrod yellow collar wasn’t helping things either. But, if you’d known all the particulars, you wouldn’t have taken the job.

Bagging hellspawn in the wilds of Wisconsin wasn’t worth dealing with a bunch of tweens who were hormonal and struggling to develop something called empathy.

They were mean in a scarily accurate and precise way.

“Okay twerps!” You raise a hand in the air, and count it off, “1, 2, 3, eyes on me!”

You lean against the back of the seat, facing the kids as their conversations drop to a murmur. Clipboard in hand, you flip through the brightly colored papers before addressing them once more.

“We’ll be coming to our final destination of Hawkins, in a few moments.” You pause to wipe your brow, “Couple of things to keep in mind: take only your stuff and no one else’s. Locate your adult person, parent or guardian, and then…”

You wait as the bus hisses to halt in front of the high school.

“Hey, sit back down Henderson, I’m not done yet.”

He grouses, crosses his arms and reluctantly sits.

“Right, so you find your adult and then check-out with me. Get it?”

“Got it!” They yell back and then it’s off to the races.

You brace yourself against the onslaught of tweens rushing toward the exit, clipboard clutched to your chest.

After the deluge, you scramble off the sticky plastic seat. “Thanks Larry!” You call to the bus driver and walk down the aisle, making sure no one left anything behind.

A radio crackles to life a few rows ahead of you.

“Dustin? Do you copy? Over.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab the hunk of plastic and thumb the call button. “Uh, roger that. Breaker one-nine. Henderson left his walkie on the bus. Over.”

Static and then.

“Shit.”

Shoving the behemoth in your back pocket, you step off of the bus, clipboard at the ready to check-out the campers.

Swamped with beleaguered kids and frazzled parents demanding medications and prescriptions, and mailing addresses and so forth, that you barley register the crackle and static from the walkie.

“Can you uh—” You wag a finger at an overly eager parent and pry the thing from your pocket. “What?”

“... Are you seriously mad right now?”

“Yes!” You sputter, rolling your eyes at the voice over the radio. “I’m kind of trying to do my job here.”

A laugh. “Funny, I thought you were a detective.”

You pale, a dull roar crashing through your ears. The voice is warm and melodic, slow like honey.

Handing off the clipboard to a junior counselor, you peer across the blacktop. And spy a figure leaning against the hood of a red car wearing black sunglasses. A smaller figure, jumping and waving at you in, of course, green and yellow.

“But then again.” The fuzz of static. “You were getting cozy with the padre, so maybe a change of pace. You a novitiate or just confessing?”

You refrain, with difficulty, from rolling your eyes.

“What’s it to you?”

Dustin whining when it clicks back on, “C’mon man.”

“Dinner.”

A scoff, “You wish.”

“Clearly.”

His response brings you pause, unusually forthright.

Lip pulled between your teeth, you leave him hanging for a minute and mentally sort through all the reasons why you shouldn’t.

Potential murderer - they never did find Barb Holland.

He apparently hangs out with Henderson—too many questions there to unpack there, but mainly: … why?

Already has a girlfriend, Nina… Nicole?

It would distract you from your work, but all work and no play makes you restless, and a little reckless. Speaking of which…

Pressing the call button down, you sigh. “Counter offer. I’ll allow you buy me a late lunch at the diner.”

You remember seeing a payphone somewhere around there and it’s public, so if it goes south you’ll have an easy out; you make plans to befriend the waitress, just in case.

The smugness radiates from his voice. “We have got to work on your negotiation skills.”

A crackle of static. You make a big show of turning the walkie’s dial off and shoving it back into your pocket before going back to work.

Following the directions he’d sent down with Dustin when he collected his precious walkie-talkie, you pull up to a place called Enzo’s.

Scanning the parking lot, your lips pull into a scowl when you see him.

Ah. There he is. You slam your door shut. That motherfucker.

Grinning like he’s the cat that caught the canary and goddamnit, being that attractive when smug shouldn’t be allowed.

“This isn’t what I agreed to.”

“Huh.” He cocks his head, “You don’t say.”

“What’re you playing at Harrington?”

He shrugs, hands shoved in the pockets of his too-tight jeans. You make the mistake of keeping his hands in your eyeline, looking down as you do so, and audibly gulp at the sight. Those jeans sure are tight, aren't they?

“My eyes are up here.”

You frown, and he laughs. Walks you into the restaurant— holds the door, and pulls out your chair, like a real gentleman.

A waiter quickly stops by, taking drink orders and rattling off the specials. You glace around the dining room, feeling out of place amongst the off-the-shoulder tops and high heels. Crossing your Converse-clad feet on top of one another, you stow them under the table and out of sight.

At least you weren’t wearing the ‘CAMP KNOW WHERE ‘85’ t-shirt and shorts any more.

Small miracles.

“Oh,” You say before the waiter, Kevin, goes to his next table, “Is there a payphone around here? I need to make a quick call.”

“You can use the bar phone,” He points to the bar by the hostess station. “Chris will be happy to help you.”

“Thanks!”

Steve eyes you as you stand up to leave, “Better be local distance or Enzo’ll be mad.”

“Bite me.”

He sips his drink. “Only if you ask nicely.”

With a roll of your eyes you leave him at the table perusing the menu.

Rapping your knuckles on the bar top, you smile as the bar tender approaches. “What can I get you?”

“Kevin said I could make a call from here?”

“Oh, sure.”

He leaves to get the phone and slides it in front of you before assisting another customer. You punch in the 618 area code followed by the all-too familiar number and listen as it trills.

Murray, of course, answers on the final ring.

Asshole.

“Behold!” He crows, “She brings me good tidings of great joy!”

“I hate you.”

He scoffs, “Yeah, yeah. What else is new?”

You turn back to look at Steve, he, annoyingly, waves. You reply in kind, waving your fingers before flipping him off.

“Not cursed? Bloodsick? Howling at the moon?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Still a messianic specter, sorry to report.”

“Sooooo.” You drawl, “This is your way of telling me you’ve got nothing.”

“Uh, huh.”

“And there’s no news.”

“Yep.”

You sigh, resting your forehead against the smooth lacquered wood of the bar. No jobs, no prospects, just great.

“Where are you staying? I’ll give you a ring when I get something interesting.”

You hum and stand back up. “Dunno Murray. Was kinda counting on a job to get me outta this town.”

Chris slides a drink down to you. Tequila, if you had to guess. Down the hatch it goes. You nod in thanks.

“Well, call me when you’re settled. Who knows, a slow summer might do you some good.”

“Ugh.”

You hang up the phone with a clatter and turn back to the table with a huff.

Under the evening sunlight scattered by a canopy of leaves and panes of glass, he rests his hand on your bare shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly.

Steve shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be as cavalier with his hospitality and his attention. Doesn’t know you from Adam and has already offered up the guest room.

He’s not normally this sloppy. But after things had gone sideways in ‘83 and then gone to shit in ‘84, Steve found himself slipping. Always looking over his shoulder, wondering when you’d blow back into town.

The detective turned nun turned camp counselor (Dustin swore you made the best s’mores) turned… well, whatever this was.

Not such a mystery anymore.

There is heat. There is the frame of his bed cracking. Carpet burns on his knees and back. Damp hairs on the nape of your neck. Bruises and bite marks and scratches all over him and strangely none on you, but not for lack of trying.

When he holds your torso against his, you grip him right back, and the pressure makes him feel like he could snap in half. It is wild and ferocious, tension sparking like a snarling animal ready to pounce.

He doesn’t call you darling or baby or sweetheart because those servile names feel so discourteous to what you actually are (and it’s only an inkling, but if he’s right—). He only pants and grunts and whispers fuck, fuck, fuck like a prayer.

“Don’t hold back on me now, Harrington.” You laugh, licking the sweat dripping down into your mouth. “You’ve always been honest. Go on, tell me what you want.”

He fists your hair from behind, pulls a growl from your throat, tangles his legs between yours as the two of you lie on your sides and goddamn it, he fucks you like he could die tonight. The sound of your ass slapping the smooth plane of his torso rings like a bell through the room. Your fist finds a handful of his hair and wrenches him away. You hold him down and crawl on top with a low chuckle.

“Tell me what you want.”

It’s futile to fight you. You are faster and stronger and beneath you, in the vastness of his own room, you could swallow him whole and he would let it happen.

“I want you.” Steve breathes, raspy and raw, grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to pull you down. You bat him away and lean back instead, propping up on your feet, knees apart, showing him the entirety of your body. Gorgeous. Marble smooth. Hard as granite, but flecked with gold and dappled light.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat.

You look cold in the way a statue might, but in the center where you are hot and wet, he could devote himself to forever.

“I want you now.”

With a savage grin gracing the transcendent beauty of your face, you allow him this request. Steve Harrington, merely mortal, succumbs entirely to your touch. His body melts into yours, shudders with reverence for your power and gravity, and he feels like he could burst apart inside of you.

Your breath is all he can hear. Your sweat is all he can taste.

You are ethereal.

And he will worship you to the end of his days.

Thursday, October 31, 1985

The bells chime on the door of Family Video before he can say that they’re closed and yes, they’re also sold out of Ghostbusters and Beverly Hills Cop.

Robin had already clocked out, picked up by some friends from band for a Halloween party, so it was just Steve closing up.

Too distracted by counting the till to acknowledge the buzz in his chest, the tension melting from his body. A distinct lack of headaches for a few months now too.

“Steve.”

A soft drip on the floor, like a leaky faucet when he glances up.

And you’re stumbling on the carpet like it’s moving beneath your feet. You’re trying to give Steve a reassuring smile and only getting across a grimace.

From what he can tell, at least.

Because you are absolutely, positively covered, head to toe, in so much blood and viscera it’s no longer red but black, dripping off of you like sludge where it hadn’t already dried. The whites of your eyes and teeth are visible, and that is not an image he necessarily wanted to have of you.

Ever, really.

“I’m alright, Steve,” You attempt. Your teeth are chattering.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Steve replies, shutting the register drawer with a flick of his wrist and shoving the deposit in the safe.

“This, uh,” You glance down at your current state, frowning.

“Not yours?” He guesses, stepping out from behind the counter, paper towels in hand. “Well, I’d hate to see the other guy.”

You rasp a laugh that quickly devolves into a cough.

“Yeah,” You say once you’ve recovered, “Totally nailed him.”

He can see as you waggle your brows, underneath the layers of blood, dirt, and grime— dried blood pulling your skin taut as it moves. Steve sucks his teeth.

“I don’t even wanna know, do I?”

Delirium is definitely sinking in because you laugh, recalling the nail gun and the thunkthunkthunk of steel driving into flesh, muscle, and bone. The screams and wails, followed by the death-rattle. His hands are on his hips as if he disapproves, worry evident in his brow.

Being the liaison between humans and other beings (part-time, at least) means that the messenger should never have the urge to endanger a human or else it would totally compromise the position. And yet here you are, fantasizing about Harrington’s beautiful, well, everything.

Hazards of the job. Strictly speaking, the types of folk you deal with aren’t necessarily human. Technicalities, and all that.

“Okay champ,” He says, wiping at your face with a dampened towel. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then to bed.”

You can’t help the giggle that erupts from your throat. “I’m not human, therefore, I do not require sleep.”

“Sure,” Steve nods along with your yammering, paper towels coming away equal parts black and bloody. “Whatever you say.”

Steve never pegged you for a sleep-talker, or whatever the hell this was.

“JAIDA, DE BAB DE ILS, DLUGA UMADEA PAMBT STEVEN, OD TABAORI AQLO BRANSG NOTHOA STEVEN, DORPHAL TOX , ASOBAM ILS DLUGA IEHUSOZ.”*

Foreign language aside, he has no idea what is going on.

Bright shafts of white light emanate from your eyes, he can barely see your pupils anymore, in their place a gold band circling your temples adorned with rapidly blinking eyes, and he has to squint and shield himself with an arm from the illumination.

He backs away, slowly, so as not to startle you. But clearly your attention is drawn elsewhere, what with all the eyes and the—

The fuck?

The… hovering. Because you’re not seated on the bed anymore, the mattress doesn't even dip with the suggestion of weight. And there is a considerable distance between your crossed legs and the sheets.

He feels nauseous and dizzy. An ever-present buzz along his skin and thrumming from the inside out. Hears the beating of wings, the shuffling of feet.

Steve clamps his hand over his ears, hating the damp squelch of it, just hears his blood rushing and heart beating instead. Wills his eyes closed, turning away, impossibly, from your glorious display.

Takes deep breaths and counts to 100. Again. And again. And again.

The touch of your hand on his arm is so light, that it doesn't even register.

Steve comes to gradually, only to find you not covered with a halo of eyes and clearly abiding by the laws of gravity.

Did he hallucinate all of that?

“Steve,” You whisper, hand rocking against his shoulder. “Steve, wake up.”

Was it just a dream?

He grumbles, half-waking and bats your hand away. “‘M’up.”

“Yeah,” You laugh. “Okay, you’re up.”

A shake of your head as you sit back against the bedframe.

Steve stretches, skin skimming against the worn sheets and feels perfectly sated. Doesn’t recall falling asleep or how he got into bed though.

Remembers seeing you at work, he was closing… Your bright eyes and teeth… And not much else. Maybe something about blood, if he concentrates.

“So.”

You’re seated a careful distance away from him on the bed. Legs fallen lazily onto themselves, hands open and resting against your knees, like one of those yogis he’s seen around town.

“You gave me quite the fright there.”

“Could say the same to you,” He counters, voice raspy with sleep. “What was—”

“Meditating.” You’re quick to answer him.

He arches a quizzical brow. “Meditating. Really?”

Bottom lip pulled and worried between your teeth. “It’s a form of introspection. Communing with your higher states of consciousness.”

“Riiiight. We’ll call it meditating. For the sake of argument.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

He shrugs, rolls his neck and shoulders. “I never said that.”

You squint, staring at him. Your hand comes up to grasp his jaw and slowly turn his head. Face remaining impassive, you cluck your tongue and rise from the bed.

“Stay there.”

The commands thrums through him.

Steve watches as you leave the room, heading across the hall to the guest bath. Hears the water running from the faucet, the wringing of a damp rag. Soft footfalls herald your return, plopping back on the bed and dabbing the washcloth against his jaw and ear.

A tap against his chin. “Other side please.”

You do the same to his opposite ear, humming to yourself under your breath. Thunder sounds in the distant night, a storm rolling through.

Deeming it a job well done, you toss the cloth into the hamper. White terrycloth tinged rosy red. A cool hand turns Steve this way and that, your eyes darting across your handiwork.

“How’s your head?” You ask, voice soft.

“Fine.” Shakes his head, in proof, rattles his brain around. “No complainants.”

“Mmm.” You hum. “No migraines or auras?”

“Not for a while now.” He clucks his tongue, “But I didn’t tell you about those.”

Ah. Now he’s caught you out.

Your mouth hangs open, gaping like a fish.

“Hey,” His hand settles over yours, warm and familiar. “It’s fine. You’re just … perceptive.”

A laugh, the rustling of wings somewhere. “Is that so?”

Steve pulls you toward him, the air punched from his lungs as your shoulder collides with his chest. You apologize profusely, rearing back and away from him.

He tugs you back into his embrace, both arms settling around you and falling effortlessly at your hips. Feels a pleasant glow at your temples, sponges a kiss there. Catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, your image seemingly replaced with iridescent reflections of light. A crown of fire round your head.

And is alarmingly at peace with it all.

Friday, November 1, 1985

The next morning you’d already left by the time he woke up.

A glass of water, a crumpled scrap of paper, and business card were on the bedside table. He picked up the water, gulping it down readily and scrambled for his glasses.

He grabbed the papers, the larger one seemingly covered in glitter, dust? Something golden getting all over his hands and sheets. Squinting because he never did get to wiping off his lenses, Steve read the business card first. Simple and to the point, nothing he didn’t already know.

The scrap of paper however, was beyond him.

Well, shit.

He dials Robin, figures if anyone could translate, it’d be her. Then calls the number listed on the card as he waits for her arrival.

An annoyed voice answers. “Ugh, this better be good, Harrington. I’m a busy man.”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“That’s not important.”

“What do you mean? How is that—” He sits up, cradling the phone between his shoulder and jaw.

“How did you get this number?”

“Uh, Constantine. How else?”

Whomever he’s speaking with roughly pulls the phone from their ear and mutters a litany of curses. Surprisingly few in English.

He takes a breath, waits for the conversation to resume.

