Work Text:
Vinestaff gingerly rubs her temple with one hand and swirls her drink around with the other. She’s sure she looks terrible, lipstick slightly smudged on the rim of the glass and smeared across her bottom lip— the edges not as sharp as she would like, her hair frizzier than she’d usually allow from the unbearable sticky heat. She doesn’t drink. Or, at least she doesn’t usually drink.
She doesn’t admit this often, but she’s afraid. She’s so afraid, but she’s slowly accepting her circumstances. She may be a healer, but there’s only so much she can fix, can she?
Over the past few days, the curse in her arm stretched up past her shoulder and through her clavicle. Icy-hot dread coursed through her— It still does as she nurses her drink. Still, she had persevered with that level-headed, plastered smile of hers.
She tried so hard, but she just couldn’t anymore.
She’s at a pit stop— If you could call the way she was sitting at this rundown saloon for two hours a “pit stop”—en route to the only other healer she knows. She’s seen him work miracles on the battlefield, bringing people back to life in the blink of an eye. She’s never seen anything quite like it. Still, she is trying and failing to convince herself she’s only going for the help.
No, certainly not so she can avoid her younger brother— Prevent him from having to see her in her state of panic, dread, and damn-near terror, sitting in an old, run-down bar in the middle of nowhere. Her hands press into the socket of her eyes, a habit she’s managed to retain after all these years that make strange shapes manifest behind her eyelids.
SFOTH.
The healer believed she had seen the last of her ailment, ruling out the possibility of losing her life from the curse a long time ago. After watching it grow and fester, crawling onto her torso after so many years of inactivity, the gravity of her situation had simply— She doesn’t know, it just crashed into her. She’s already cried enough, eyes puffy and irritated from how frequently she had rubbed them.
She’s crashing, too.
The door pulls open pathetically, creaking on its old, rusted hinges and bringing her self-loathing to a halt. Vinestaff only turns around a little, catching a glimpse of teal slacks and ivory cowboy boots.
She didn’t bother to get a better look— Not like she could’ve with the way she had to blink away the tears welling up in her eyes that she quickly blinked away.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a gloved hand reach for the stool beside her. She grits her teeth with discomfort when it screeches against the floor.
A person— A woman, seats herself, waving her hand in the general direction of the bartender who had barely looked Vinestaff in the eye, let alone acknowledged her this entire time. Her face is obstructed by her hat as she looked down at her lap with a content huff, rapping her fingertips against the chipped marble.
A bottle of ice-cold beer is slid over to the cowgirl. Light reaches below her hat, and her face becomes visible as she tilts her head back ever so slightly. Her kinky, half-brushed, half-blow dried hair frames her face, fine lines crossing her skin at certain points with age and experience. An old, faded scar runs across her cheek.
The bottle hits the counter, followed by another sigh, through her nose this time.
The clawed, seemingly mechanical hand wrapped around the bottle was slightly manicured— she can’t quite explain it, but it’s interesting to look at. Takes her mind off of things for some odd reason, she realizes.
The woman catches her gaze, cocking an eyebrow and scowling. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” She glared (albeit half-heartedly), syllables curling all too sweetly in her mouth. A southern accent; An extremely strong one, at that, Vinestaff notes.
“Apologies,” she murmurs, tapping the side of her nearly-empty glass. “I must have spaced out.”
The lady lets out a quiet ‘hmph’, taking another sip of her drink.
A few minutes of silence pass, awkwardly looking between the empty spot between her glass, the ledge of the table and the bracelet on her wrist.
She feels her staring in the corner of her eye, looking as if she had something to say. Or, maybe, she was wondering why she was here, seeing the lucky knot on her horn and the unusual attire. Or perhaps–
“You look like shit,” the older woman states flatly, a ghost of a smirk on her lips. She feels an offended look flash across her face, but she finds herself lacking the energy to argue.
Seeing this, she chuckles and props both elbows on the bar, glancing at her from the corner of her eye. “A doomed woman enjoying a Long Island, ain’t that something? What’s up with you?”
Vinestaff chuckles in an attempt to will her anxiety away. “It’s a long story, really..” She can feel her neutral, unsuccessfully level-headed expression degrade into mild aggravation. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she doesn’t want to be spoken to, the way her posture is closing in on itself despite her sitting position not exactly changing, head threatening to hang low with shame.
