#(Most of) this was done months ago. Though at that time I was stumped cause the upper ver still felt empty

[cheezyharu]

(tw// blood)

It's you!

Despite everything, it's still you.

[fiercefauna]

What exactly does it mean when a Plague Doc makes a reference to - “Ring Around the Rosy?” What exactly have you gotten yourself into when invited to participate in a “Ring Around the Rosy?”

That said welcome to another installment of Afflicted Lands - I have more installments - but they don’t need to be read in order (assuming this works, 😆) You can enjoy the picture, or read on to see what happens in -

We All Fall Down

Roughly a month ago I’d been apprenticed to Artemis and James, who told me to always let them do the talking. This put me under the general impression that the “Ring Around the Rosy” was in no way suitable for apprentices, though I’d be doing it anyway.

Thunder rolled in from the direction of the distant mountains and the first beam of light cut into the night sky like an aurora. My new gloves were sweating what smelled like rubbing alcohol from their palms as they gripped the lever. Another beam shot up, but it was still far away. This seemed much too solemn a time for questions but a part of me deeply felt like we were all going to die.

“So you guys traveled to my reality in order to save the world from this - plague, you’re generating some kind of force-field to trap it in the town and destroy it, you’ve done it before, but for some reason you want me specifically to pull the final lever?”

James fiddled with his hat, sniffling noises anxiously emanating from his pale snout as he pretended to examine the woody stumps of recently cleared vegetation. “It’s just one switch, Junior. The other operators know what they are doing. All you need is to wait for the signal, squeeze and pull.” 

“It has to be me?” 

Artemis nodded. “For an outsider to understand the necessity of a quarantine is a great deal of weight off our souls, new one.” 

“You people actually feel guilt?” 

l’d never seen her nostril slits retract so far into her face. “What put you under the impression we didn’t?” 

Sirens mounted on a near by radio tower started their dirge. I wasn’t about to disappoint my new friends or risk more incursions of that - thing - out into the wider world, so I threw my weight back against the lever, pulling it forward. 

The all encompassing hum caused the ground under our feet to resonate with the pulse of the sirens and the intensity of the light column blasting up out of the rig not four meters back. I saw my friends fall, but managed to keep my footing as the ambient sound and overwhelming brightness began to dim. As soon as I could, I ran to them, observing the tears across their mask-like faces and hearing the sobs that made me briefly wonder why a successful occlusion had troubled them so. 

A dull, red glow from the spent rigging as it started to crumble distracted from my concerns. Wildfires were reason enough to leave the siblings with their secrets until the threat was abated. 

Wait, where were the distant mountains? Perhaps a fog was rolling in. Moonlight came from the wrong direction and from a crescent instead of an orb. Had I been mistaken to assume it had been full? A void filled my insides as I saw that the lands beyond the occlusion ring had been replaced with sand dunes and the sounds of waves crashing on an unseen shore, but it was the stars that most shook me. I’d always been one to look for constellations but there was nothing familiar here. 

[doorsclosingslowly]

my brain's dead so this is from a silliest of premise, i.e. years ago Éomer and Gríma got very drunk and had a conversation about royal heirs and marriage which they both think the other doesn't remember, and then after the war Éomer gets married

Gríma learns of his King’s marriage from a young widow out on the hills just north of Edoras. Ámrun heard the news when she went into town to trade for new knives last month she says, and It’s a time for newness! For joy!, and I met the new King once he was Third Marshall then it was before the war before my Élbert was called to fight and he—

and Gríma with as much sweetness as he was born with which is none people would say if asked at least the people who knew him back when he was more than just a roving shepherd Ámrun doesn’t know him of course or she wouldn’t have him at her table at all but outside of Edoras few do and so it was a mercy from a certain view at least that he was sent away by the King when the war was won and Gríma’s stump healed. He tells her, The two lambs you want are worth more than the shirt you offer but I’ll give you the favour if you part with two turnips as well. They are wrinkly anyway it's early spring now soon new turnips will grow just give him the turnips give them. She calls him a cut-throat and a cur but she says yes which is all that matters and she mentions no more of the war, and no more of Éomer-King’s marriage.

The turnips have no crunch in them left. They are disgusting.