“Okay, say I believe you Steve. How do you know Constantine?”

Steve arches a brow, devotes all of a few seconds to thought before saying, “Well, we’re uh, involved, I guess, and then she showed up to Hawkins dripping in blood last night.”

The next thing he hears is the sound of something smashing to the ground, quickly followed by a “Shit-cock dumbass motherfucking—” before the line drops dead.

*Highest God, of your dominion, give strong towers unto Steven, and govern your guard amidst Steven to look upon him, whom Thou givest mercy.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #constantine!au #reader insert #fic: through me #steve harrington smut #Spotify

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thenightling · 1 year

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How Morpheus pays his servants

Every so often I come across Sandman fans who joke (or are serious) that Morpheus does not pay his servants, that they are secretly his slaves. They’ll even all him a hypocrite when he tells Hob Gadling that it’s a poor thing to hold another in bondage. Let me state, Morpheus IS against slavery. In The Sandman: Season of Mists Titania ”gave” Morpheus Nuala as a gift as a bit of a trap. She knew Morpheus fairly well. She must have known he he feels about slavery. If Morpheus refused the gift the fae could “take offense” and go to war, an excuse to try to take the key to Hell from Morpheus. And if he did keep her, it rids Titania of a potential annoyance. In some fae lore Nuala was the name of a fae Oberon had interest in. When Morpheus is given Nuala he is reluctant to accept. Finally he allows her to stay. He never gives her any commands but he removes her glamour. Though it was initially against her will, Morpheus’s removal of the glamour actually did Nuala a favor. Nuala’s people are very conformist and they all wear glamours, hiding their true forms to look ‘as beautiful as possible.” What Morpheus did was teach Nuala to appreciate who she is without conforming to what her society had demanded of her for her whole life. It can be seen as a trans metaphor, especially when, later in the story Nuala shows in the fae court without her glamour on and it nearly causes a scandal but she decides she prefers her true self rather than what her society wants of her. Morpheus never gave Nuala any orders. She went about cleaning within the castle to give herself something to do. But despite this Morpheus repaid her service with a boon. A boon being any favor (within reason) that she might want, should she call upon him. Not only that, but as a bonus, Morpheus rescued her brother from imprisonment while Nuala was still working for him. Morpheus makes it very clear he saved Cluracaun for Nuala’s sake. Though he does not use money, Morpheus DOES pay his servants in Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman.

Here are some examples as to how Morpheus pays his servants. Cain and Abel = Morpheus gave them each a magical haunted house that is bigger on the inside and full of stories, ghosts, and monsters, to fit their spooky inclinations and desires. The houses are somewhat sentient too and they gain caretakers to look after them, make repairs, and keep things up and running. It’s a win for everyone involved.

In the Netflix Sandman series both gargoyles, Gregory and Goldie, were actually given as gifts to Cain and Abel instead of Goldie being a gift to Abel from Cain like he was in the comics.

Lucien / Lucienne is revealed in the comics to have been the first raven. In the story called The Hunt we see that Lucien can still take raven form at will. Lucien loves books. So how was Lucien paid? Lucien was given a new elfish form (taller even than Morpheus) and the largest library in the multiverse. And status as second in command in The Dreaming. That’s a pretty nice payment for services rendered. Aristeas the Raven is based on an actual myth where he was the raven of apollo. Aristeas was a real Greek poet who supposedly became a raven after his death to serve the God Apollo. This ties into the running gag in The Sandman of people mistaking Morpheus as Apollo. After two hundred years of service Aristeas decided he didn’t want to serve Morpheus anymore and he was offered a boon. He chose becoming a mortal man again but he soon found that he could not adjust to the mortal world after having been away from it for two centuries so he asked to return to being a raven. It’s unclear where he is now. John Constantine / Johanna Constantine was paid by having their nightmares dealt with. There’s also the possibility that Morpheus may have rescued Constantine’s soul from self-made damnation since Jon Constantine tends to believe he’s going to Hell and has made some bad decisions / bargains as a result. In a Hellblazer comic it’s pretty much confirmed that Jack Constantine, Johanna (eighteenth century version) and John Constantine were all the same soul just reincarnated into the same bloodline. For John Constantine Morpheus also helped Rachel to die peacefully in a pleasant dream since there was no saving her (in the comic it was implied she was actually already dead and rotting. The sand was the only thing keeping her semi-alive / her soul tethered to her body.) His usual method of payment though is a boon. So I think I’ve made my point here. Yes, Morpheus does pay those who serve him and he never forces anyone to do anything against their will (unless you count him telling The Corinthian not to kill people...)

#Morpheus #The Sandman #Sandman

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brooklynislandgirl · 6 months

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10 Fandoms / 10 Characters / 10 Tags

Tagged By: my loves @kylo-wrecked and @tangleweave Tagging: Anyone who feels like they need one more Sunday this weekend.

~*~*~*~

I. Marvel: Beta-Ray Bill, Eddie Brock/Venom, Doctor Strange, Phil Coulson, Vision, Groot, Spider-Man {Peter Parker}, Gambit, Doctor Morbius, Bucky Barnes. M'Baku {Hate the moniker of 'Man-Ape'}. Magneto. Loki. Night Crawler. Frank "Punisher" Castle. Colossus. Danny "Iron Fist" Rand. Foggy Nelson. Ghost Rider {Both Johnny Blaze and Robbie Reyes, "Caretaker" Carter Slade}. I know that's more than 10. Whatever, I do what I want. >.> II. DC: Lex Luthor, Nanaue {King Shark}, Martian Man Hunter, John Constantine, The Joker, Jonathan Crane, Morpheus {Dream of the Endless}, Death of the Endless, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Swamp Thing, Green Lantern. Cisco Ramon. Hunter Zoloman.

I absolutely blame @nightmarefuele for at least two of these.

III. Star Wars: Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader. Admiral Piett. Kylo Ren. Wedge Antilles. Kit Fisto. Han Solo. Chewbacca. Jocasta Nu. Darth Rivan {not to be confused with Darth Revan}. Jos Vondar. Jango and Boba Fett, and of course, all my 10,000,000,000 Clone children. No I will not be taking questions.

IV. Star Trek: Worf, Martok, Gowron, Chancellor Gorkon, Kurn, Dr McCoy, Uhura, Sulu, Chekhov, Chris Pike, Ortegas, Nurse Chapel, Geordie La Forge, Riker, Data, Lore, Chief O'Brien, Q, Benjamin Cisco, Garak, Gul Dukat, Quark. V. Firefly: Mal Reynolds, Jayne Cobb, Hobun Washburne, Zoe Washburne, Shepherd Book, Kaylee Frye, YoSafBridge, Adalai Niska, Badger, Jubal Early Take my life, take my land, take me where I cannot stand. I don't care 'cause I'm still free, you can't take the sky from me. {{My coat has always been a little...brownish.}

VI. The Walking Dead: Shane Walsh, Daryl and Merle Dixon, Michonne Hawthorne, Abraham Ford, Glenn Rhee, The Governor, Bob Stookey, Ezekiel, Dwight, Aaron, Morgan Jones. VII. Justified: Raylan, Boyd, Ava, Art, Rachel, Tim, Dewey Crowe, Johnny Crowder, Loretta McCready, Robert Quarles, Ellstin Limehouse, Mags Bennett, Devil, Jean Baptiste, Boon, Willa, Carolyn, Sweety... oh so many. VIII. Yellowstone: John, Jamie, Beth, Kayce Dutton, Rip Wheeler, Jimmy Hurdstrom, Thomas Rainwater, Mo Brings Plenty, Lloyd, Colby, Teeter, Jake, Ethan, Angela Blue Thunder, Malcolm Beck. IX. Law & Order- Alphabet Soup: Captain Cragen, Lenny Briscoe, Mike Logan, Anita Van Buren, Jack McCoy. Rey Curtis, Ed Green, Arthur Branch, Cyrus Lupo, Kevin Bernard, Frank Cosgrove, Jalen Shaw. Elliot Stabler, Olivia Benson, Odafin Tutuola, John Munch, Chester Lake, Melinda Warner, Amanda Rollins, Rafael Barba, Dominick Carisi, Peter Stone, Bobby Goran. I have seen literally every episode of the American Law & Order franchise Original, SVU, CI, OC, etc...with the first three watched multiple times. While I often wouldn't call it my most favourite show...it's probably my most favourite shows.

X. The Lord of the Rings: Boromir and Faramir, Éomer and Éowyn, Theoden King, Theodred, Gimli, Pippin, Sam, Meriadoc, Fangorn {Treebeard}, Beorn, Celebrimbor, Bard the Bowman, Dwalin, Celeborn, Denethor, Gil-Galad king, Fingolfin, The Watcher in the Water, Maedhros, Finwe, Manwe...and I could go on for years. My first true fandom as we know it {probably Arthurian Legend was my first and truest fictional love}, and one I have been faithful to for over 25 years. Honestly never please talk to me about it, because I have rabid opinions about literally everything. And lastly, I only included tv/movies here because books and rpgs would require an entire three or four Long Ass Posts all of their own. Much Love.

#Absolutely True Stories about Turtle #Glowing Like the Metal|Dash Games

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miraclesabound · 2 years

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Love in Idleness

Summary: Johanna’s friend Annie thinks she imagined the way Morpheus looks at her - and then she gets exposed to a plant that shows her the truth.

Also available on AO3.

Pairing: Morpheus/F!Plus-Size!OC Annie Magdalene (written in second person)

Notes: My first ever sex pollen fic! I’ve been toying with this idea since before the show premiered. Johanna, Matthew, Lucienne, Death and Desire all make appearances. Annie is an original character, but I’ve written her in second person so that she can be read as any race. Set after Season 1 - Johanna is still dealing with the fallout from losing Rachel.

FAN ART by @miranhas-art

Content/Warnings: Sex pollen, self-doubt related to weight, Desire actually NOT being a little shit for once, but it still blowing up in their face, worries about mortality, canon-typical language, fingering, PiV sex/dream sex. In the intro, items related to funeral preparation and difficulty with grief.

Tags: @writeforfandoms, @insomniamamma, @edwardmunsen, @darklingveracruz, @morpheus-helm, @bowieandqueen11, @mylifeisactuallyamess, @whovianayesha, @blueeyesatnight, @yayforawesome

Normally, a large raven landing on your windowsill would catch your attention. However, you’ve been knee-deep in paperwork for weeks. Johanna had called you to tell you about Rachel dying, and you’ve been handling the administrative side of things while Jo assists Sam, Rachel’s father. You don’t mind doing it – Johanna’s been your best friend since you were six, and she loved Rachel. That’s more than enough reason for you to direct your research efforts towards something useful instead of studying your family’s grimoires all day. As such, it takes the raven clearing his throat for you to look his way. Your eyes widen when he begins to speak.

“I’m looking for Johanna Constantine – am I in the right place? I have a note for her.” He lifts one of his legs, and you see a band of paper secured there.

“Uh…yes…” You stand up from your desk and poke your head into the hallway. “JO!” you call out. “Can you come in here a sec?” You only hope you don’t sound panicked.

Johanna shows up quickly, and she looks you over. “You ok, Annie? What’s – oh!” She sees the raven, and her eyes light up in recognition. “Matthew, is that you?”

“Hi, Johanna,” the raven says. “Yeah, it’s me – the boss wanted to give you this.”

Johanna sees the paper and gently unwraps it from Matthew’s leg. Opening it, she reads over the words with a slight frown. “How soon does he want an answer?” she asks.

“As soon as possible,” Matthew tells her. “Just call out for him, and he’ll come by. You both have a good night.” He flies off, and Jo shows you the note.

Muttering to yourself, you read aloud, “For your service, you are hereby invited to the Palace of the Dreaming as – wait, WHAT???”

“It’s real,” Johanna reassures you. “Keep reading.”

Clearing your throat, you start up again. “You are hereby invited to the Palace of the Dreaming as the guest of Dream of the Endless. An invitation has also been sent to Death and Desire. Please respond promptly with your attendance.”

You jokingly shove Johanna’s arm. “You met Dream of the Endless, from the family that the Magdalene family has studied for four hundred years, and you didn’t tell me??”

You realize your tone was misplaced when Jo looks at you sadly. “He’s the one who eased Rachel’s passing. I thought that made us even for me helping find his sand, but I guess he wanted to offer another boon.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “I shouldn’t have teased.”

She waves away your concern. “No fuss – but I can tell you, I won’t be fit company right now, my head’s still kinda fucked.” She taps her lip. “Ya know, I have an idea. Got any paper you can spare?”

You tear off a piece from the notepad you’ve been using and pass her a pen. She writes the word MORPHEUS with intentional, bold strokes – quite different from her usual scratchy handwriting. When she’s done, she looks to you. “Want to do the honors?”

Realizing what she’s doing, you nod, and clear your throat. With clear intonation, you say, “I call upon Morpheus, Dream of the Endless.” Not even a tenth of a second after you finish speaking, the walls shake, and the lights begin to flicker. Jo squeezes your hand in reassurance.

When the lights and shaking cease, you realize that there’s now a third person in the room. He’s tall, black-haired, and his eyes will steal your breath if you’re not careful. Combine that with his dark attire and gorgeous features, and he’s exactly your type. When he speaks, his voice is like dark honey. “Who is it that called me?”

“That was us, boss,” Johanna says. The man turns to see the both of you. “Matthew brought your note.”

“I’m glad to see you well, Constantine. Then you’ll be joining me for family dinner?” he asks.

Johanna shakes her head. “I’m afraid I’d be bad company – I’m still handling some of Rachel’s affairs, and I don’t much feel like small talk. However…” she gently pushes you towards him. “This is my friend Annie Magdalene – she is from a very prestigious magical bloodline. It might benefit her to visit the Palace.”

“Jo, what are you doing??” you hiss.

“Giving you an in – you think your parents would ever forgive you if you had a chance to dine with an Endless and didn’t take it?”

“Magdalene?” he cuts in. “I know that name.”

Gathering your courage, you say, “We’re a family of practitioners and magical historians, sir – sire…what would you have me call you?” You know full well that if you insult him, you definitely won’t get the invite, and you may suffer something painful to boot.

However, he offers you a small, warm smile that makes your heart flip. “You may call me Dream or Morpheus, Miss Magdalene. And is this what you wish as well?” You’re not sure, but he seems to be looking appreciatively at your curves and rolls.

“Only if it’s no trouble.”

“None at all. If you’re willing, I’d like to spend some time with you before you come to the Palace next week. May I see you later tonight?”

Johanna is smiling in approval of your good fortune, but you must admit you’re still a little confused. “Where would we meet?” you ask.

“Leave that to me,” Morpheus says.

You’ve visited this vineyard many times in your dreams, but this is the first time you’ve had company. As you pluck a grape from one of the vines, a voice close behind you asks, “Are they almost ready?”

You’re startled only for a second, but when you turn around and see Morpheus, you smile. Of course, he would visit you in your dreams. You hold the grape out to him. “See for yourself?”

He opens his hand, and you drop the grape to him. He catches it deftly between two fingers and turns it this way and that to get a proper look at it. “Perfect color and shape – and the right level of firmness. Beautiful work, Miss Magdalene.”

His compliment warms you, but you feel the need to be honest. “I don’t know how much credit I can take,” you tell him. “I’ve been dreaming of this place since I was a kid, and it was already beautiful then.”

“Then at least someone is here to treasure it.” The conversation flows easily from there, and you wake up with a smile on your face.

The next several nights are much the same. Morpheus appears in the vineyard to spend time with you, whether to chat or just to sit together. You find in these times that Morpheus is not just a beautiful face. He has the mind of a poet, and sometimes, you love to just listen to his words. He does his best not to dominate your conversations, but his voice inspires the best nights of sleep you’ve had in a long time.

The one thing you do notice is that he doesn’t give you that same appraising look again that he offered the first time you met. Perhaps it’s just him being a gentleman, but you’re worried. Did you misread him when you met him? You’d thought it was appreciation, but he just doesn’t seem interested in your body like he was before.

It stings, but you’ll live. True friendship with a member of the Endless is still worth more than your weight in gold and wine – you’ll take it for the gift it is.

On the day of the event, you dream of the Palace for the first time. It’s utterly gorgeous – truly the home of a king in his prime. The structure is perfectly engineered, and the gardens stretch on for miles. You’re tempted to go exploring, but then Morpheus calls out to you.