She drinks the remaining contents in the cup, taking that final gulp as if it were an antidote; a solution to all her problems. The warmth and unusual sweetness sinking down her esophagus makes her uncomfortable and she frowns.
The cowgirl only hums in acknowledgement.
More silence drags on for a couple long moments. Not exactly awkward, but a bit uncomfortable, nonetheless. “...What brings you here?” She blurts out quietly, hating how clumsily those words tumbled from her mouth.
She scoffs. “Don’tcha see me enjoying my beer, lady?” She grins, gently elbowing the other. “Mind ya business. It’s been a long day, I need alcohol in my system.”
Vinestaff brushes the loose strands of hair from her face. “Glad I’m not alone, I guess.”
She knows their situation isn’t anywhere near the same. She’s dying. The curse is leeching onto her very life force, turning her to cherry-oak on the molecular level with every passing second.
Her humanity is being taken away from her at the hands of another demon.
She looks at the four glasses sitting in front of her, her smile coming undone.
“Ya’know, usually Thieves’ Den folk don’t bring their tourist trips ‘round here.” She comments a bit louder than necessary, swirls the beer around by the neck of the bottle while her eyes land on her sigil necklace, wearing far more casual clothing today— A frilly, off-the-shoulder crop top with a short denim skirt that she hastily pulled out of an old moving box from the garage— So Shuriken wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at home at first glance.
Her eyes flit elsewhere, and she’s unsure exactly what she looked at, but it made her feel scandalized for that split second. She opens her mouth to point it out, and quickly snaps it shut, watching the way the pads of her thumb and pointer finger make contact with the beads of condensate.
It’s… weird, the way her fingers mindlessly, slowly trace the mouth of the glass. It makes her feel weird.
She leans forward with her lower arms, dragging the chair closer by the heel of her steel-toed boots. Her expression is dripping with a prying, smug sort of interest. Her stomach does something funny that she refuses to acknowledge.
“Ah, I’m here to see a doctor, actually—“
”In Lost Temple?” She cackles. “The medical here is damn abysmal. That’s how we get people ‘ta…” She trails off. Vinestaff gives her a strange look; She clears her throat. “..Can’t imagine who you’d be looking for.”
“It’s not like I have any other options—“
Aand, she’s flagging down the bartender. “A shot for her. The usual.” Vinestaff feels her eyebrow twitch despite the barely-polite, almost passive-aggressive yet neutral ruse on her face from an unusual mix of mild irritation and gratitude.
The moment the little shot glass touches the table, she’s tossing it back. She sees the woman watching her from the corner of her eye, expression a bit amused, some other emotion she certainly didn’t bother to identify rearing its head.
Something about her mannerisms makes her feel a bit less hopeless, the way she’s trying to chat her up and brighten up her mood. At the same time, though, her hands feel clammy and the skin pressed against her clothing feels sticky. She doesn’t know whether she should blame the latter on the poor ventilation or her nervousness (she knows it’s not just nervousness, but she intentionally ignores that half of her mind that is trailing off to depravity as it usually does when she’s feeling depressed).
“Ah,” Her nails tap on the counter rhythmically, “So, you got a specific person in mind that you’re gonna see tonight?” The words sound teasing on her tongue. Her cheeky grin does not help, either.
The implications of her statement do not go unnoticed. She flushes. “Excuse me?”
The cowgirl gestures for her to continue.
“Oh, you meant— I apologize.” She looks off to the side, attempting to discreetly cover her face by resting it in the palm of her hand.
In all honesty, Vinestaff had a …thing for older women.. Uh, not that she was thinking about that the whole time. She threw her a bone, and she played with the idea in her head for a split second.
Now, she can’t unsee it; the far-from-subtle attraction riddled in her features.
If she really thought about it, she could envision herself with her face pressed into the bedsheets by h—
She’s still waiting for a response from her, looking a bit impatient. “Um,” She clears her throat, discreetly crossing her legs, ‘cause, uh..
“…I don’t want to say. From what I’ve heard, he’s in a bit of a… er…” Her lips curl into an awkward, forgiving smile. The alcohol is really sneaking up on her, now. “…Uh, a legal predicament.” That’s what Sword told her, anyway.
A pause. “You even wear the same pattern as him. Is it a regional thing?”