Back when he was still more than this Gríma would have been the first to know about the King’s wedding. Would have arranged for the most useful match would have picked the day the clothes the guests the food the vows the songs trespassing beyond his true duties as the King’s Chief Counsel because he knew best. Not to do badly by his King though of course there is much diplomatic affront to be caused by the right song to the wrong ears. No war-bells ringing now so it won’t have gone as badly as could this time this wedding which was the wedding of Éomer-King to someone Ámrun couldn’t name. If Gríma had arranged this marriage he would have done better than some woman no one can name. Is she from the south perhaps from Harad or Khand not Gondor of course after the cold Lady Éowyn’s surprising match or is she Forodwaith maybe even from Rhûn such an alliance might even counter the new strength of Gondor and—

He is a shepherd. Not even a rider not even a man. Much has happened since the days when Éomer-King’s wife was his concern things to do with Wizards and worms and pain and running and the tower the tower the tower for weeks only Saruman’s wrath for company and then the Ents. The flood. The parley with the Wizard Gandalf and Théoden-King who yet lived and Éomer was there too when Gríma tried to stab Saruman for crimes against the kingdom and crimes against him so many crimes painful crimes he was scared then of course but he was trapped a trapped beast is dangerous he took his knife and stabbed the Wizard and then he was flung or he jumped he wants to have jumped from the crest of Orthanc and he lived, too, because of the flood the Ranger later said to the dwarf they thought he was asleep then. The flood saved him but his arm is just— They thought he was asleep because he went away into himself at first from the pain. From the arm. The flood saved Gríma but it took his arm the dirty water it poisoned his arm which was mangled in the fall bleeding broken then poisoned in the water. They hacked it off. The dwarf did dwarven Prince son of—the Gríma before would have cared would have known. Théoden-King told the dwarf to hack it off the Wizard Greyhame looked on Gríma remembers this as well but not the name of the dwarf not his father.

Gríma lived.

[crisis34]

So I’ve had this irondad idea that I would KILL for someone to write. I’ve wanted to write it too but I don’t think I’ll get to it.

I started kinda sorta actually writing this in a few scenes 😂 don’t mind my weird idea writing style. Feel free to change what you want or add your own twist on things!! And please tell me if you do write this idea. I’ve had it stuck in my mind and I wanted to make it at least 10k-30k words.

I sadly, don’t have time for that though haha! Soooo hopefully someone wants to write this so I can read it lol

———

The idea is that after Tony passes away the rest of the Avengers talk to Peter for about two years, since Peter spends time at the compound and all that.

But at a random point Peter notices he’s getting ignored by the Avengers for months, they won’t say anything on why they’re all stressed and won’t talk to Peter AT ALL.

One day one of them (most likely Sam/Rhodey) let’s it slip that they have an imposing threat on earth they’re trying to find and it’s so classified that Peter can’t get his hands on the information.

So Peters bummed they don’t trust him, probably gets a line said to him like “Look kid, we really don’t need your help on this. Trust me.” And it destroys Peters self esteem because he’s already 18 and they still see him as the kid.

He goes home one day after school/compound/work or something and when he walks in his spidey senses act up.

Looking into his apartment (moved away from aunt May assumingly) he sees nothing at first so he’s suspicious but not taking any drastic measures.

And then he walks into the living room, where he has a view of the kitchen. And who happens to be standing there eating the fucking blueberries?

Tony motherfucking Stark.

Peter flips out, because he saw Tony die. He’s rambling about how he thought he was dead and all that but then he sees something that tells him -it’s not his Tony-.

The Tony Stark eyes he always remembered were whiskey brown. This guy had glowing blue eyes.

And now Peter’s heart drops. He’s trying to get information out of the imposter and that’s when the guy finally speaks.

He tells Peter about how he’s been on this earth for a few months, the Avengers spotted him through satellite, and how he’s from an alternate reality.

Peter refers to the guy as Anthony since he isn’t his Tony Stark. But he also realizes this is what the Avengers were keeping from him.

Anthony explains how he was drawn here as first (which we later get a point of view from Anthony when he first got on this earth and he wasn’t drawn there, he was told to go there. By Tony Stark whispering in his head).

Anthony also tells Peter that there’s a bigger threat than him on their way, and the Avengers are so caught up looking for him they’re ignoring the other threat.

Peters skeptical, he really is. (If you do end up writing this please don’t make this another Quentin Beck. I don’t want Peter being too gullible or getting used by Anthony because that kinda ruins the plot/already been done in far from home)

Peter has close to no trust for Anthony, especially since he has no information at all from the Avengers. But he still partially believes the guy that there’s another threat.

And he knows he’d have a lot of guilt if he turned him in and there was a threat he could’ve stopped.

So him and Anthony team up.

They look for the bad guy, maybe go through goons/hydra agents for information. But now Peters stumped.