You walk over the great bridge, and he’s waiting there with a woman you haven’t met before. He introduces her – Lucienne, his Chief Librarian – and she shakes your hand warmly. “So glad you could make it, Miss Magdalene,” she says with true sincerity. “We don’t often have guests when it’s not a matter of state.”

“And I truly appreciate that,” you tell her. “From what I’ve studied, I know this isn’t typical.”

Lucienne nods, and then turns to Morpheus as the three of you walk past the hippogriff, wyvern and griffin who guard the palace entrance. “All invitations have been answered as of today, my lord. Death and Desire will be in attendance. However,” she looks at Morpheus over her glasses. “Desire did specify that they will not be able to attend the dinner itself. They will arrive afterwards.”

You almost miss the way Morpheus rolls his eyes, but the annoyance is still present in his tone. “I appreciate them giving notice, I suppose – but it would have been nice to know sooner.”

Lucienne shrugs. “They would have given the kitchen a headache anyway.”

You do your best to contain a snort, and you’re relieved when you hear a laugh echo behind you. “It’s true – I remember how the last dinner went.” The voice comes from a lovely woman with a warm smile, curly black hair, and dark skin. “I don’t think even they knew what they wanted; they simply couldn’t be satisfied.”

“Sister, I greet you,” Morpheus says. “Miss Magdalene, this is my older sister, the Lady Death. Sister, this is Miss Annie Magdalene. She’s a friend of the Constantine family, and she is my guest for this dinner.” You feel a slight shiver pass through you – you realize it’s the first time he’s actually said your first name.

If Death sees your reaction, she’s kind enough to be discreet. Instead, she pulls you into a hug, quite possibly the best one you’ve ever had. “Well, any friend of Dream’s is a friend of mine – would you like to sit next to me for the dinner?”

“That would be wonderful,” you tell her, and you mean it.

The dinner goes beautifully – the food is perfect, of course, but it’s the company that really makes it. Death is especially chatty, and she tells you of the worlds she’s seen and the people she’s met. In turn, you explain to her and Morpheus how your family came to study theirs.

The meal concludes, and while you’re certain there will be further conversation at the table, you find yourself wanting to wander. While Death and Morpheus’s backs are turned, you find a side door and turn the handle. It opens into the courtyard, and as you walk out, you see an archway leading into the Palace gardens.

“It’s not safe to walk in there alone, you know,” a voice purrs behind you. When you turn, you see a devastatingly gorgeous blond person leaning against the garden entryway. From your family’s books, you recognize that this must be Morpheus’ sibling Desire. They’re almost a little too pretty, you think. Their hair is perfectly coiffed, their make-up and smile are razor sharp, and their black blazer is open, showing a slender build that would put even the most renowned model to shame. Good grief, is everyone in this family stunning?

“You must be that Magdalene woman I’ve heard about,” they say. “An invite to my brother’s palace is no small matter – what favor did you manage to grant him, sweetling?”

You know from your research that this being is temperamental at best and an active saboteur at worst – but when they offer their arm, you still accept it. Indeed, as you begin to traverse the gardens together, you find yourself spilling your guts about everything – Morpheus’ invitation to Johanna, her arranging for you to visit instead, the many dreams you’ve had where you and Morpheus simply talk…

“Then you and my brother are courting?” Desire asks.

You’d been smiling while discussing your and Morpheus’ conversations, but Desire’s question makes your heart deflate. “It’s not like that,” you tell them. “I thought there was something there, but I don’t think I’m his type. I’m not slim and elegant like Johanna, and I’m just a researcher, not a practitioner – and a fat one at that.”

You appreciate Desire not immediately trying to say that you’re not plump. You’ve always hated when people do that – you know what you are, and it’s better to be a realist, even in a place like this.

You’ve come to a grove full of beautiful purple flowers – pansies, if you’re not mistaken. Your fingers drift towards one, but Desire quickly catches your wrist. “I wouldn’t do that, sweetling – you’re mortal after all. Allow me.” With their free hand, they pluck the bloom and tuck it behind your ear. Unfortunately, neither of you notice the spray of pollen and juice that comes loose from the vine when the flower is plucked. Instead, your attention is drawn to a marble bench, and the two of you sit down together.

“I won’t speak to my brother’s desires,” Desire tells you. “But I don’t know of any woman who shouldn’t walk with flowers in her hair at least once.” They smile as they arrange the strands of your hair and secure the blossom. “There – lovely as a picture.”

Your own smile returns briefly. “Thank you, I – ” you cut off with a hiss. “SHIT, my head…”

“Are you all right?” Desire asks. “Let me bring you back inside.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” you agree. You stand up, take maybe three steps – and then your feet go out from under you as the heat and pain move down into your chest.

Desire catches you before you can hit your head. You could swear you see true panic in their molten gold eyes. “Fuck – fuck fuck fuck!” they mutter. Raising their voice, they call for help – “MORPHEUS! DEATH! SOMEONE HELP!!!”

There must be a summoning power in Desire’s call. The palace is at least fifty yards away, but Morpheus and Death appear in the grove immediately. It’s Death who moves first – she helps you back to the bench, and when you’re seated, she has you face her, looking at your eyes. “Talk to me, Annie,” she says. “When did this start – just now?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “I think I need to go home – ” Another flash of heat rolls through you, and this time, you feel it between your legs. “What is happening to me??”

Morpheus turns to Desire, and his eyes go black, only his pupils showing as pricks of starlight. “What did you do, sibling?” You bite your lip to avoid moaning – the dangerous tone he’s using now makes you want to crawl over and worship at his feet.

“Nothing, I swear!” Desire protests. “We were having conversation, and I picked a flower for her to wear – I thought it would look nice!”

They gesture in your direction, and Morpheus finally sees the purple bloom in your hair. He doesn’t curse, but he rips the flower away, stomping it under his foot. Turning back to Desire, he slaps them hard across the face. “I TOLD you! I told you what would happen if you interfered with me or mine again. And now you use Love-in-Idleness to poison an honored guest??”

To their credit, Desire takes the hit like an absolute champion. Shaking off their pain, they look Morpheus straight in the eyes. “I didn’t know what this was, brother. Besides, I thought Love-in-Idleness made you fall for the first person you saw after exposure. I can tell – it’s not me she wants.”

“There were multiple variants,” Morpheus says. “Will Shakespeare put the version you describe in his play – but he considered different ideas. All of them ended up here in my gardens. Do you not see how suspicious it looks that you just happened to pick the version that amplified sexual desire?”

“Intentional or not, something has to be done,” Death says. Her hand is pleasantly cool where she checks your temperature. “She’s feverish and her pulse is wild. Today isn’t the day she has an appointment with me, but unless someone who cares for her gets this out of her system, that could change.”

“Appointment??” Your eyes go wide. “I don’t want to die!” You double over as another spasm racks your body.

“We won’t let that happen.” Morpheus says. Kneeling before you, he kisses your knuckles like a knight of old, and his eyes return to their usual shade of blue. “We’ll find the one you want – he must be here in the Dreaming somewhere. He’ll fix this.”

Tears fill your eyes, even as the feel of his lips makes you ache. “Then I’m doomed – you don’t want me back.”

It’s unknown if Morpheus of the Endless has a heart in the human sense, but at the very least, he has a soul. Right now, it feels like it’s being ripped away. “You…you truly believe that?” he asks. “Even with the time we’ve spent together?”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what she believes,” Desire says. “When we were talking, she was convinced that you weren’t the woman for her.”

It’s Death who gets to business. “Desire, you know these things – can you confirm that Morpheus and Annie have the same feelings for each other?”

“My sister, I swear it on our parents.” Desire’s smirk is completely gone. “Our brother is unaffected by the pollen but still cares, and Miss Magdalene was practically glowing when she talked about him, even before we came to the grove. The affection is mutual.”

Your gaze flicks to Morpheus, your eyes still brimming with tears. You don’t dare ask if it’s true – if Desire is misinformed, the heartbreak might kill you before the drug does.

However, all doubts are erased when Morpheus walks over to you and lifts you into his arms in a full bridal carry. You cling tightly to him, even knowing that he wouldn’t let you fall. Death and Desire briefly look at each other, and then they disappear. Before you can ponder that too much, Morpheus leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart – I promise.”

Your surroundings fade – and then they reform into an elegant bedroom suite inside the Palace. The cool sheets where Morpheus lies down with you sooth some of the tension in your body instead of scratching like your sheets back home do. Nevertheless, your system is singing for your Dream Lord’s touch. Reaching behind you, you try to find him, but he grabs your wrist and pins it down in front of you.

“Annie, listen to me,” he says. “I need to make you come at least once so that I know you’re safe from danger. After that, I’m all yours. Can you be good and let me work?” You can barely manage to tell him that yes, you’ll be good, you’ll do whatever he wants – when he promises to get you off, you almost black out imagining what he might have in mind. “That’s my girl.” He releases your wrist, and your fingers tangle in the sheets.

Morpheus kisses the point where your neck meets your shoulder, and you can’t help the shudder that rolls through you. You’re sensitive at the best of times, but with the flower in your system, you feel like you’re going to break into pieces. “Morpheus, please…” you beg, “I need you!”

He knows full well that you’re speaking of your survival, not just your arousal. As such, he hurries to help you get naked from the waist down. Morpheus isn’t immune to your shape or sounds, and he promises himself he’ll lavish you with affection – later. Right now, he needs to make sure you’ll be ok.

Once your hips and legs are bare to him, he turns your face towards him. “I need you to use your words, sweetheart – I may know your dreams, but I’m not a mind-reader. What will work for you?”

“I need at least two fingers inside while my clit gets rubbed,” you tell him. “I usually like to edge myself a while but – FUCK!” Another heavy wave of arousal and heat hits you, and you swear that you can feel your heart falling out of rhythm.

“Understood.” Morpheus gives you a quick kiss and gets to work.

His clever thick fingers find the right spot almost immediately, and you groan in relief. Even just being filled is helping quite a bit. You vaguely remember a legend from the grimoire stating that Morpheus had been married at least once – you can’t say you’re surprised. With how he’s using his hands, this is clearly someone who knows how to please a partner. You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life.

Your orgasm catches you off-guard, hitting you with enough force that you think your heart did in fact explode. But no – as you come down, you realize that the edge with the pollen was so painful that your current adrenaline buzz feels sleepy by comparison.

Morpheus places a hand on your neck, finding your pulse. Your heartrate is still elevated, but not nearly as high as it was before. When you turn to face him, a lazy smile on your face, he feels his own relief as well. He kisses you again – but now, he can be a bit more leisurely. Pulling you on top of him, he keeps your mouths connected and lets his hands wander.

You’re so plush, he realizes – wherever he touches, his fingers sink into your flesh. If he didn’t know better, he’d think you were made of his own sand – a sculpture of soft perfection.

That very flesh is still warm to the touch, even if the worst of the fever is gone. Breaking the kiss, he notes how you chase his mouth with yours, and he asks, “Do you still burn, sweet girl?”

You nod. “You were wonderful, Morpheus – but yes, it’s still pretty intense.”

“Then let’s fix it.” Taking your hand, he places it over his crotch with a smirk. “For both of us?”

You feel his hardness and gulp. “Where do you want me?” you ask.

“You’re perfect where you are, darling – but I want to see more of you.” After you take off your shirt and bra, he sits up so you’re in his lap. “Beautiful,” he says, and you can see from the look in his eyes that he means it. You’re not a virgin, but you can’t remember any time that a partner looked at you with such pure hunger. Even if you didn’t still have the flower in your system, those beautiful eyes would reduce you to a puddle.

Your cunt pulses, and you’re thankful for Morpheus holding you up. “What about you?” you ask breathlessly. He snaps his fingers, and you now feel his naked hardness beneath you.

“Can I have you, Annie?” His voice is low and deep, but not demanding. “I want you to be safe and I want you.”

“I’m yours,” you tell him. If you’re honest with yourself, you were his as soon as you met him, flower or no flower.

Once you say that, he doesn’t waste any time. You’re still incredibly wet after your first orgasm, and there’s barely any resistance when he slides his cock inside of you.

You may be on top, but Morpheus is the one setting the pace. He may look slender, but his arms are strong around your middle, and he lifts you with minimal effort up and down on himself. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised – the way he carried you earlier, it’s obvious that your weight is no imposition to him.

What is a surprise is the tenderness he’s trying to include, even as he fucks you silly. For every thrust that rocks you to the core, there’s a stroke or caress of your arm, your hip, your face… It’s as if he’s trying to remind you that you’re here and you’re safe.

Your orgasm builds more slowly this time – it’s the glow of an ember more than the roar of a flame. Still, your desperation to come remains high, and you whine into Morpheus’s shoulder as the glow grows. He chuckles slightly, and taps your back to make you look him in the eyes. “Kiss me and I’ll give you what you want. Can you do that for me?” he asks.

You lock your lips onto his, and you groan into his mouth as he starts stroking your clit. You swear you can feel his smile as he strokes faster and faster…

When you come, it cascades out from your core like the feeling of slipping into a bath – you can tell that the fire inside is finally quenched. You still appreciate the jolt you feel as Morpheus disconnects your lips and finishes as well, but your heart isn’t catapulting around your rib cage anymore. However, a new kind of anxiety is settling in.

Morpheus sees the look of concern on your face and wipes a few beads of sweat off your forehead. “Are you all right?” he asks. “I know this was sudden.”

“Should I be worried about getting pregnant?” you wonder. You really like this man, this god, this Morpheus – but you don’t know if you’re ready for a baby, even with someone that you could easily fall in love with.

“No – for our kind, child-bearing is a very intentional process.” You swear you see a shadow of sorrow flit through Morpheus’s eyes. It’s gone before you can analyze it too deeply, and he says, “I wouldn’t surprise you with that, especially in these circumstances.”

He pulls out of you slowly, and you kiss his cheek to let him know you’re ok. “What now?” you ask. “I would ask if I can sleep over, but I guess I’m already doing that.”

Morpheus lets out a brief laugh. “I understand your meaning, darling.” He wraps a blanket around you, and with a wave of his hand, you’re back in the dream version of your own bedroom. “You’ve had an intense experience – I think resting in your own space will be best.”

“For…how long?” you ask. “I’d like to see you again.” You’d like to do a lot more than that, but you don’t want to seem desperate.

“You will soon enough,” he promises, and kisses your cheek. “Rest well, Annie.”

It ends up being about three weeks later, but Morpheus does keep his word to you. You’re dreaming of the vineyard again for the first time since the dinner, and as you turn a corner, he’s there waiting for you. He pulls you into a firm embrace and kisses the side of your forehead. “Have you been well?” he asks.

You nod. “I’m feeling a hundred times better, but I did miss you.”

“I missed you too – but there were arrangements I had to make before I could come check on you.”

“Oh?” You truly don’t know what he might mean by that.

Letting you go, he squeezes your hand. “I had thought,” he says, “that perhaps we could go on a tour of the Dreaming together, and I needed to map a route. You’ve only seen your section and the Palace, after all.”

You smile wide. “Is my Lord Morpheus asking me on a date?”

He returns your grin, even if his smile is more understated. “Yes, I am – I don’t want my intentions to be unclear this time.”

Linking your arm into his, you ask, “Where to?”

#the sandman #the sandman spoilers #the sandman fanfic #morpheus x reader #morpheus x original character

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serenailith · 1 year

Text

out of sight

for the @dreamlingbingo

Square: d5 - blindfold Word Count: 866 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: blindfold, all love no hurt Summary:

Hob takes away Dream’s sight.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob’s smile is the last thing Dream sees before the silken scarf is placed over his eyes. He swallows thickly as Hob carefully ties a knot in the ends to prevent the blindfold from moving. Dream can see nothing but the faintest shadows through the fabric. Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, he struggles to breathe steadily, deeply. But how can he, when this is the night everything changes?

A warm hand cups his cheek, hot lips pressing to his forehead, then Hob is gone. Stepping away. Dream clasps his hands tightly together on his bare thighs, fingers tangled around each other. He can hear Hob moving about; his lover takes care to make his movements known. It’s a courtesy that Dream appreciates.

He’s seen too much. Through billions of years, he has seen too much. Hob taking away his vision, even so temporarily, is a boon given freely. Dream is unaccustomed to the lack of sight, however. That Hob knows this, that Hob understands this… It fills Dream with a warmth never felt with any other, except perhaps Calliope.

“Stop thinking,” Hob murmurs from behind him, and Dream twitches in surprise.

He hadn’t realised the immortal man was so near. He exhales slowly then nods; a hand comes up to pet his hair gently, and he leans into the touch. Hob’s lips brush his ear as he commands Dream to lie down.