“Mmmmhmmm,” she grins, those sharp, white teeth (all except for her right canine, which was golden;) revealing themselves again, golden-clawed hand (Vinestaff briefly wonders what type of money she has) idly tangling itself in her curls.
“Why,” her voice lowers, “That sure is something, ain’t it?” The healer’s nerves ignite. Her voice is so.. provocative, almost. It makes her.. anxious— No, that’s not the right word… Vinestaff blames the saccharine-sweetness and slur of her words on the beer in her hand, despite the low alcohol content and the fact that she’s only been sitting here for about thirty minutes.
Something in the very back of her mind tells her she isn’t talking about Medkit in the slightest.
She leaves the question completely unanswered, too. It frustrates her, but not in a bad way…She doesn’t know how to explain it.
Maybe the woman sees the way her engaged expression lessens, because she gently nudges her with her elbow again, shaking her out of her stupor. She feels a bit stupid, spacing out on her like that again. She has a slightly thoughtful look on her face, for a moment.
The cowgirl’s gloved hand grabs Vine Staff’s oak one. Despite the horrible memories surrounding her curse, the gesture only makes her feel.. warm. Or is it the alcohol speaking?
Gosh, she wonders what she looks like right now.
“What’re you called, precious?”
She internally panics. She intentionally tried to overlook the flirtiness in her voice, let this conversation drag on for however long until– She doesn’t know, until one of them leaves?
She almost wants to slam her head into the counter just to save herself the embarrassment. She can’t play this off— She can’t. She can’t, and now she’s gonna end up at this lady’s house with nothing on because she can never resist an older woman and—
Having… relations not even twenty minutes after meeting someone is- It’s wrong. She had enough of that stuff in college. But, she’s— She’s so.. Gods.
“I.. Um, I don’t do that type of stuff…” Illumina, her voice is so slurred, and slow, and she feels so stupid.
“Clearly, ya don’t drink either, but here you are..” She gives her a knowing grin. “Look around ya, darlin’; This ain’t the typa establishment you think it is..”
Vinestaff peeks over her shoulder. She realizes most of the people look a bit.. roughed-up, pieces of their horns missing, scarred faces and missing eyes… She recalls a time when Katana went on and on about places like these, places where underground cult and gang activity is frequent among commoners—Commoners whose lives were eventually taken from them through gear laundering.
Oh.
“I seen you, and, why,” She drags her closer by the chair. Vinestaff’s heart races in her chest. “I couldn’t leave such a pretty lil’ thing all by herself.”
“Why not just loosen up a little? ‘M sure I can kiss it better.”
She looks at the woman— Takes a good look at her; At the mech covering her eye, the distinctly important aura given off by her spotless, pure-white garments and gold stitchings. Her faint freckles, her chapped, yet soft-looking lips. The curvature of her body, tastefully shaped as if sculpted by Illumina himself. Her exposed white eye, which she would’ve assumed was riddled in cataracts if it weren't for the way she looked at her through thick, pale lashes.
Like a snow leopard eyeing its prey.
“I know you’re not as clean as you let on.” She raises her hand to her lips, kisses her knuckles. A stuttered sigh exits her lips before she can stop it.
“See? Why don’t ya just tell me yer name, Princess?”
Their knees bump together for a brief moment. As if two rocks were struck together, the whole ordeal sends sparks up her spine, a wave of depravity washing over her as her expression faltered.
She is a murderer— A serial killer; The same one on the posters all over Crossroads. She could spill her blood; Rob her of her life– Her gear– and not a single soul here would speak a word of it.
But, she shows her mercy. Warmth
Interest. “Vinestaff,” she damn-near chokes out.
There is no knife. Her weapon doesn’t leave its holster.
Instead, the woman’s eyes flit to her own lips. The intensity of the glare makes her lick them— Nothing else. She was not looking forward to this, she swears (lies) to herself.
This was wrong, this was so, so wrong. She follows the cowgirl’s clawed finger with her eyes as it traces a line up from her rarely-exposed clavicle to the tip of her chin, pulling her face closer until they were mere inches away.
“Last chance to back out, sugar,” she breathes.
Vinestaff swallows hard. Her mouth doesn’t even open in hesitation— Gods, she wants it. She wants her badly. She might die soon, succumb to her festering curse, but she wants this woman’s lips on her own more than she wants to live to see another day.