Because Anthony isn’t afraid to use a gun or kill. Anthony’s moral meter isn’t like Tony’s was, especially in front of the kid.

Peter scolds him, tells him that he won’t be killing around him or else he’s shutting the whole operation down.

After that Anthony only kills a few more times, and Peter tries to yell at him for those but he sees rage behind Anthony’s eyes.

Especially since the guys Anthony had killed almost hurt/killed Peter. Peter kept quiet for those deaths and they end up back at his apartment to sleep maybe.

Peters silent after he realizes that it seems Anthony cares about him. This is the night before they confront the big bad guy.

For reference they’ve been together looking for information for weeks!! Keep that in mind cause then you can add your own cute scenes in those weeks of maybe Anthony being protective or helping Peter with homework.

In the middle of the night Peters spidey senses go off, he wakes up and immediately looks for Anthony. He walks into the living area to see the guy peacefully sleeping on the couch.

His eyebrows scrunch together and he decides to go back to bed but can’t fall back asleep.

And then the Avengers break down the door of Peters apartment.

Peter freaks out l, hearing it and Sams familiar footsteps along with whoever else you want to be there. Rhodey would make the most sense with the rest of the Avengers waiting at the compound.

Peter runs back to the living room to where they’re already handcuffing Anthony and Anthony isn’t saying a word, but Peter is trying to convince them to stop and there’s a bigger threat out there they need to be after.

Rhodey or Sam would tell him sternly to get to the compound.

Apparently they had found out the two of them were working together while trying to find out where Anthony was after figuring out he was on this earth.

When he’s at the compound he finds out Anthony has been out in an interrogating place at the compound and each of the Avengers try to crack him but he won’t say a word.

Now(preferably Sam but you can have Peters main Friendship be with someone else, lol but this part of the friendship will be a bit rocky) Sam confronts Peter.

Goes something like this:

“Peter you knew better, why didn’t you contact an Avenger? Huh?”

“Because I knew you guys would do this shit Sam!! There’s a threat! I’ve seen it, we need to stop the threat.”

“Peter, there have been no signs of a threat against earth. At least nothing like he seems to be telling you. Because he won’t tell us anything. I need information on him! Because that damn well isn’t Tony Stark.”

“I know that, of course I fucking know that. You just.. you don’t know him Sam. I swear he’s a decent guy. Anthony is telling the truth.”

“No. He’s manipulating you, he knew you were an easy target and that’s why he went to you!”

Peter pauses for a second, tears catching up with his emotions as he begins to cry. “That’s what you think? That’s what you all think.. of course.”

Sam seems to realize he messed up, but he keeps his mouth shut and let’s Peter talk.

“You guys don’t trust me. I don’t even know why I hang around here, I’m obviously not welcome.” Peter laughs, pained.

“What? Of course we trust you.”

“That’s a god damn lie!! Because if you did this wouldn’t have happened.” Peter yelled.

Sam stays quiet again, remembering how he told Peter that he couldn’t tell him about the threat they were all worried about. Each of them didn’t trust that Peters reaction wouldn’t cause a hurricane of events, it seems it did anyway.

“Do you know.. how scared I was?” Peter whispered this time, wiping his tears away.

“What?”

“Do you know how fucking scared I was when Tony Stark ended up in my apartment! He died two years ago right in front of me and then there he was!! Eating blueberries in my kitchen with glowing blue eyes as if it never happened.” Peter said, watching as Sams face dropped.

Peter shakes his head and continues. “I’m going home, maybe think before you decide I’m to be untrusted next time.”

Sam doesn’t stop Peter because he’s already pissed the kid off.

Either way it was 2am and he assumed Peter wanted some sleep. The whole night Anthony doesn’t say a word.

The next morning the Avengers decide they need Peter to clarify what happened.

When one of them goes to Peter’s apartment, they can’t find him. At first they assumed he went somewhere but the tracker on his suit the compound has access to has been clipped. (If you can figure out a better way that they figure out Peter went after the threat on his own go for it).

After Sam figures out Peters gone he hurries into the cell that Anthony is in, guilt putting in his stomach because what if Peter was right and he was against a threat much larger than himself.

“Where is he?” Sam immediately asks after slamming the door shut behind himself.

Anthony stares at him, obviously planning on not saying anything.

“Where the fuck is Peter? C’mon asshole, you told him there was a threat and now I can’t fucking find him. Where is he?”

Sam watches as Anthony’s face pales and he looks down at the ground with his eyes wide.