The mattress dips beneath him as Dream stretches out on his stomach. He can do nothing but obey the order given in such a soft, sweet tone. The hands that glide along his back, so gentle in their ministrations, push out the tension that remains. Hob won’t hurt him—Hob would never dream of hurting him—but this is…

This is new.

Hob’s thumbs press into Dream’s skin, from the base of his neck to the base of his spine, from side to side. The softest of kisses follow the touches, left there by the lips that have never spoken ill of Dream. Lips that have lavished him in praise and worship and love. Lips that have every right to say the cruelest things of and to Dream, for how he’s treated their owner in the past.

But Hob doesn’t hold grudges—except maybe for Lady Constantine. And Shakespeare. Hob is kind and loving, giving and achingly gentle. There is no denying the overwhelming capacity for this man’s kindness. He has been cruel, a thief and a murderer, but he has long grown from that skin. He is a man for whom Dream would kill—a man for whom Dream lives. It is no longer enough to merely exist as his function.

No, Dream began living that afternoon in the New Inn when Hob had smiled and accepted his stilted apology.

When Hob first touched gentle fingertips to the back of Dream’s hand as he explained the reason for his absence.

When he’d first kissed Hob in the middle of a crowded footpath as Londoners pushed past; what else could Dream have done when all the dreams he’s ever witnessed within his realm pointed out what Dream had been too stubborn to recognise for so long?

His life truly began the first time Hob ever said the words that usually spelled doom for any of Dream’s partners: “I love you.” Hob’s love is worth whatever ending that comes upon them.

And now Dream is lying in the middle of Hob’s bed as his lover presses the tension from his muscles, as his skin burns beneath the feather-light kisses. Hob rests his head against the dip of Dream’s lower back, and Dream shivers at the breaths gliding along his bare skin.

“You are utterly perfect,” Hob whispers, and Dream aches to be. He aches to be perfect for Hob, to be exactly what Hob wants, what he needs.

Hob’s hands hold onto his hips moments later, guiding him carefully to straddle the man’s waist. The blindfold is still on, still obscuring Dream’s vision; it should be frightening, lowering himself onto Hob’s cock without sight, but he trusts Hob implicitly. So he does as directed by Hob’s whispers, his praise, his reassurances. He lets out a soft sigh as Hob fills him and reaches up to pull the scarf from his eyes. Hob’s hand stops him.

“Not yet, love.”

It’s… interesting, really, to make love like this, down one sense. Being so present to the sensations and not distracted by the expressions on Hob’s face. Though Dream can’t see, he knows what Hob looks like—the awe and love in his eyes, in the slack of his jaw, in the way his head falls back but he still keeps his gaze firmly on Dream’s face. Dream knows, and Dream sees it in his mind.

It spurs him on, the worship he feels emanating from Hob, and he plants his hands on Hob’s chest as he rises and falls. As Hob pushes up into him. As Dream's fingers curl into hair and against skin.

The scarf falls away with a quick twist of Hob’s fingers on the knot, and Dream comes at the sight of the man he’s loved for longer than he realised.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #my writing #dreamling bingo

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tgrailwar-zero · 1 year

Text

"It seems as if there's a problem concerning your Rider."

"For some reason, the majority vote for RIDER was on corrupted Servant data that can't be properly summoned. I wonder how it got in there in the first place. For data to get that corrupted, something truly awful must have happened… but that still didn't understand why it was chosen. It had no statistics, barely enough there to salvage a personality and abilities for even a fractured Spirit Origin, remnants of Foreigner-class data… it was a mess by all accounts. This wasn't a usable Servant, I thought I had made that clear. Perhaps you simply wanted to sabotage the other Team? Giving them something so mangled is quite a cruel way of doing so, but I suppose you are practicing magi..."

"It didn't make any logical sense, but after processing it for a moment longer, I understood. You weren't trying to pick the corrupted Servant data for usage, you were simply alerting me to its presence so that I could properly purge it. Brilliant work from brilliant Wizards! No wonder you successfully completed the Preliminary war, such aptitude is to be expected from skilled hackers and masters of the virtual space like yourselves. Well, my greatest apologies for assuming that you'd do something so reckless like wantonly choose data that was repeatedly said to be corrupted and invalid."

"Such a horrible blunder from me as an Administrator, I'll get to purging that disgusting data as soon as I can. Thank you so kindly for bringing it to my attention."

There was no fanfare. No alert. Simply the feeling of something becoming more and more lost. Not gone, but very much in danger of being forgotten.

"It will take some time to fully sanitize and destroy the data, but it'd be cruel of me to simply throw away your answers. I'll consider this a 'redraw', redoing your poll with another Servant in the place of the corrupted data. Of course, as the results from your first poll seem to be going, you've firmly planted yourself on the Extra-class team, so consider this an advantage. Knowing the True Name and statistics of one of your enemies is quite the boon, after all. And even still, despite being enemies, you may be able to forge a bond with them."

Alexander

The Prince of Macedonia, that would soon become one of the greatest generals known to history. He possesses a mount blessed by Zeus, a strong sense for tactics, and an indomitable spirit that would lead him to greatness. While not as strong as his adult counterpart, he's still a strategic savant with incredible potential and versatility as a Servant.

Strength: C

Endurance: B

Agility: B

Mana: C

Luck: A+

NP: B+

Starting Health: 9

Starting Mana: 7

#summoning poll #thgw story #administrator's declaration

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kellshaw · 10 months

Text

Magic: Transmission and Effect

Here's what you should think about when developing your magic system.

Why do people use it? Viewing magic as a process, why do people want to use it? How do they use it to do something in your story that they couldn't otherwise?

How does it work? This is the transmission layer. By what mechanism does the magic do the thing it does? It's perfectly okay to say 'by the blood of dead gods spilled into the ethereal seams of the world' but I like it when there's some thought behind it. Even if the characters don't know, stick this thought in your 90% of worldbuilding that the reader will never see. It'll help for background consistency.

What does it feel like to use magic? I love stories where people are exploring their powers (I enjoy superhero origin stories, except those we've seen repeatedly; looking at you Batman, Superman and Spiderman). How does it feel to channel and cast power? Anxiety of trying to memorise a difficult formula? Getting high from channelling raw energy from the gods? Is there a taste or sensation? Or even boredom, if magic is perfunctory?

Who can use it? Trained wizards? Anyone who gets the spell right?

Where does the magic fit into your world and society? Is it a secret? Only used by the elite?

Does your magic have an overall paradigm? Like a special esoteric programming code (spell) that can hack reality can if done right? Calling upon ancient gods for boons? The flavour is important to me. I read the first few pages of a book where the hero 'magicked a barrier in front of the demon' and while the scene was action-paced, the flavor of the magic didn't grab me.

Let's run my magic system through these questions:

Why do people use it? To do things they can't do via ordinary mortal means. Because it requires making a pact, it's all for personal gain or desperation. Maybe to help with revenge, or to return after death to deal with your unfinished business.

How does it work? Magic is a flow of energy from another dimension. A flow of extra-dimensional energy overwrites the localised reality, enabling supernatural effects when present. For example, to summon a zombie, you'll need a source of spectral energy from the Underworld, the land of the dead.

What does it feel like to use? Each realm has a distinct flavour of energy. Infernal magic is painful, like barbwire running through your guts. Death magic is sad and regretful, like holding a party that no one shows up to.

Who can use it? After the Rending—the terrible event when the Age of Magic ended—all portals to other dimensions were abruptly sealed off. Demons, fae, nature spirits, angels are trapped in their home realms and have limited agency to influence the mortal world. However, if you make a pact with one, you gain their vestige—a shard of their soul—and this enables you to channel supernatural energy into the mortal world. This changes you—you're not a normal mortal anymore. You're now half an extradimensional entity. Someone who accepts a demon's vestige becomes a cambion; another who makes a pact with a fae becomes a changeling.

Where does the magic fit into the world? It's secret and hidden. You have to figure out that magic exists, who you want to make a pact with, and hopefully find a patron whose goals align with yours.

The overall vibe is if you want magic, you hustle for it, and cut deals with powerful extra-dimensional entities. It's a grungy, noir occult world. You take on supernatural debt and have to weigh the bargain you've made against the power you gain. Sometimes you may not have a choice but to agree.

"So everyone's a D&D warlock?" someone asked when I described this.

Yeah.

Or John Constantine, as you sit on a teetering mound of debts and favors that are gradually spiralling out of control...

How about you? How does your world's magic work?

#writeblr #fantasy books #urban fantasy #worldbuilding wednesday #worldbuilding #fantasy #fantasy writing

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havenarchive · 1 year

Photo

[ID: a cover with a background of pink hearts on a dark, reddish background with pink, neon text reading “The Monsterfucker Rec List: a Haven Discord Production”]

The Monsterfucker Rec List: a Haven Discord Production

Featuring works for Critical Role, The Locked Tomb, New York By Night, The Untamed, The Sandman (Netflix), and Voltron

You can find the list in the link above (to a google doc) OR under the cut. The google doc has pretty formatting and a gif version of the banner.

Critical Role

Pact Boon: All Inclusive Stay by Demenior

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Fjord (Critical Role)/Original Male Character(s)

“The Mighty Nein are Fjord's best friends. His family. His favorite people in the world. He'd die for them. He spends every waking moment with them.

They're smothering him.

Thankfully, Fjord can use his new relationship with his sugar dragon for a private getaway."

the taste of salty summer brine by mischiefseven

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. None

"By the third dream where Fjord opened his eyes to a murky, muted underwater vision, he… He wouldn’t say 'was used to it,' or 'knew what to expect,' but it wasn’t surprising anymore. The specifics were surprising, but he was aware by now that he’d gotten himself into something deeply fucked up. He still wasn’t sure what his patron would ask of him next, but he was as prepared as he could be, given the circumstances

So he thought."

Consume.

The Locked Tomb

open up all the faucets (be fruitful and multiply) by NotAFicWriter

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus

Having crawled out of Hell more herself than ever, Harrow finds a mostly-restored Gideon and the two finally have that long-awaited discussion. Many mouths are involved, but very little talking is had.

N.Y. By Night (Web Series)

Blow out the Fire by ladyofrosefire

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Reyes Malcolm/Margot “Fuego” Walker

After Rey suffers a bad night and a frenzy brought on by hunger, Fuego pays him a visit.

The Sandman

dare to eat a peach by tharkuun

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Dream/Hob

“Hob had looked into a dangerous mouth of hungry fangs, had felt flayed open and spread before the gaze of innumerable eyes, had felt the insistent pressing of uncountable hands upon his body and Hob had, briefly, thought, Oh, yes please. For all his horror, his stranger had still been beautiful, and Hob could never stop wanting him.”

Or, once upon a time, Hob saw Eldritch Nightmare Dream and thought, "That one, I want that one."

The way they light candles in Rome by ladyofrosefire

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Johanna Constantine

Roughly a week after her run-in with Dream of the Endless, Johanna meets him again in his realm.

Set between episodes 5 and 6, for reference.

陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)

The soft animal of your body by Ladyofrosefire, NotAFicWriter

M, No Archive Warnings Apply. Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xiǎo Xīngchén

"In the aftermath, the time Song Lan cannot name as anything other than yawning grief, there had been first nothing— a sword on his back and a bag in his hands or tucked away safely inside of his robes. And then he had looked into the bag, just once. Perhaps he had expected stardust, or mist, or light. He had felt Xingchen’s soul a hundred times, tangled up with his own in their bed. He had never seen it.

Song Lan opened the bag, and looked in, and inhaled."

Death, breath, and other things less simple than they seem.

Unbound, Unhallowed by Ritualist

E, Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xuē Yáng | Xuē Chéngměi Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xiǎo Xīngchén/Xuē Yáng | Xuē Chéngměi

Xiao Xingchen doesn't believe in the Folk, but the Folk believe in him.

Voltron: Legendary Defender

The Monster Mash by Demenior

E, No Archive Warnings Apply. Shiro/Ulaz (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)/Original Female Character(s), Shiro (Voltron)/Original Male Character(s), Prince Rahjim/Shiro (Voltron), Antok/Shiro (Voltron)

Collection of prompts written for the 'Monster F**kers Bingo'.

#pictures #Critical Role #The Locked Tomb #nybn #The Untamed #The Sandman #Voltron #rec list #Demenior #Ritualist #ladyofrosefire #mischiefseven #notaficwriter #tharkuun

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typingtess · 1 year

Text

Tiptoeing through the “A Long Time Coming” guest cast

Gary Cole as NCIS Special Agent Alden Parker Wilmer Valderrama as NCIS Special Agent Nicholas "Nick" Torres Vanessa Lachey as NCIS Special Agent Jane Tennant Yasmine Al-Bustami as NCIS Agent Lucy Tara

Everyone here has a role on the sister shows. Teams photo and selfie. Teams with a body.

Kavi Ramachandran Ladnier as NCIS Reserve Agent Shyla Dahr Back from “Flesh and Blood” in early November.

Lesley Boone as Nina Barnes Knew she was a keeper! Boone is back from “Come Together”, the season 13 finale. Hanging with Wilmer Valderrama and ECO. Maya Stojan as Morgan Miller Played Tory Ellis, the NYPD Video Tech, in 27 episodes of Castle, Kara Lynn Palmas/Agent 33 on Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD and was Meredith Ragen in the “Decompressed” season 13 episode of NCIS. Wouldn’t the NCIS Navy Yard staffers recognize Morgan Miller as Meredith Ragen? #ThingsToPonderAtNight.

Had guest roles in episodes of Entourage, Criminal Minds, How to Live with Your Parents (for the Rest of Your Life), Grey’s Anatomy, The Resident and Magnum P.I. (2022). Trailer and Hawai’i photo.

Jose Pablo Cantillo as Pierce Was Duff Gonzalez in Standoff, Hector Salazar in Sons of Anarchy, Caesar Martinez in The Walking Dead, Dave in Taken and Carlos Jimenez in Mayor of Kingstown.

Appeared in episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Law & Order: SVU, ER, CSI: Miami, Medical Investigation, Crossing Jordan, Nip/Tuck, Bones, Eyes, Monk, CSI (2008), The Closer, Lie to Me, Hawthorne, Dark Blue, Lone Star, Terriers, The Good Guys, Law & Order: LA, The River, The Finder, The Mentalist, Rush, Constantine, Damien, Shooter, The Last Ship, The Rookie, SWAT and Magnum P.I. (2022).

Guest starred as DEA Agent Mark Sisco in last season’s “Thick as Thieves” NCIS episode. Wouldn’t the NCIS Navy Yard staffers recognize Pierce as someone else? #ThingsToPonderAtNight.

Stephen Mendel as Jimmy McCann Longtime working actor. Played Det. Freddie Carson in the CTV/CBS series Night Heat in the 1980′s.

Played Col. Tretyakov in the season six “Legacy” part one JAG premiere and Fred Pettis in the season 14 “Off the Grid” episode of NCIS. Wouldn’t the NCIS Navy Yard team members recognize Jimmy McCann as someone else? #ThingsToPonderAtNight.

Guest starred in episodes of Hart to Hart, Hot Shots, Night Heat, Dallas, Father Dowling Mysteries, Equal Justice, Sisters, Beverly Hills 90210, Saved by the Bell, L.A. Law, Murder She Wrote, The Hunger, The X-Files, The Practice, Judging Amy, The West Wing, 24, CSI: Miami, Jack & Bobby, Sleeper Cell, Las Vegas, The Bold & The Beautiful, Criminal Minds, Sons of Anarchy, Mad Men, Allegiance, Revenge, General Hospital, Grey’s Anatomy, American Woman and You’re the Worst.

Voices characters in a number of animated series.