Before another thought gets the chance to cross her mind, gosh, she’s already leaning in- And the healer feels like a giddy teen all over again. Sparks fly when their lips touch, gentle and chaste— Before she pulls back, taking a glance at her face before deepening the kiss. Internally, she scolds herself for such rash behavior, but, physically.. She feels a magnetic pull to this woman.
She’s greedy.
She’s so greedy that she allows her hands to snake up the taller woman’s broad shoulders, gently resting themselves on her nape as she clambers her way out of her barstool and onto her lap. An amused noise hums in the back of the older woman’s throat as her arms wrapped around her midsection, pulling them flush.
She kisses her until she’s out of breath, chest rising and falling as she tries to return the oxygen to her lungs.
“Atta, girl,” she grins. Her gaze is so intense. She feels her heart jump in her chest. Vinestaff doesn’t grace her with a response, pretends she doesn’t feel the heat burning up her cheeks.
She’s so grateful to not be wearing her usual, thick garments today; She can feel the woman’s warmth through her top.
“Beautiful,” she manages between wet kisses. It only spurs Vinestaff on as she reconnects their lips, breaching her mouth with her two hands cradling her jaw.
And when those gloved hands reached lower, cupping her butt, she tries and fails to stifle her whine. “Ah.. Okay..!” An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of her mouth. “Maybe we should–”
Those hands squeeze, and Vinestaff whines. The older woman rises from her stool, and she instinctively wraps her legs around her middle. She’s not even paying attention to where they’re going, feeling a sense of humiliation creep up on her as her hands threaten to crawl up her denim skirt.
She continues to laugh. “Uh- I don’t even know your name..! We should slow dow–”
The wind is knocked out of her when she’s pressed into a wall. They’re outside, now, the chill of the air doing very little to cool the warmth snaking its way into her core. Neither is the woman standing between her raised legs, lips ghosting her own.
“Scythe,” the cowgirl responds, ghosting a whisper. “Call me that.”
She’s breathing heavy despite her previously-cool stature, eyes roving over her face with a voracious glint to them. The healer glances down at her full holster, opens her mouth to ask about it, but she’s silenced by her tongue slithering its way into the back of her throat, drawing out another embarrassing whine.
Scythe kisses her so intensely, full of heady desire; Touches her feather-light in all the right places, teases her and keeps her wanting. Vinestaff’s alcohol-hazed mind struggles to keep up. Their lips and tongues press and slide and suck against each other, pulling away only long enough to pull in another breath. Electricity crackles up her spine, bottom lip caught in the cowgirl’s teeth as she tugs.
God, she’s drunk, she’s really drunk.
Her kisses are redirected toward the junction where her neck and jaw meet, tongue gently grazing her skin, sucking blooming, purple marks into her skin. The younger woman’s nails claw at the back of her suit, quietly cursing under her breath as her tongue firmly presses against her pulse.
The vision of her digging her nails into pristine, white sheets doesn’t seem so far off now, with the way Vinestaff has to bite her lip to keep quiet.
When Scythe pulls away, her hot-pink lipstick is tastefully smeared across her mouth, that playful glint still present in her eyes. She manages to crowd her vision more than previously, folding the stiff denim of her skirt up. The chill introduced to her sticky thighs elicited another shudder from her.
She untangles Vinestaff’s legs from her waist, hoisting her up by the meat of her thigh with her gloved hand— Crowding her vision. She finds that she doesn’t mind it; The fire in her eye and the clawed hand caressing her chin.
“Scythe,” she warbles, all high-pitched and needy. She barely recognizes the voice as her own. “Illumina–”
A gentle shushing sound has her biting her lips again.
“I know, I know,” she purrs. Her sharp, clawed mechanical arm traces little shapes on her exposed clavicle. She swears she feels her skin raise with every swirl of her finger. “I’ve got you..” She presses hungry kisses to her jaw, the hand hoisting her up far, far rougher than her mouth.
“Y’ don't do this kinda stuff?” Scythe makes a humored noise, “Wish you could see yerself right now.”
The fact that she’s subject to her touch, back pressed against ice-cold brick has an overwhelming feeling of humiliation wash over her. She’s a grown woman– She’s- She’s outgrown this stuff a long time ago (who is she kidding, no she hasn’t). But, Gods, she’s missed this.