Sams stomach churns. “Please? Come on, I don’t know your intentions but please tell me. He’s only 18, I-“

Anthony gets the watch as Sam regrets every word he ever said to Peter and holds back tears because there was a chance they wouldn’t find Peter and it would be Sams fault.

“Get me out of here.” Anthony tells Sam.

Sam stares at him, there’s a darkness behind Anthony’s eyes at that moment he’s only seen on Bucky when he had to act like the winter soldier with Zemo.

Sam thinks back to Peter voguing for Anthony and makes a decision. This time, he would trust Peter.

“Alright.”

None of the other Avengers had been consulted during this decision, but Sam leaves the tracking of his wings on just in case.

He and Anthony would go together to help Peter.

“What are we doing?” Anthony asked while Sam walked into his room at the compound.

“I don’t know what we’re up against, I gotta suit up.” Sam said.

Anthony hummed and nodded, leaning against the doorway while Sam picked up something familiar.

“Is that Captain America’s shield?” Anthony asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah, Steve gave it to me before he retired.” Sam nodded, picking up a duffel bag.

“Which makes you Captain America.” Anthony smiled.

“Yup.” Sam chuckled.

“Alright, grab your suit. You can change on the plane.” Anthony decided, already walking off.

“What?” Sam quickly slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, carrying the shield and jogging to catch up with Anthony.

“What do you mean, plane?” Sam asked.

Anthony lifted his hand, holding a pair of keys in it. “Snatched it before you guys locked me up. You should really have an AI looking over this place to tell you things.” He suggested.

Sam felt some deja vu, remembering when Tony was alive and the voice of Friday could be heard everywhere. Rhodey shut her down, unable to listen to her voice and be reminded of his friend.

—

Anthony takes them to where Peter is currently trying to get a good vantage point on the threat, he’s only getting minor goons outside the building(maybe? The antagonist is up to you).

Sam stays back for a bit, getting a call on his phone from Rhodey who he knows is pissed.

He hesitantly answers and listens to the scolding but gives them their location anyway, having more Avengers on their way.

Anthony and Peter are talking and planning as well as joking. Peter seems pleased that Sam decided to trust him.

The three of them start to infiltrate the threat, Anthony has a wrist gauntlet that’s ice blue and silver he uses as well as a gun.

The Avengers arrive rather quickly to help the fight, all very wary about Anthony.

Here’s the thing, they all know Anthony’s moral is messed up and he isn’t afraid of killing or anything like that. They know he isn’t Tony.

So when Peter gets injured/almost dies they are all very surprised to see Anthony freeze as Sam tries to help the wound on his body.

The threat is gone at this point and the Avengers are trying to help Peter while he’s screaming out in pain, and Anthony is unfamiliar with the liquid rolling down his face.

(You can also make it where everyone thinks Peters dead and he kinda wakes up in the middle of their mourning lol)

And then Anthony snaps back into it, rushing forward and sliding through The small crowd and leaning down next to Peter with Sam on the other side.

“Hey hey hey, you’re alright kid. You’re alright.” Anthony said, forcing and smile and putting his hand on the side of Peter face.

Peters crying while Sams trying to get the bullet/clean the wound.

Anthony grabs onto Peters hand and squeezes it, Peter squeezes back.

“You’re gonna be okay Peter, I know it hurts, Underoos.” Anthony whispered in Peters ear.

Peter looked like he was gonna say something but then looked up and locked eyes with Anthony.

“What?” Peter whispered.

For Anthony, that moment too felt unreal. Memories began to blend with his own.

~~

‘There’s this crazy car parked outside!’

‘Mr. Parker.’

‘Umm. What, what are you doing? Hey.. I- I- I’m Peter.’

‘Tony.’

~

‘If you’re nothing without the suit, you shouldn’t have it!’

~

‘I don’t want to go, please, I don’t want to go Mr. Stark.’

‘I’m sorry.’

~

‘Hey! Holy cow! You will not believe what's been going on. Do you remember when we were in space? And I got all dusty? And I must've passed out because I woke up and you were gone. But Doctor Strange was there right. And he said 'It's been five years. Come on, they need us.' And he started doing the yellow sparkly thing that he does. Anyway...’

Tony hugged Peter, feeling as the teens excitement wore down.

‘This is nice.’

~

‘Mr. Stark, hey, Mr. Stark?’

‘Can you hear me? it’s Peter. Hey..we won. Mr.Stark. We won, Mr.Stark. We won, You did it sir, you did it.’

~~

“Anthony? What did- what did you just call me?” Peter asked, sliding up against the wall nearby after Sam finished making sure his wound was okay.