Written by: R. Scott Gemmill wrote/cowrote “The Only Easy Day”, “Brimstone”, “Breach”, “LD50”, “Found”, “Borderline”, “Absolution”, “Archangel”, “Tin Soldiers”, “Impostors”, “Cyberthreat”, “Honor”, “The Watchers” and both sides of the NCIS Los: Angeles/Hawaii Five-0 “Touch of Death” episodes, “Recruit”, “Free Ride”, “Wanted”, “Ravens and The Swans”, “Impact”, “War Cries”, both ends of the “Deep Trouble” season five finale/season six premiere, “Inelegant Heart”, “Praesidium”, “Traitor”, “Active Measures” (season seven premiere), “Blame It On Rio”, “Internal Affairs”, “Matryoshka” part one, "Talion" (season seven finale), “High Value Target”/”Belly of the Beast” (season eight premieres), “The Queen’s Gambit”, “Under Siege”, “Unleashed” (season eight finale), “Party Crashers” (season nine’s premiere), “This Is What We Do” (episode 200), “Các Tù Nhân”, “Goodbye Vietnam”, “Ninguna Salida” (the season nine finale), “Hit List”, “Asesinos”, “Till Death Do Us Part”, “Choke Point”, “The Guardian”, “Hail Mary”, “Kill Beale Vol. 1”, “Alsiyadun”, “Fortune Favors the Brave”, “The Bear” (season 12 premiere), “Angry Karen”, “Love Kills”, “Russia, Russia, Russia”, “The Noble Maidens”, “A Tale of Two Igors” (season 12 finale), "Subject 17" (season 13 premiere), "All The Little Things", “MWD”, “Work and Family” and “Game of Drones” (season 14 premiere).

Directed by: Dennis Smith directed “Fame”, “Standoff”, “Rocket Man”, “Cyberthreat”, “Exit Strategy”, “Patriot Acts”, “Out of the Past” part one, “The Livelong Day”, Between the Lines”, “Deep Trouble” part two, “Black Budget", “Black Wind”, “Blame it On Rio”, “Defectors”, “Matryoshka” part one, “Granger, O”, “The Queen’s Gambit”, “Hot Water”, “From Havana With Love”, “Plain Sight”, the lighthearted “Monster”, “Superhuman”, “One of Us”, “Smokescreen” part one, “Decoy”, “Mother” (episode 250), “Alsiyadun”, “The Bear”, “Angry Karen”, “Signs of Change”, “Fukushu” and “Dead Stick”. Scouting locations. Call sheet. With Vanessa Lachay at the foot of the office staircase. With Wilmer Valderrama in the office.

#tiptoeing #NCIS: Los Angeles #NCIS: LA #NCIS Los Angeles #ncis la

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insomanic-fanfication · 9 months

Text

Fandom & Character list

Author's note: This post will probably be constantly changing and being updated, but don't worry; each time I do, I'll change the edited date.

_______________The list, cause this bitch is long_________________

DC COMICS

Batman (Bruce Wayne) Night Wing (Dick Grayson) Red Hood (Jason Todd) Red Robin (Tim Drake) Superman (Clark Kent) Super Boy ( 90s - 2000s Conner Kent (Kon-el)) The Flash (Barry Allen) Kid Flash (Wally West) Green Lantern (Hal Jordan) Helblazier (John Constantine)

FALLOUT FRANCHISE

Fallout New Vegas

Craig Boone Major Knight Manny Vargas Jack (Boomer Nellis Air Force Base) Ranger Ghost Sergeant McGee Joshua Grahm Benny Gecko Ulysses Arcade Gannon

Fallout 4

Nick Valentine Deacon John Hancock MacCready Paladin Danse Preston Garvey Dogmeat (ONLY AS A PLONTIC COMFORT)

MARVEL COMICS

Captain America (Steve Rodgers) Spiderman (Peter Parker) Iron Fist Iron-man (Tony Stark) Star-Lord (Peter Quill) Deadpool (Wade Wilson) Black Panther Spider-punk (Hobie Brown)

Call of Duty

Ghost (Simon Riley) Konig John Price Alejandro Vargas Soap (John MacTavish) Gaz (Kyle Garrick) Roach

___________________________________________________________

[last updated December 23, 2023]

#character list #fanfication blog #fallout #fallout 4 #fallout new vegas #dc comics #marvel #cod #marden warfare #male reader

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futzingbarton · 1 year

Text

verum vinum vitiosum

Constantine smiles his hesitant little half-smile, and Arcade can’t stop himself.

Without thinking he blurts, “Please don’t sleep with Benny.”

Tan blinks. “What?” he croaks. He leans back a little, raising a confused brow. “Is…that what this was all about?”

The Courier has finally made it to the Lucky 38, after much hemming and hawing. Now that he's finally made it, after months on the road with his friends, there's only one thing left to do: confront the inevitable. The idea of it makes Arcade more anxious than he cares to admit.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

You are not Catallus, you know,

To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar. You are far

From Dante’s feet, but even farther from his dirty

Political hatreds.

Arcade finds it surprising, really, how little time it takes for them all to make the Lucky 38 feel like home. Well, homier. There’s an unspoken discomfort about the whole thing: the ever-looming presence of Securitrons on every floor, their whirring servos a backdrop of surveillance beneath the pleasant, if repetitive, tunes of the radio. But there is still a comfort to it, a comfort teetering on the edge of complacency, especially given Constantine’s easygoing nature about it all.

He’d wandered into the prehistoric building around noon, and by dinner time, they had all been invited inside with as much cordiality as one could expect from the flickering image of a cowboy’s face plastered onto the CRT screen of a military-ready robot.

The group adjusts in the same way they’ve adjusted to everything since they’ve all started traveling together—that is to say, to each their own, and falling together in the haphazard way that has kept them alive in their rambling travails across the Mojave.

Veronica is quick to address the radio’s lack of variety. She scours the accessible floors—heavily monitored by Securitrons, of course—until she finds a working record player, complete with an entire trunk full of vinyl records, immaculately preserved. The group hears about this discovery before she even makes it back to their private floor with it in tow, by way of Mr. House’s booming voice echoing throughout the halls, insisting that “while he might not have much use for music or records anymore, he had better not hear about the player and records making their way into the hands of the Brotherhood proper.” This was followed by some more derogatory commentary regarding the Brotherhood of Steel, which continued even while Veronica strode back through the suite doors, making a puppet of her hand to mock the tyrant’s ranting.

Lily quite enthusiastically volunteers to go through everyone’s clothing and armor, and takes her place at the miraculously-working bathtubs to wash and clean and dry it all. Even ED-E helps, its antennae a perfect hanger for socks to dry. She folds and sets it all aside on everyone’s individual bunks to sort later, once “the boys” are done designating which cabinets and drawers are for weapons only.

“The boys,” of course, being Raul and Boone. They busy themselves with taking a tally of the group’s weaponry and sorting it among a variety of cabinets and shelves, falling into an easy and silent pattern once all the equipment is laid out. Raul cleans and assesses the damages, lists what needs done in a separate journal, then organizes the weapon into its respective type. From there, Boone arranges everything in an order that any one of them could figure out, even drunk. Pistols all together, rifles and automatics together, energy weapons separated by pistols and rifles, big guns in big cabinets, hidden weapons in smaller drawers, and so on and so forth. To make things even clearer, he finds a pen hidden in one of the desks of the hotel rooms, and labels every single storage unit. “Cass-proofing,” he calls it. From the adjoining kitchen, Cass just rolls her eyes.

Cass, predictably, has taken to inventorying the alcohol in the place. She leaves the cocktail lounge alone, justifying that it’s already about as organized as it could be, but searches through the other rooms on the hotel floor for any stray bottles of liquor that might have escaped her notice. She promises Constantine to help with the cooking when she’s done, and while he’s—as ever—gracious and understanding, Arcade doesn’t miss the slight shake of his head as she walks away to the sitting room, bottles all gathered in a crate. As though sensing the same concern, Rex pads away after her, and he lets out the occasional snuffle of approval as she lists out her tasting notes on the variety of spirits.

Which leaves Arcade alone with Constantine in the kitchen.

“It’s been a while since I was in a proper kitchen,” Constantine comments idly, then stops. He stares at the stove with a furrowed brow, racking his brain for the bits of memory that spurred the comment. With a sigh, he gives up quickly, merely adding, “at least, I think,” before plastering a lazy smile back onto his face.

He uncorks a bottle of wine that he kept out of Cass’s reach, pouring himself and Arcade each a glass, and sets Arcade to the task of assisting him in sorting out their food and rations between two refrigerators. One is for edibles and victuals for cooking, the other for medicinal necessities.

They take to the work without much chatter, each simply nursing their wine and sorting bags and bags of road food and medicine into something resembling an easily navigable fridge. They sit beside each other, each focused on their respective refrigerators of stuff, the open bags of supplies strewn between them. The silence between them, punctuated only by the background noise of everyone else’s conversations beneath the sound of Veronica’s new tunes, is a comfortable one. So comfortable, in fact, it takes a while for Arcade to realize that Tan is humming along with the music from the other room, and humming in tune, at that.

“Do you—I mean, did you used to sing, you think?” he offers up as an opening. Easy enough for Tan to maneuver out of answering as he has countless times in the past, but perhaps just innocent enough that Arcade might actually get an answer.

Tan stops humming and shifts his weight in the way he’s sitting. For a moment, Arcade is terrified that he’ll get up and leave, make some excuse for needing to check on the others, but no; he just moves from sitting cross-legged to sitting on his knees, and keeps sorting the gecko steaks and raw vegetables within the fridge.

“Probably,” he says. “I mean, more likely than not I did something with music. I can play guitar a bit, I’ve found. And I found some old lyrics I’d written in a journal Doc Mitchell got off my corpse way back when. So maybe I was some kind of travelin’ musician or some such, though that don’t really explain the sniping expertise, or much of anything else.” He sets aside three gecko steaks, three brahmin steaks, and some chunks of lakelurk meat before continuing to sort more things out in the fridge, as though he hadn’t just revealed more about himself than Arcade’s managed to piece together in weeks.

Arcade sits back on his heels, stunned. He stares into the open fridge and wonders how he ought to respond. Instinctually, he wants to bite back with something sarcastic, something witty and needling, as so much of their banter before has been. But something about that doesn’t feel right, and certainly isn’t how he wants to reward or respond to Constantine’s honesty. Do any of the others know, he wonders, and if they don’t, is it just because he hasn’t told them yet? Is this sparse hint of a memory just for me? It isn’t until one of the dozen bags of Rad-Away he’s holding in his arms slips out and slaps onto the tile floor that he shakes his head and snaps back into the moment. He blinks at the bag.

“How can you just do that?” he asks, opting for honesty as he stacks the bags into one of the crisper drawers and picking up the fallen one. “You could talk—I mean, you have talked—a Freeside junkie out of all their chems before like it didn’t even take any effort. Hell, I’ve even seen you talk some sense into the NCR.” Arcade shuts the drawer, Rad-Away stacked neatly inside, and stares directly at the courier. “But when anyone asks you about yourself you usually deflect more than anything else, so how can I just take whatever the hell you say at face value, even if it’s some small thing about yourself? How can I trust anything that comes out of your mouth, frankly?” he says.

How can I trust you’re not just saying what I want to hear? he means.

“I could show you,” Tan says instantly, without a hint of humor. “Could play you a song I wrote. Just gotta find a guitar, first.”

Arcade chuckles nervously. “Suuuure?” he starts, drawing the word out. “Sure, fine, yeah. I’ll hold you to that, I guess. But it’s not—oh, thank you.” He stops as Tan refills his wine glass, takes a sip and braces for the tannic bite before swallowing and carrying on.

“It’s not just about your hobbies or proclivities, Constantine,” he continues. He arranges the bottles of Buffout, Cateye, and Rad-X all along the bottom shelf of the fridge, focusing on facing their labels outwards. “It’s just unsettling how quickly you can switch from using that silver tongue on others to promising that you’re not using it on your allies, your…friends. It’s not that I don’t really know you. Because, well, I guess I don’t, but I’ve at least seen enough to know what you intend, and I think that counts for something.”

“Good,” Tan mumbles, so quietly that Arcade takes a second to process it.

“What was that?” he asks, looking back over at the courier. “Good?”

“Yeah. Good.” Tan takes a sip of his wine, and then, as though having decided something daring, opts to drink half the glass instead. He turns and locks eyes with the doctor, his olive skin glowing a wan yellow in the light of the open refrigerators.

“I am…trying to be a good person, Arcade. To do right, by you, by everyone else part of this wandering family, by everyone I meet and listen to and do my best to help. But I ain’t got no metric for it. I ain’t got any clue of if I have any right to be doing what I’m doing. If there’s any basis for this version of Constantine.”

His voice falls to a low whisper and he turns his head to stare back into the fridge, bringing the scar that canyons along his right temple into full view.

“I don't know me, either. I’ve got no clue who this Constantine is. Where he grew up. Why he is the way he is. Who he loved, who loved him back. I’ve got no foundation. I’m as rickety as a shack in a sandstorm and if it weren’t for the folks who’ve got my back, I’d be even more lost.”

He twirls the stem of the wine glass between his fingers thoughtfully before turning his gaze over to Arcade.

“So, I guess I mean to say…thank you,” he says simply.

Tan finishes off the wine and rises to his feet, taking the wine glass and all the ingredients he’d set aside with him. He pushes the door of the food fridge with his hip, and it clicks solidly shut.

Without really meaning to, Arcade can’t take his eyes off of him, the contents of the medical fridge suddenly trivial compared to the tanned, scarred man across the room. Tan seemingly takes no notice, milling about the kitchen with an eerily practiced ease, and before long he’s assembled a variety of pots, pans, cutting boards, and utensils that he then lays out on one of the tables. He starts humming again, and something in Arcade uncoils, relaxes. He is only half aware of the stimpaks sitting in a bag near his lap, their super counterparts spilling out of the medical backpack. He opens his mouth to say something more, to alleviate the last bits of tension in his gut, but then Tan adds some soft and gentle words to his song. Arcade snaps his mouth shut, and dutifully turns back to the fridge and supplies.

At first he forces himself to focus, willing himself to ignore everything besides the work in front of him, but slowly, comfortably, he simply allows himself to get lost in the categorizing. Tan’s hushed singing joins the white noise of Veronica’s record player, and Arcade finds that there is a part of him that is, quite oddly, happy.

Though perhaps happy isn’t quite the right word for it. It is more like contentment, this smooth and round feeling in his chest. Fulfillment flirting with satisfaction, the kind of pleasurable ease that comes with doing more than merely taking up space, with contributing something genuine, something tangible. As he observes his perfectly organized fridge of medical supplies, he smiles a little, bewildered at the pride he holds for this mundane thing. It is a pride far greater than he ever felt for his barrel cactus experimentations and various other odd jobs back at the Fort. Despite his intentions, despite everything, the Fort held him in more than held him up and he supposes, with a shake of his head, that he can’t really fault a fort for doing what it was built for.

“Looks great,” he hears from behind him. Tan looms over him, nodding appraisingly. “Easy enough to navigate even if you’re bleeding out.”

Arcade huffs a laugh. “I should hope that if you’re bleeding out, you’d seek out my help before stumbling to the fridge.”

“Sure, but what if you’re not with me?” Tan shrugs.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arcade asks before he can stop himself. He considers jumping to his feet and running out of the room before Tan can ask him to elaborate, but then he feels Tan’s hand ruffle through his hair, hears him chuckle and walk back to the sizzling pan on the stove.

“Must you?” Arcade grumbles while fixing his hair back into place, dutifully ignoring his increased heart rate. In fact, he’s been doing a grand job of pointedly avoiding thinking about anything regarding Tan too seriously the entire time they’ve been traveling together. He’s gotten quite good at shoving down his feelings over the years anyway—what with his personal history looming over him like a bear waiting to eat after a long hibernation—so stomping flat whatever had threatened to well up regarding Constantine came easily, at first. The courier was easy enough to write off as intriguing: so open in his eagerness to learn, so desperate in his desire to help people, so hopeful with his vision of the future, all underscored by his gentle despair about his lost past.

Intriguing, Arcade insists to himself, and nothing more.

But then that bastard Doc Richards had to go and call him “buttercup” and “my fine dear” and Arcade just had to stand there in the dim light of the Camp Forlorn Hope medical tent and feel the ropy grip of jealousy seize him so tightly he could hardly breathe.

Since then, he’s been more careful, more guarded, and certainly more restrained in his interactions with the man. But now, steeped in the sudden domesticity within this tomb of a building, the closeness is stifling in the most intoxicating of ways.

Or maybe it’s just the wine, he thinks. When his next thought is in vino veritas, he realizes perhaps he has had enough.

“If you’re done over there, want to help me out?” Tan’s voice crashes through his thoughts.

“Oh, uh. Sure,” Arcade says. He zips the remaining necessary supplies into the medical backpack and shuts the fridge. He places his empty wine glass on the dining table before joining Tan at the counter. “How can I help?”

“Just more prep work that would speed things along. You know your way around chopping up vegetables, yeah?” Tan grins.

Arcade rolls his eyes. “Oh ha, ha. Very funny.”