Scythe’s eyes flitting over every single detail of her makes an overwhelming wave of desire weasel its way into her chest.
Vinestaff’s hand flies up to her cowboy hat, pulling her mouth back down to the spots she’s traced, trying and failing to stifle a pathetic sound that snuck its way out her throat as her tongue runs over her tanned skin.
…And then, there were two, hands wandering and eventually grabbing her horns. A little satisfied sound rumbles against her clavicle– And she gently tugs, just out of curiosity.
The full-body shudder that Scythe experiences thoroughly piques her interest. She saves that information for later– If there will ever be one. Gods, she hopes so.
Vine says her name like a mantra, feeling all too sensitive– Like, like some highschooler, heart and stomach fluttering with a type of infatuation she didn’t know she could still experience. Everywhere she touched felt like it was on fire. Though, when her tongue moves from one spot to the other, the chill of the wind against the wet spots on her skin make it difficult to not shudder, herself.
And when they part and Scythe glances at her watch, she refuses to accept their little moment together coming to such a quick end.
“Why, won'tcha look at the time?” She croons, withdrawing her fingers. The loss of contact nearly makes her sob while she wipes the saliva from the healer’s lips with her gloved thumb. “Seems like my break is over, Vinestaff.”
She sets the younger woman down on her wobbly legs, that shit-eating grin reappearing on her face for the umpteenth time. She hated how she teased her, kissed all on her body and, Illumina, those hands– just toying with her– barely even giving her a taste, then withdrawing at the last second. She hated it (a bold-faced lie; she loved the way it felt, even if she didn’t get much out of it).
Vinestaff is sure she looks a mess, feels the way her lower lip is trembling, words just on the tip of her tongue. She was afraid they were going to come out all jumbled–
And, she’s turning around. She’s walking away. She counts the click of her boots, one, two three-
“Wait,” she calls out.
She allows herself to enjoy one more drawn-out, all-too-chaste kiss, denim skirt still rucked-up from..Um. She feels her clawed hand toy with her hair, unleashing another flurry of butterflies in her stomach.
Scythe lets out a low chuckle. “What a cute little thing ya are...”
She watches her disappear behind the door with a solemn expression. She’s crashing– She still is; And she is still in desperate need of medical help; And she is still struggling to come to terms with her prognosis.
But the trails of hickeys blooming into her neck and her lingering touch makes her feel better; It helps her forget her burden, even if just for a moment. Even if she has to force her heart to slow and finds herself unable to stop the butterflies in her stomach.
— — — — —
“‘Kit!” The cowgirl whines.
Medkit despises those days when Scythe saunters into his apartment-turned-doctor’s office like she owns the damned place.
“Did you have some…er..” She trails off, holding a cereal box in her hand, looking at it with a scrutinizing edge. "Some lady in pink visit you a couple a’ days ago?” She snaps her fingers repeatedly, as if she were picking her own brain apart trying to recall something. “‘Er name was.. Shit, I forgot it.”
“You specifically promised I could keep my practice separate from the business we are running together,” he says monotonously; To the trained ear, however, it was obvious that he was ticked off. “Why are you stalking my patients?” He rubs his temple with his hand, his coffee mug in his other. R&B beats pulse quietly in the background with its typical chord progressions, courtesy of the serial killer raiding his cabinet.
“Yeah,” she takes a drag of a cigarette she most likely stole off the counter.
And? His expression says.
Scythe opens her mouth with a false-start a couple times. “I wasn’t stalking her, damnit,” she scowls. She looks down at her watch. “She’s just..”
“I won’t ask again, is that good enough for you?” She looks a bit desperate for a moment until she murmurs something offensive-sounding under her breath. He doesn’t care enough to get upset with her.
He does care enough to get her out of his house before she can eat his food, however. He takes a long sip of his coffee.
“I’ll get you her file. How does that sound?”
Her expression brightens with genuine gratitude for a moment before her signature grin weaseled back onto her lips. “Sounds great.” She pats him on his back, and he chokes on his spit.
She trudges to the door in her steel-toed boots. “Until next time,” she says in a sing-song tone, pulling one of his spare keys from her diamond-patterned slacks.
…He reminds himself to take it back when he gets the chance.