Tan laughs and fetches an extra knife from a nearby drawer. “I mean it, I need you to help with the salad while I finish up with the stir fry and stew.”

Arcade sighs in mock annoyance, and takes his place at the other cutting board. There’s plenty of his nemesis—barrel cactus fruit—waiting to be prepped, as well as carrots, some mutfruit, pinto bean pods, agave fruit, and pinyon nuts to top it all off.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” he jokes, “but if I end up locked in an ancient building chopping up plants every day again, I’m out of here.”

“Just this once, promise! ‘Sides, this ain’t an exercise in futility, we’re actually gonna be putting your hard work to use. By eating it.”

“Sure, sure,” Arcade sighs again, resigned. He starts chopping up the cactus fruit slowly, not about to admit to Tan that he was more used to cutting them with scalpels rather than knives.

The silence is companionable. Tan’s given up on the humming and singing, now focusing on flipping various pieces of meat in the pan to fry them up evenly, sidestepping over to the other stove to stir the stew before making his way back to his own cutting board to grab more ingredients and add them where necessary. He moves with a practiced, though restless, surety, and Arcade cannot help but keep glancing his way. Sometimes Tan stops and blinks before reaching for another pinch of salt or the seasoning packet from a Blamco Mac n Cheese, frozen in a sudden indecision, only to shake his head, laugh quietly through his nose, and return to his previous dance around the kitchen appliances.

Once he’s nicked his fingers twice by looking away, Arcade glues his eyes to the cutting board. He finishes up the cactus fruit, deposits the cuttings into a large bowl, and starts on the agave.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat, “why are you doing this, anyway?”

“Doing what?” Tan asks. He didn’t even look up from the stir fry, Arcade notices, and then curses himself for taking his eyes off the vegetables again. And for caring about something so trivial like a glance.

“This whole...big meal thing.”

“Oh. Well, we’ve been on the road for a good long while now,” Tan says with a shrug. “Figured while we had the chance it’d be nice to show my appreciation. Give everyone a moment to be relaxed, taken care of. Careful, knife behind.”

Tan moves around Arcade’s station back to the food fridge, then repeats his callout when he returns with another brahmin steak in hand. He parks himself at the counter near the doctor, and starts cutting the meat into strips.

“Camping is nice ‘n’ all,” he continues, “but having a sliver of time where you can just eat and have fun with the folks you care about without the threat of deathclaws or raiders or cazadores is a real luxury, it seems. Especially if you’ve got the bad luck of traveling around with me. So I thought a home cooked meal would be a good place to start, to give everyone a second just to breathe, y’know?”

Arcade shakes the agave off the cutting board and into the salad bowl. “Ah, that’s…” he stops. He picks up the pinto bean pods and cuts one into pieces while thinking of what word he wants to use. Noble? Considerate? Charming? He throws the pieces into the bowl.

“That’s nice of you to do,” he decides.

“Thanks,” Tan says casually. “Just the least I could do, really, after leading y’all into certain danger as often as I do.”

“Your ‘least’ is a lot more than most people would choose to do,” Arcade says. The repetitive percussive chopping of the bean pods overtakes the way his heart beats in his ears, and he is grateful for the reprieve.

Tan snorts a laugh and shakes his head.

“You know, Arcade, for an idealist, you’re a lot more cynical than I expected you’d be.”

Arcade frowns, shaking the chopped beans into a separate bowl from the fruit. “That’s rather presumptuous,” he says, defensive. “On both accounts.”

Tan clicks off the burner and, briefly lamenting his lack of oven mitts, tucks his hands into his sweater sleeves to move the stew pot onto the large dining table.

“I don’t mean to offend,” he offers up quickly. “Just observing. You’re very focused on bettering yourself and others, which I’d consider idealistic in a world like ours. I mean, we’ve all seen the state of the wasteland. Denying you’re a good person with decent motivations doesn’t match up with what I’ve seen from you.” The courier shrugs and heads back to the stove to retrieve the stir fry. “Though I’ve been on the receiving end of your acerbic wit enough to respect that you’ve probably got your reasons for being guarded or assuming something unkind, is all I meant.”

Arcade sets the knife down, stunned into silence. He grapples with what to unpack first: the fact that Tan’s been paying him such close attention; that he’s so open with his compliments; his scathingly honest read of him; or, hell, his correct use of ‘acerbic?’ He gawps at the carrots left on the cutting board, considering how to respond, when Tan nudges at his shoulder.

“May I?” he asks, taking the knife from where Arcade put it.

“Yeah,” Arcade squeaks, sliding out of the way. He watches as Tan makes short work of the carrots, julienning them as naturally as breathing before adding them to the pinto bean and yucca salad. He sprinkles the pinyon nuts on top with a flourish and, finished bowl of salad in hand, he looks at Arcade and winks.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, smiling. Arcade hardly manages a nod before Tan turns to shout at the open door, “Dinner’s ready!”

And just like that, everything falls back in place. The blood pounding in his ears gives way to the scratchy songs coming from the record player, and the buzz of conversation as the rest of Tan’s companions trickle into the kitchen. Tan’s moved on and away to start doling out plates and portions, leaving Arcade with the hum of his perfectly organized fridge for company.

He hopes for one brief moment that he might at the very least save a seat next to Constantine, but before he can even move away from the fridge, Veronica and Boone have flanked Tan at the table. Lily and Raul sit next to each of them, and Arcade is left with the seat at the opposite end. Even Rex sits beside Tan to beg for scraps, while Ed-E hums near the middle of the table, jauntily playing some scratchy bossa nova tune to announce its own excitement.

Accepting defeat, he takes his seat, but not before refilling his wine glass—and taking the bottle with him for good measure. There’s a little bit of chatter as Tan lists the dishes and ingredients, but before long there’s a focused silence punctuated only by the odd burp or scraping of a fork against a plate.

No one else notices Tan fidget with his food, glancing nervously around the table. Arcade tries not to notice, not to care, but he’s sitting directly across from him—though he may as well be an ocean away. They lock eyes, and it’s Tan who flushes and looks away first. Enlightenment, or perhaps, the basic comprehension of manners, slaps Arcade upside the head with all the force of a charging deathclaw.

“You know,” Raul says before Arcade even opens his mouth, “my abuela used to say that the best compliment to her cooking was when everyone was too busy eating to talk.”

Arcade stabs idly at his salad, drowning his pout in wine.

“Thanks, Raul,” Tan says, flashing a grateful smile. “Here I was worried the poison kicked in too soon.”

The table erupts in laughter. Arcade hides his smile behind his hand, for fear of smiling too broadly—lest it lead to laughing too loudly.

“It’s good,” Boone states. He doesn’t say anything else, but there’s the slightest softening to his usually dour expression. Veronica mumbles her agreement through a full mouth, and Rex wags his tail contentedly at Tan’s side. It’s storybook idyllic, and with the wine’s help, even Arcade feels capable of forgetting the tyrannical presence of Mr. House and his robot bouncers. The knot in his stomach uncoils just slightly, and he can eat without his usual anxious nausea.

Well, usual as of late. He was never this anxious back at the Fort. He’d been plenty bored, and sometimes he forgot to eat at all, but he never used to stress about it. Now, it’s basically him or Veronica reminding the group they’re (mostly) human, and need to stop and stretch and eat and sleep; it’s a miracle if Tan scarfs down more than a couple bites before coming up with some excuse to patrol or pace by the fire. This wouldn’t be quite as much of a worry if Arcade wasn’t also the one patching up Tan when he stumbled and fell, or dodged something too late and ended up slashed open. There’s been more than one close call with very visible mines, too. It doesn’t help that everyone else is basically just as foolhardy, so Tan just goes along with them, leaving Arcade and Veronica in the vocal minority regarding basic self care.

Anyway, he reminds himself, stopping that particular train of thought with another sip of wine. This is nice. And it is. It’s cozy, comfortable like a well worn sweater, uncomplicated in the way everyone fits together, with Tan at the center of them all.

He’s seen a faded copy of The Last Supper in one of Michael Angelo’s extra books on art and murals. The finality of that whole scene, of Jesus sat agonizingly in the middle, surrounded by people connected in their familiarity and faith, all consumed with the desire to know that magnetic center, to know of him and to be with him. He wonders if this is exactly what makes Caesar so much, so greater than to his followers—the wonder of not knowing who he truly is, or perhaps of understanding that despite his past he’s something more, something now. It’s impossible not to look at Tan—grinning, laughing, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes—and not make the connection. Caesar’s army, Constantine’s ragtag ensemble, they help each power stand on their own, but it’s that mystery, that emptiness just waiting to be defined, that blooms them into folk heroes.

Perhaps that’s why everyone’s still here, regardless of whatever selfish reason they initially tagged along for. Just to be nearby. To be in the spectacle of it.

If he’d succeeded at sitting at Tan’s right side, would that make him Judas?

He might as well be, with his history. His very own ruined Eden, full of promise and opportunity and sweet, sweet knowledge. He may not have been the one to welcome the snake or bite the apple, but he prospered from it all the same. And it’s there, it’s always there, bleeding in at the edges of his mind, reminding him of all he had and lost and left behind. Perhaps he could also do more, be more, if he stopped running from it. Perhaps those devilish eyes could mean more to him than his own personal failings if he could simply turn back around to meet their gaze and challenge their ideals.

But then again, Judas thought he was doing the right thing, too.

Tan, though…he isn’t Caesar, despite the similarities. He’s made that much clear through his actions and his loyalties, so much so that it feels wrong to even put them in the same category…but denying his importance, his magnetism, feels just as wrong. He’s certainly not Jesus, either, though his death and subsequent resurrection lend a lot more credence to that identity, and with all of the change he’s wrought throughout the wasteland in his short spree of benevolence, it does feel like a second coming of sorts. He is both and he is neither, in the same way that neither the public’s reverence nor fear precludes either one from also being very deeply human.

Shit, he’s so drunk. He’s not drunk enough not to notice, so he’s grateful for that, but he’s so far gone that once he realizes he can’t draw an accurate enough comparison to despots or deities when it comes to his friend sitting in front of him—cheery and handsome and beaming—his mouth goes dry searching for something, anything to compare him to. Something to anchor him, make him feel more real. More attainable.

Arcade realizes, with a juvenile flush of shame, that all he has at the moment to compare Constantine to is wine. It’s the closest thing he’s got and he’d be lying if he tried to deny that they both have the same effect on him. Wine, he thinks. A heart just like wine. So warm and bolstering, something that fills you up with confidence, but too much and you’re off your feet, a blurred version of yourself, doubting if the choices you made were what you wanted to do at all.

He’d read about the noble rot before, Botrytis cinerea, in the pages of a book about plants so worn and old half of them had been scattered around giant mantis nests in the abandoned schoolhouse Tan once dragged him to, when he was revisiting his own grave. This strange and fungal thing that makes grapes taste sweeter, but not before drying them out a little first.

And that’s what Tan is, with his silver tongue. He does make things better, makes things make sense, but not before Arcade wonders what the fuck his goals are. His decisions are strange and sometimes Arcade can’t see the point of them, but he makes things hopeful and sweeter and better. Arcade is too much of a scientist to be a poet but he’s occasionally tried to get Tan to be.

“Ha, no,” he’d told him once. “The only good words I've got are the ones I don't spend time thinking about. I'm witty, not wise.”

That had been enough to make Arcade rethink his initial judgment. Tan was more self aware than he let on, and there was always some part of him that stayed grounded, even if he couldn’t name or claim what that part of him was.

It’s Cass who finally shatters him out of his reverie, making him realize he’d been slumped over with his chin in his hand staring dreamily across the table.

“So what are you going to do about Benny? Now that we’re finally here,” she asks, pouring herself another shot of whiskey.

“Dunno. Talk to him?” Tan replies with a shrug.

Raul nods. “If anyone can do that and get away with it, it’s you, boss.”

“I hope so. I’d rather not get shot again.”

“Talk to him?” Cass downs the shot and grins conspiratorially over at Veronica. “I feel like with this one he'll just open his mouth and succeed in seducing him, yeah?”

Arcade chokes down his wine.

Veronica bursts out laughing, and even Boone agrees with a half-smile and nod. Lily enthusiastically raises a glass to her handsome grandson, and the whole table follows suit.

Tan rolls his eyes, but raises a glass along with them. “Sure, sure, that could be an option.”

Before he’s fully realized it, Arcade’s scraped his chair back and is standing up at the table. “Uh…excuse me,” he mumbles, scrambling to keep his words un-slurred. “Bathroom.”

Everyone gives him a bit of a look, especially Tan, but no one stops him from leaving. He has to squeeze behind Veronica and Boone and Rex to pass by Constantine on his way out of the room, and he makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder. Everyone else has returned to eating, resumed their playful banter, but Tan’s still looking at him, brow furrowed in concern. Arcade practically sprints to the elevator.

_____________

The emptiness of the cocktail lounge is eerie. At face value, not any more so than any of the other wasteland remnants they’ve scavenged, but there’s a lingering sort of sadness in the cidevant opulence of the place that starts to tighten in Arcade’s gut. Everything is still set up, as though the building itself has been waiting to entertain new guests. Plastic plants dot tabletops with menus so sun bleached they’re illegible, now serving as little more than pinkish placemats. Motes of dust hover in the warm beams of sunset, suspended in time in much the same way as the entirety of the lounge, with its garish carpet and plush booth seats. He makes his way behind the bar, chiding himself for entertaining thoughts of what this place might have once felt like, sounded like, revolving and surveying the beauty of an unravaged desert.

He clicks on the radio to feel a little less alone, and Billie Holiday's crooning easily fills the space. He grabs one of the cleaner looking pint glasses, wipes it with his sleeve for good measure, and glances first to the small beverage fridge beneath the counter, then at the hose from the tap. He sighs.

You’re not in your twenties anymore, Arcade, he reminds himself, and goes to test if the water still works. It does, and he frowns down at the hose as it fills his glass. Of course this hellish place still has working plumbing, even when everywhere else is struggling. House doesn’t even need running water, but it’s not like that bastard has ever cared about what he needs when it comes to what he wants.

The water’s hard, and tastes of rust, but the threat of giardia isn’t really any worse than the constant worry about radiation poisoning from any other water source. The Follower’s water stills do the best they can, and the rations from Lake Mead certainly taste better, and maybe, maybe, if Constantine means what he says and does what he can, things could improve across the board. He’d been willing to help with the solar array and showed he wasn’t just acting on impulse when diverting power equally across all districts. There’s forethought and compassion in his choices, and god shit fuck he’s thinking about him again.

He pours himself another glass of water and chugs it; two’s enough for him to justify checking out the drink fridges. They’re all working, though barely, and the beers and wines stored within are only just below room temperature. He takes a lager at random and pours it into the glass, then makes his way to one of the broad windows.

It’s beautiful from up here, no matter how much he hates the grandeur of it all. He’s never really been up this high before, but he remembers how Daisy’s eyes used to light up when talking about flying, and for the first time he really gets it. It’s an equal blend of fear and awe standing there, hearing the wind whipping sand against the dusty windows, feeling the glass rattle and shake. Red Rock’s rolling peaks stretch out far in the distance, so oneiric in their tranquility, shimmering with heat in the evening sun. Even Outer Vegas and Freeside seem out of reach, the dots of its citizens skittering around the filthy streets like drunk ants.

When he’d been lecturing Constantine about Thomas Hildern’s big picture obsession—back when they’d been taking bounties over at Camp McCarran—regarding the NCR’s inability to distance themselves from the large scale results and perceptions enough to remember the idea of basic decency and working towards the common good for the people in their care, he never thought he’d physically be at enough of a distance to see what that meant literally. Now that he’s staring down at it all, he’s satisfied to feel justified in his judgments. No matter the size of the scurrying people down there, no matter how far removed, it’s impossible not to feel worried for them all. Is the sun too hot, are they getting enough to eat? If you can’t see the fruit of the farms from here, just the borders and pipelines, how can you be sure the very people you’re supposed to be taking care of are getting what they need?

No, drunken confidence or not, he’s proud of his convictions, and he’s happier doing what he can to actively support those out on the street than carrying on with his noble goals of barrel cacti stimpaks. He doesn’t know if there’ll ever be a day when he won’t feel like a hypocrite, what with his origins, but he’s doing the best he can with what he can, and that’s all he can really do.

Satisfied, he toasts the window and drinks to the health of the people below.

“Arcade?”

Tan’s voice rings out in the emptiness of the lounge, taking him so much by surprise that he chokes on his beer and sputters some of it back into the glass.

“Woah, shit, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you. Thought you would’ve heard the elevator,” Tan explains, rushing to his side. Arcade sets his beer down on a nearby table, coughing into his elbow. He can’t talk just yet, but waves his hand in a half-assed attempt to motion that he’s fine.

Tan puts something down—Arcade’s screwed his eyes shut, trying to stop coughing, so he can’t tell what—and places a hand on Arcade’s upper back, rubbing slow, soothing circles in an attempt to help.

It helps. He hates himself for it, but it helps. It’s grounding and there’s this childish part of him that’s reveling in the closeness of it. Like they haven’t already fallen asleep shoulder to shoulder around campfires, like he hasn’t tended to Tan’s countless wounds with delicacy. It’s stupid, but it’s enough to calm him down and focus on Tan’s touch instead of choking, and he drags down a deep and filling breath before he manages a hoarse, “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Tan says, and gives his back an extra pat.

Arcade takes off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. “How’d dinner go?” he asks.

“Oh, fine,” Tan says dismissively. “The others are cleaning up. I saved your plate though, you, uh…didn’t eat much.”

Ah. Right. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It was really good, I just…”

“Hey, no worries. You don’t owe me any explanation. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and that you knew it was still there for you if you wanted it.” Tan’s hand is still settled on his back, burning against him like a branding iron. Arcade wishes he could keep it there forever.

“I’m alright now, thank you,” he says instead. He straightens up and puts his glasses back on, looking over at what Tan had placed on the booth table nearby. A couple bottles of wine and a pair of glasses. The wine looks different from the bottles they’d discovered earlier—the labels are almost pristine, and the dark green glass is hardly dusty. Noticing his attention has shifted elsewhere, Tan withdraws his hand from Arcade’s back, and no sooner have his fingertips lifted away than Arcade wishes they were still there, still holding him steady. He clears his throat, feeling puerile and awkward beyond measure.

“Don’t think I’m drunk enough?” he asks.

Constantine laughs, lifting his hands up. “No pressure! That’s up to you. You don’t have to drink, though…I’d at least appreciate the company.” He stands by the booth seat and presents it with a flourish of jazz hands, and though he shakes his head, Arcade slides into the seat anyway, all the way back to where the booth meets the window.

He blames the wine for how red he flushes when Tan slides in right beside him instead of across from him. Tan pays no mind to Arcade’s surprised stammering, instead just uncorking the wine and pouring himself a glass. Arcade manages to shake his head when Tan proffers it to him.

Tan shrugs. “More for me,” he says, and takes a sip.

The face he makes isn’t entirely disgust, but it certainly isn’t immediate pleasure, either. He furrows his brow in thought, swallows, and smacks his lips.

“Weird,” he says, and sets the glass in front of Arcade. The liquid inside is a deep purple-red. “Try a sip, at least. Maybe you can help me figure out what it tastes like.”

Considering Arcade’s only alternative is the endless buzzing of his tipsy brain going oh god he’s sitting right there and your thighs are touching, he is grateful for any kind of distraction, especially one that might make him less situationally aware. He brings the glass to his mouth and inhales.

He frowns. It certainly isn’t like any wasteland wine he’s tried before. There’s a smoothness to it, a subtlety, with no trace of the acidic radioactivity he’s used to with, well, everything. He smells it before he chances a sip.

It smells fresh, but also somehow old, all at the same time—like the damp earth after a storm in the Mojave, its bruised leaves of sage and mesquite perfuming the air. There’s an oaky taste, and the tannins aren’t strong enough to overwhelm. It tastes like fresh earth after a rain, tastes like what those fake chocolate snack cakes were trying to get at. When he swallows, there is a trace of it all left on his tongue. There’s a fruity flavor there, something he’s never had and can’t describe, but it’s full and round and tart and sweet, and he decides it tastes like summer.

Arcade holds the glass close, refusing to hand it back, shitty pint of beer already forgotten. “Alright. I changed my mind. Where’d you even get this, anyway?”

Tan smiles broadly and pours himself a new glass. “Cass found House’s personal wine cellar. Hermetically sealed. Completely untouched.”

“It’s going to take more than that to lure me into a cellar,” Arcade laughs. He turns so that his back is against the window, his legs stretched out under the booth table, to better see Tan head-on.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not trying to seal you in any walls,” he replies. He corks the bottle and grins over the top of his glass. “At least, not yet.”

“You’ve read Poe? Guess I should know better than to be surprised by what you do and don’t know, huh.”

Constantine shrugs. “I must have read it once. Don’t really remember when or how, the thought just kind of…came to me.”

Ah. Right. That, again. Arcade swallows his shame with wine before speaking up. “I’m sorry if my incredulity regarding your whole…everything…has ever been offensive.”

“Nah,” Tan says right away. “If I hadn’t lived through this, I wouldn’t believe me either.” A soft silence falls between them as the radio switches songs, and besides the whir of electricity and the gusting wind outside, Arcade can hear Tan chuckle low under his breath. “Besides,” he adds, “I appreciate your healthy skepticism. Keeps me grounded.”

Arcade doesn’t quite know how to reply. He thinks, for a moment, that he might come up with some self-deprecating joke that would give him some reprieve from honesty, but then a beam of rosy sunlight breaks through the dirty glass and shines right upon Constantine, casting him in a warm glow. His eyes, normally beer-bottle brown, sparkle like golden honey as he smiles wistfully into his glass.

In his scavenging of libraries and schoolhouses, Arcade read the book jackets of enough romance novels to know he’s got it bad if the mere sight of sunset hitting the man’s face is enough to render him mute. Against his logic and better judgment, he finds himself laughing under his breath at the absurdity of it all.

He knows so damn little about Constantine, and it’s driving him crazy. The mystery of him, good looks and charm aside, makes Arcade want to pry and prod and get underneath it all. He wishes he knew more—not just the history, but the small things too. His parent’s names, his hometown, hell, even his favorite color. Arcade carries around his own boyhood like an albatross, its burdensome wingspan brushing up against anything he encounters in the wasteland. The less he knows about Tan, the more he wants to tell him everything about himself, pluck each shameful feather until he’s got some grisly bouquet to give.

Instead, he settles for something safe, something he’s made use of before. “I feel like if Julie had set me to work making barrel cactus wine, she’d have gotten better results from me. Certainly would have been a better use of botanical resources than whatever I’d been mucking around with.” He swirls the wine around without drinking, and watches how, through the thin glass, the sun bounces kaleidoscopic spots of wine-red on Tan’s face.

Tan hums. “I don’t think so,” he says simply. “You were wasted on desk work. Out here at least you’re getting some sun.” He takes a sip and then, smirking conspiratorially, he adds, “A tan looks good on you.”

The evening light makes it hard for Arcade to tell if Tan’s actually flushing or not, especially given his olive skin, but he’s not meeting his eyes anymore, gazing instead over Arcade’s shoulder, out at the desert and the city below. Julie London’s sweet voice flows to fill the space between them. Despite his anxious heart, Arcade doesn’t want to break the silence. He’s flirting, he thinks, he has to be, and then, if he isn’t, I’d rather not think about it.

…It’s all he can think about.

“Little Buttercup.” The nickname haunts him. It’s been rattling around in his head since they left Camp Forlorn Hope and the more he drinks the less he can drown it out. Doc Richards flirted easily and well, and Tan didn’t seem to mind. Constantine’s silver tongue and easygoing charm made it hard to tell if he was reciprocating interest or just carrying on as usual, and the nebulousness of what Tan thought and wanted and meant was eating at Arcade, leaving more of a gnawing pit in his stomach than the worst radiation poisoning he’d ever had. Does he just flirt with everyone? Does he even register it as flirting? He feels like some hormonal pre-teen, more occupied with the thought of “does this guy like me” than “I am currently in the most well-guarded pre-war secret in all of New Vegas.“

He takes a long drink and turns to look out the window. The distant rust-red mountains wear the sun as a halo, its radiating pinks and golds and reds bleeding into the encroaching blue of twilight.

“Constantine,” he says suddenly, as a last ditch attempt to keep his hopeless mind from wandering even further. “How are you doing? I mean, how are you handling this? This morning you weren’t anyone of any note around here, and now you’re the only man with keys to the 38. House’s right hand man, for whatever that means.” He looks back over at the courier, who’s still staring out the window at the mountains and blinking Vegas lights. “That’s a lot for one man to carry.”

“I’m fine,” Tan says with a smile, then looks down into his glass. The expression fades as he swirls the wine around. “I mean…” he stops, letting the words die on his lips. He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself, before looking back up at Arcade. “Y’know? I don’t think I’ve been asked that by someone I ain’t inclined to lie to.”

Arcade snorts into his glass, witty retort already on his tongue, but Tan has such a soft, unguarded expression that he all at once feels strangely sober and out of place. He clears his throat, chastened. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m being earnest, and the question still stands.”

Tan downs the rest of his wine in a gulp and pours himself another glass, and it’s enough of an answer. Or rather, it would be, were Arcade not so doggedly determined to figure out another damn thing about the man. So even though Tan silently reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, Arcade waits. He waits as Tan lights a smoke and takes a drag, cherry burning bright in the dim evening, a small echo of the sun. He waits, and wonders, and breathes in the earthy smells of tobacco and well-aged wine.

The last vestiges of light glimmer in Constantine’s eyes when he looks back at Arcade. “I have no fucking clue, Arcade. I don’t know what I’m doing or how I should feel. I’ve never operated on revenge before. Or maybe I have, who knows.” He laughs humorlessly and ashes his cigarette into a nearby plastic plant. “But there’s more at stake here than just me; it’s not like I can get myself back. I’m whatever I am now, and this is the part where I have to make some sort of bet on someone else for the sake of everyone else.”

“You say ‘whatever’ like you aren’t a person.”

“Most days I don’t feel like one,” Tan says quietly, and before Arcade can ask anything else, he continues. “I still think I don’t know enough about everything going on here to be the one making the judgment calls, even though I’ve got the power to do so.”

Arcade wants to go back, press him further on what he means. But in the dull vesper, with no glow of streetlights or fires or setting suns, the man looks haggard, like all the color has drained from him, leaving his whole countenance more sunken, sallow, grim. He stares into the emptiness of the cocktail lounge, like he’s counting all the places where a ghost might dwell. Arcade swallows thickly. No, better not to risk unearthing anything else.

“So what’s your plan?” he asks, tipping back his head to finish his remaining wine.

Tan huffs. “With everything?”

“With Benny.”

“Well…I don’t really know.“

Arcade shrugs, shifting in his seat to press more of his back to the cool glass of the window.. “You’ve already put off coming here for so long. Why not put it off another few weeks to see if Benny does anything first? Keep you from getting shot in the head again.”

This elicits a small chuckle from Tan, which Arcade takes as a victory.

“Yeah, I’d like to avoid that fate, too.” For the first time in a long while, Tan looks back over at him. “What, are you getting tired of patching me up?”

“A little bit, yeah,” he says before he can stop himself, and winces inwardly at his honesty.

“Oh.”

Tan looks out over the empty lounge once again, drumming his fingers on the table in time with the radio—some gloomy, lovestruck lamentation courtesy of Chet Baker. He seems to be focused on finishing his cigarette and wine, giving Arcade ample time to walk himself through all potential miserable endings to this conversation. He’s about come to terms with writing an apology letter and running away in the dead of night when Tan speaks up again.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. “I know this is probably really different from whatever you were doing before. If you need a break, or…” Considering his words carefully, he worries his bottom lip. “Or if you want to leave,” he continues, quieter, “you can just let me know, okay?“

Arcade wants to kick himself. Stupid. Stupid!

“No, no. Nothing like that. I just figured I’d see if you were planning on changing your M.O. from fighting everyone to courting everyone to get what you want instead. It’d certainly save me a lot of work, not to mention medical supplies.”

He breathes a sigh of relief when Tan chuckles. “Psh. Please. I’ve managed to talk us out of a few scrapes but nothing quite so storied or charming as the radio makes it out to be. You know that.”

“Oh, sure,” Arcade says snidely. He turns back around the right way in his seat, reaching over the table to grab the wine and refill his glass. He takes a sip, not looking at Tan when he adds, “And I’m the President of the NCR.”

“Har har. I’m just lucky sometimes, is all. And when that luck runs out, I get shot. That’s all.”

“Really? That’s what you think? You think people follow Caesar, follow Kimball, follow you, because they think there’s no conviction behind what they’re saying? All of this—” he gestures out the window, at New Vegas and the mountains beyond, “—is just a fluke?”

His tone is far more biting than intended. Definitely the fault of the wine. In his periphery, he sees Tan turn to look at him, though he’s grateful that his vision’s blurry outside the range of his glasses, saving him from seeing the expression on the courier’s face.

“Hold on—have I done something to upset you?” Tan speaks cautiously, like he’s trying hard not to spook some wild animal. He reaches out over the table, so slowly that Arcade doesn’t even notice until Tan’s hand rests lightly upon his arm.

“No!” He blurts, his whole body tensing at the touch. “Nope, you’re good. Fine. It’s fine.”

Constantine slides a little closer. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me, but if you did, I’d appreciate it. I wanna make sure everyone in the group feels heard, you know?”

This fucking guy. There’s a tiny, sober voice screaming in the very far back of his brain, and he’s so damn tired of having to hear it. Maybe coming right out with it would grant him some reprieve.

“Know what? Fuck it,” Arcade says, and glugs down the rest of his wine. “Yeah, Constantine, I’m pretty pissed. You gallivant your way across the wasteland, shooting your way through whatever roadblock comes up if seducing everyone you come across with your pretty mouth doesn’t work. I’m the one who has to patch you back up and send you out there. Congratulations! You’re reckless as hell and I’m tired of seeing you getting the shit kicked out of you.” He rests his chin in his hand and sighs. To himself, he grumbles, “Great job setting out from the Followers, Arcade. You’re really carpe-ing that diem.”

It takes him a second to realize the radio is in between songs, leaving his rant hanging in the air with lonely finality. He hears Tan exhale, soft and slow, in the dusty silence.

“What?” Tan asks, voice unnaturally hesitant.

Fuck. He’s still looking at him too, and he’s still sitting close, and fuck.

“Nothing, I just…” The best way to cover his tracks is with more honesty, he decides, only of a less incriminating variety. “I worry you might be in over your head, and that talking isn’t going to be enough to get you out of it soon.” There. That’s good.

“No, hold on. What was that? About…my, uh, mouth?”

Oh god.

“I’m drunk!” he blurts. “It’s nothing.” The tips of his ears are burning. His chest is burning. The whole damn lounge is on fire. He’s considering climbing over the table to escape, since Tan’s blocking the only reasonable exit.

“Are you—do you…me?” Tan asks incredulously, before Arcade has a chance to launch himself over the back of the booth seat. “Is that what this is?”

“What what is.”

Tan presses closer, and Arcade keeps his eyes straight forward, desperately trying to control his anxiously bouncing leg, his frantic breathing. He’s considering grabbing the wine bottle and downing the rest of the damn thing, but Tan leans over the table a little to try to meet Arcade’s eye.

“‘Cade,” he says, a curious smile playing on his lips. Those full lips. “Talk to me. I don’t want to be making any assumptions, especially given that alcohol’s involved. But if you…”

He trails off. Tentatively, he slides his hand down the length of Arcade’s arm and rests it on top of his hand, and when Arcade doesn’t immediately pull away, he threads his fingers through Arcade’s. Tan’s eyes are on him the whole time, gauging his every breath, every blink, and Arcade hates that he can’t convince himself to look away. He knows how this goes, knows how disappointing every lover before has been. This path has been tried and trod plenty of times before, so why would some wine change anything?

“Is this okay?” Constantine asks. He squeezes Arcade’s hand, as though it wasn’t clear enough what he was referring to.

“But we’re drunk,” Arcade says, though he nods regardless.

“Well, speak for yourself. I ain't that drunk. I actually ate, remember?”

“Sure. Okay, but…” Arcade’s voice cracks and he takes a second to clear his dry throat. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have said what I'm thinking if I weren’t drunk.”

Constantine laughs, low and inviting. “Arcade,” he chides, “I’m willing to bet you haven’t told me half of what’s really on your mind, yeah? Come on, what’s that thing you said once? In vino veritas?”

Arcade kisses him immediately. It’s an awkward, teenage thing, just mushing their lips together long enough for him to gain some semblance of shame and jerk away when Tan emits a startled little noise.

“Sorry,” Arcade squeaks. “Shit, I’m sorry, fuck, I wasn’t thinking!” And he wasn’t, really—it’s just that it’s one thing to learn and study a dead, really dead language, and another to hear someone say it to you because they know you give a damn. When that happens, actions are all you have left to raise the bar with.

But the hand holding his doesn’t let go. Tan’s still there, still leaning towards him, looking pleasantly dumbfounded.

Yes, he’s drunk, but he’s not that drunk—he’s unfortunately still sober enough to know that this kind of shit has consequences, both good and bad; that attachments come at a cost and that lovers aren’t the kind of people you bare your soul to in the wasteland. That’s how he knows he’s drunk, though, because he’s thinking about baring his soul to a man that doesn’t even remember his childhood, his name, his occupation. Even so, it is his amnesic perseverance, his indefatigable hope that leaves Arcade wanting. Not just of his lips, his hands, his tanned, scarred arms, but of his mind, his heart, and the empty spaces therein—the places where new memories might take root, and where his own burdens might find some shelter. Constantine is the promise of a new Eden in every way, a garden of new convictions and dreams alike, someone whose morals might match his own, and someone whose pride he could treasure.

Good grief, he’s hopeless.

Conceding defeat, he shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the booth, letting out a long breath through his nose. His head is starting to ring a little, both from the wine and the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“Sorry,” he groans. “We can go ahead and pretend that didn’t happen.”

Constantine laughs breathily. “Do you really want to?” His voice is much closer now, right next to Arcade’s ear. There’s no stopping the resulting goosebumps, but for once, Arcade is grateful for the long sleeves of his lab coat. He’ll take any extra help preserving what’s left of his dignity.

“Hey. Shut up,” Tan says, and flicks the side of his head. “Stop that. Look at me.”

Suddenly, the anchoring warmth of Constantine’s hand leaves his own, and relocates to rest along his jaw, lightly applying pressure to get him to turn his head. Arcade gulps; he’s powerless to resist and he knows it, so he moves along with it like a buoy caught in the swell of a wave.

Tan is right there to meet him, just about nose to nose. A coquettish glint shines in his eyes as they travel down Arcade’s flushed face, coming to rest upon his lips. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, brushing his thumb over his cheek.

“Yeah,” he breathes. Don’t think, he begs himself, just shut up and don’t think.

It’s easier than he expected, because the moment Tan ghosts his thumb over his lips to part them, his mind goes blank. No, more than blank: entirely empty, incapable of comprehending anything besides whatever senses respond to him, him, him.

The wine before had been sweet but this, this taste of summer sunsets on his lips, his tongue…it’s transcendent. This is not ephemeral, like the promise of vineyards he will never see—this is heavy and sharp and rich enough to overwhelm, more than any red wine could be. To think he’d once thought himself sated with something like water. Tan’s other hand comes up to cup his face but then it drifts down, tickling his neck, and comes to a rest just above his collar as though he wants to feel Arcade’s heart thrumming against his palm.

And he certainly will, given how thoroughly Arcade’s entire body is reacting. Besides his pounding heart, his whole rib cage feels like it’s on fire, and his fingertips against Tan’s chest are burning like he’s resting them on hot Mojave sand. Arcade has heard plenty of stories from Freeside junkies about their trips, their colorful, thoroughly unbelievable experiences, and now, hypocrite that he’s so often proven to be, he realizes he might actually understand a fraction of what they meant.

Though Constantine is leaning sideways against the table to reach him, Arcade wishes he could just push the thing away. Suddenly, it’s all too much distance, too much plastic and metal in the way of really seeing him, feeling him. But the damn table is bolted to the floor, so instead Arcade reaches a hand up to tangle in Constantine’s hair, making a fist so that he can press the man closer. He isn’t expecting Tan to shiver and gasp against his mouth, nor the low moan that escapes him, and when Tan swiftly moves his hand from Arcade’s neck to grab at his wrist, Arcade immediately misses his warmth.

“Maybe, ah,” Tan whispers hoarsely, breath hot against his lips, “maybe we can slow down just a little?” He rests his forehead against Arcade’s and inhales slowly, shakily. “Just a little,” he repeats, and when Arcade lets go of his hair, Tan is quick to lace their fingers together, bringing their joined hands down to rest against the cool, plastic table.

“‘Course,” Arcade says. He clears his throat, keeping his eyes shut for a moment longer as he works to get his breathing—and pulse—more steady. Tan’s still got his other hand against his cheek, drawing slow, reverent lines with his thumb. Arcade is glad to bask in the twilight of the casino, silent save for them catching their collective breath, for once not concerned with House’s inevitable surveillance. Tan eventually drifts his hand away from Arcade’s cheek down to his shoulder, choosing to instead fidget with the collar of his lab coat.

When Arcade feels solid enough to open his eyes again, he immediately regrets it, because all the work of composing himself is overturned upon seeing Constantine looking up at him from beneath his lashes, his warm brown eyes so much more brilliant than the untouched relics that surround them. Constantine smiles his hesitant little half-smile, and Arcade can’t stop himself.

Without thinking he blurts, “Please don’t sleep with Benny.”

Tan blinks. “What?” he croaks. He leans back a little, raising a confused brow. “Is…that what this was all about?”

“Maybe,” Arcade says far too quickly. “I just—”

“I was never planning on sleeping with him!” Tan laughs, sounding so amused at the idea that Arcade can’t help but huff a sigh of relief. “I was thinking of charming him, maybe, on account of not wanting to get shot in the head again, but there’s loads of other ways to get what I need from him. I can’t believe you thought I was taking Cass and V seriously!”

Constantine loses himself in laughter a moment longer, shaking his head at the idea of it all. When he finally trails off, he grins at Arcade with such a fondness that it leaves him feeling lightheaded.

“‘sides,” Tan continues with a shrug, “I’m not…I don’t feel that—well, that way about folks unless I already care for ‘em.”

Arcade takes a second to process before dumbly saying, “Oh.” He watches Tan look down at their hands on the table, sheepish, self conscious in a way that doesn’t suit him, though Arcade isn’t quite sure why. His drunk and lurid thoughts struggle to make sense of the gravity behind the statement. Constantine wasn’t exactly walking around proclaiming his sexuality to the wasteland, but Arcade’s witnessed enough flirty exchanges with just about everyone under the sun to know that Tan wasn’t, well, straight. There’s weight behind Tan’s words and, fuck, Arcade is regretting a few of those glasses of wine for the fact that it’s taking him this long to get it.

The memory hits him like a sledgehammer: he’d been trying to doze by the fire on one of their more recent travels. Tan was sitting beside him, cleaning one of his guns. Cass had been playfully drunk, ranting about some recent hookup, before going real quiet—conspiratorially so.

“Sayyyy, Stan,” she’d drawled, “why we ain’t seen you shackin’ up with anyone ‘round the Wasteland? Even Little Miss Bunker over there’s got a girlfriend. And don’t give me none of that memory shit, you’ve had the time to figure it out since, yeah?”

Constantine had laughed under his breath and shushed at her to lower her voice. “I’m just not really…interested in sex that way, I guess.” Arcade had practically jolted awake then, significantly more interested in the conversation now that Tan was contributing.

“Well. That’s to say, I ain’t really sure if I’ve always been so, but I don’t really see myself thinkin’ about it unless I’m already in over my head with the person, you know? Guess that makes me a bit of a prude, maybe.” Then, with what Arcade now recognizes as that same sheepish tone, he’d said, “Think of it as me leaving more for the rest of you?”

It all went still for a bit, aside from the crackle of the fire and the distant yipping of coyotes. He’d heard footsteps around the fire, coming to a stop next to Tan, followed by the solid thwack of someone smacking the back of his head.

“Oh, can it, you baby. You ain’t a prude, you’ve just got taste, is all,” Cass said, though her tone had more seriousness to it than usual. She’d sat down next to him, then, and asked if he wanted to muse a bit more about it. Tan had refused rather politely, saying he was still figuring himself out. The two had gone on to talk about other things, leaving Arcade shamefully disappointed he hadn’t had more of a chance to overhear about Constantine’s proclivities.

Lingering guilt of his eavesdropping aside, bringing the exchange to mind is enough to stir Arcade’s thoughts into enough of a frenzy that they manage to assemble themselves into a conclusion to remind himself that he, too, is more than capable of attempting to be charming.

He clears his throat in a way he hopes is sexy. “And how’d you figure that out? Find someone you care about enough to notice some…drifting thoughts?” he asks, not trying to hide his smirk.

Tan glances up at him, cheeks dark with color. “Uh. Um.” He laughs anxiously, and when he tries to disentangle his hand, Arcade only holds on tighter. Conceding defeat, Tan groans and slumps down in the booth, threatening to slide under the table.

“That ain’t playing fair,” Tan grumbles, though his smile betrays his seriousness. Arcade finally relinquishes his hand, and before drawing it back, Tan takes the chance to muss up Arcade’s hair, leaving them in matching states of dishevelment.

Constantine sits back up and leans on the table, chin in hand. He’s got a far off look in his eyes, glancing between Arcade and the dark expanse of desert outside. He opens his mouth but seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say, choosing instead to stare off into the distance and fidget idly with the bullet shell on his necklace. Arcade, of course, can’t look away, so he leans back against the window, stretching his long legs out far enough to nudge against Tan’s own, content to wait for whatever comes next.

The radio’s since switched to playing classical music, and to be frank, Arcade much prefers the non-intrusive tones of violins and pianos for the moment. They lend themselves nicely to the strange liminality of where they are right now—in an abandoned lounge, in an abandoned casino, in the vestiges of a city he will never know nor understand. Sobriety seeps in at the edges of his thoughts, reminding him of his thirst and his hunger for things far more practical and more immediately attainable than Constantine. Be that as it may, that same smooth feeling of contentment from before fills his chest, down to the depths of his gut, more than hunger ever could; that sense of meaning, of purpose, of hilariously inconvenient connection to this stranger of a man that pulls at his secrets and his traumas and threatens him to seek more than just shelter in those arms. Drunk or sober, the prospect of Constantine’s understanding, perhaps even of his acceptance, is overwhelming in a way that feels like hope.

Arcade allows himself the comfort of letting his thoughts wander as he gazes over at Tan, appreciating the sight of him slowly fading back into his usual cloak of carefree ease and confidence. He also allows himself the pride of knowing he’s capable of discomposing him to such an extent in the first place. But as soon as Tan’s lazy grin finds its way back onto his face, it once again fades away, replaced with a somber sort of gravitas as he looks at Arcade like he’s just given him some terrible diagnosis.

“I like you a lot, ‘Cade,” he says, voice low and resolute. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing. “Quite a lot. And I don’t want this to be some drunken one time kiss kind of thing. And I don’t want this to bleed into how we are out in the wastes, how we work together and stay alive. But I’m really, uh, flying blind in this. Some feelings feel familiar, others kind of take me totally by surprise. So I can’t promise that I won’t be as confused about this as I am by…” He trails off and gestures broadly around himself. “But I’d like this to be something, y’know? Something we could try.”

Good grief. Arcade can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Are you possibly drunk enough to be mistaking me for Cass?” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “Not to overly disparage myself here, but when have I ever given you the impression that I do anything casually?”

Tan just shrugs. “I don’t know your preferences regarding relationships! In fact, sometimes I feel like I know more about Boone than I know about you, and that’s saying something.”

Ouch. He has a point. Arcade wants to point out that he could say the same of him, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair of him. Constantine has been as open as he’s able to be, and only ever invited—never pushed—him to do the same.

Instead, Arcade just lets out a long sigh through his nose, trying to not get too distracted by the way Tan’s worrying his bottom lip as he waits for a response. He’s still wracking his brain for something less accusatory when Tan speaks up again, so quiet that he has to lean forward to hear him.

“I know what you’re thinking—you could say the same about me. Don’t—“ He raises his voice when Arcade opens his mouth to politely disagree. “Don’t tell me you weren’t. I know I’m bein’ hypocritical. And thinking too much into this, probably. But…I mean it. I really want to, well, know you.”

Arcade stifles a snort. Oh no. No. He’s too drunk not to. It’s right there and being dry and snide is all he knows; it would be torture not to, no matter how serious Tan is being right now.

So he raises an eyebrow and feigns mild offense. “What,” he says, “like, biblically?”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry! Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Mea culpa,” he snickers, holding his hands up in apology. But Tan’s got the slightest hint of an upturn to his lips again, so Arcade figures it was worth it. “Look, it’s not like I’m…actively trying to hide anything from you,” he lies, swallowing down a wave of shame at the ease of it. “Nothing’s just really come up, and like I’ve said before I’m—”

“Boring. Yeah. You’ve mentioned,” Tan says sourly, back to staring out the window. “I just wish you’d let me be the judge of that, I guess. What if I happen to find wasteland doctors quite interesting?”

“Don’t I know it,” Arcade sneers. “You were following Richards around like a lost puppy.”

Constantine stares at him, bewildered. Shit. For all his trying to regain some sense of self-control, Arcade sure can’t stop slipping up about how long he’s been paying attention to Tan’s diverting interests.

“Holy shit,” Tan says. His eyes crinkle at the corners from his wide, revelatory grin. “That’s why you were such a bitch the whole time we were at Forlorn Hope? You were jealous?”

“I—”

“I kept thinking we were doing fine when it was just you and me alone with the patients, but then any time Alex came by to check up—”

“Alex?”

“Yes? That’s his name.”

“I know, I just didn’t realize you two had gotten chummy enough to know each other on a first name basis,” Arcade grumbles, feeling his face heat up with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

Tan’s still beaming, clearly enjoying himself. “Arcade!” he wheezes with a breathy laugh, “we were making out like, five minutes ago, and you’re still jealous of me hanging out with someone last week?”

Arcade turns his head so he can press a burning ear to the cold glass, and is once again grateful for the lounge’s large windows. He wishes he could come up with a better response than simply pouting, but by now the combination of good wine and no dinner has sapped him of energy towards anything non-essential. Kissing Constantine had been pretty essential; preserving his dignity, less so.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tan shake his head.

“Jealous and pouty when drunk. Good to know.” He laughs quietly before rolling his shoulders and sliding out of the booth. He holds a hand out towards Arcade. “Anyway…shall we? I’d like to head to bed, but I don’t mind heating up your dinner first. Or rather, I insist.”

Resigned and exhausted, Arcade peels himself away from the glass and takes the proffered hand, letting out a surprised yelp when Tan swiftly pulls him upwards. He stumbles against the courier, who leans in to press a chaste, but lingering, kiss to Arcade’s lips.

“Hey,” Tan whispers, then kisses him again. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. I wanna figure it out. I think you’re worth that.”

Constantine reaches up to fix Arcade’s disheveled hair. He looks…satisfied, Arcade guesses, based on his usual lazy smile and the softness in his eyes. His eyes. His warm, inviting, syrup-brown eyes, sweet and kind and full of hope, a built in pair of rose-colored glasses. Whatever of his rationality that hasn’t already been drowned in wine is helpless against such unguarded affection. Too tired to admonish himself any longer, Arcade succumbs to his impractical infatuation, and he hums, satisfied and sleepy, at the sensation of Tan’s fingers in his hair.

“I’ve got my own shit, you know. A lot of it,” he murmurs, draping an arm over Tan’s shoulders and guiding them towards the elevator.

“Nooo,” Constantine snarks, wrapping an arm around Arcade’s waist to steady him as they walk. “And here I thought you were so put together.”

Standing this close together, bathed in the fluorescent glow of the open elevator doors, Arcade considers, briefly, all the moths he’s seen beat themselves to pieces against the bright, inviting lights endemic to Vegas and her streets. He’s stepped around their delicate corpses enough times to wonder if it was worth it to scavenge for an entomology book to try to understand their fascination with light. It was hard not to pity all those little followers of Icarus, chasing something they can’t know will hurt them.

It’s warm and filling and hopeful, this glowing sprawl, lined with temples to self-obsessed men playing at gods whose followers are all too willing to lie in the gutters with the moths, basking in unreachable lights.

He wants to believe that he is different. That Constantine is different. That the Lucky 38 is more than a tomb of false promises and history dead-set upon repeating.

He is not sure if he does. But he is sure that he wants to try.

#tancade nonsense #nika writes things #arcade gannon #courier six #fallout new vegas #constantine becker #m!courier x arcade gannon #idk how to tag things on here anymore i'm just spittin words out hopin the audience that would wanna read this ends up findin it

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