The Avengers looked confused, Rhodey glancing at the Tony lookalike uneasily.

Anthony and Peter looked at each other, both pale and scared.

“I- I don’t understand.” Anthony muttered.

Peter seemed to be staring at Anthony’s eyes the whole time, tears going down his face.

“Your eyes, Mr. Stark.” Peter held his hand to his mouth, staring in disbelief.

“What?” Anthony asked, new found emotion for the kid and everyone around him.

“Your eyes, Tony. They’re brown.”

[dreamsclock]

aw heck now im thinking of Daisy slowly coming to see Dream as a second dad even if she doesnt realize theyre related yet D:

awwwwww this made me so happy and so sad at the same time ,,, on one hand yeah !!! c!dream dad figure pog !!! on the other, oh my god, this is so sad, help this entire family and the whole server please

warnings: mentions of death, repressed memories

“I can’t tie my shoelaces,” Daisy whines dramatically one morning, “I’m going to be homeless.”

Dream wheezes, unable to help himself at such a dramatic statement. Daisy looks like the embodiment of misery — crossing her arms and frowning like the world is coming to an end brings to mind the vision of an older boy doing the exact same in Dream’s mind, though his name escapes him. “Homeless?” He asks, teasingly. “What, did your dad tell you that?”

“Well, no,” Daisy admits, sitting down on a tree stump and pouting, “but I know it’s coming. I’m the only one in my class that can’t do it, and I’m one of the oldest! And I know Dad is gonna get disappointed and remove my Princess rights and then I’ll basically be nobody and then he’ll make me sleep outside, and I’ll be homeless, ‘cause he’ll hate me.”

Dream fights back a fond smile, kneeling down and inspecting Daisy’s shoes for himself. They don’t look bad: the laces are messily tied, sure, but they’re tied, which is what matters. “Did you tie these?”

She fidgets. “....Sure.”

“Sure?” Dream smirks.

Daisy pins him with the most exasperated look possible. “Michael tied ‘em for me. I gave him a gold block and asked him to pretend like I did it, but I know Dad is gonna find out and he’s gonna be pissed.”

“Language.” Dream shakes his head with a smile. “Look, if you want, I can help you. I’m pretty good at tying shoelaces. I can sit here with you until you can do it properly.”

Daisy squints at him. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Dream agrees, and so the agreement (that Daisy very solemnly calls The Declaration, which almost makes Dream laugh) is decided upon. He’ll sit with Daisy until she can tie her shoes properly, and in return, she promises to bring him cookies next time she visits.

“From Lissie’s sister,” she confides in him, tongue poking out in concentration as she fiddles with her laces, “they’re the best. Niki makes the best cookies and cakes in the world.”

Dream gets a faint memory of the scent of freshly baked bread drifting over the horizon, and a painful twinge in his chest he thinks might be regret.

“Well, I have to try one now,” he says lightly, and Daisy beams in promise.

It takes hours, but at last, after only one sulk (which Dream had successfully coaxed her out of with a selection of persuasion, blackmail, bribery and pleas), Daisy ties her shoes four times in a row without messing up, quick and confident and grinning from ear to ear.

“Well done,” Dream beams, approval in his words, “you learned fast.”

Daisy flings her arms around him. A month or so ago, Dream would have frozen up. Now? He returns the embrace, picking her up and spinning her round to make her giggle and because his chest glows bright inside with happiness.

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.” Dream laughs. “I was a pretty quick learner too. You’re just like me.”

“Good! I wanna be like you,” Daisy says cheerfully, “you’re pretty cool.”

The warm glow in his chest stops, abruptly. No, he thinks, but he doesn’t know why, Daisy isn’t like him, and if he has his way, she never will be. Because he’s still the Monster, whether the kids like to pretend otherwise or not, and he had earned that name for a reason.

Daisy is not a monster. She smiles at him with earnest, wide eyes, and kicks her little legs to be allowed down, and the Monster slowly returns her to the ground. She doesn’t seem to notice his mood; if she does, she ignores it, glancing off in the direction of her home with a sigh.

“I gotta go and show Dad. He’s gonna be so proud.”

“Yeah,” the Monster agrees, voice thick, “yeah, he will be.”

Daisy hugs him one last time, and he feels a little more himself, a little more Dream than before. “Bye, Dad,” she chirps, “see you tomorrow.”

And before Dream can even blink and digest what she’d said, Daisy is off, running through the long grass and letting her hands fly over the flowers. Dream watches her until she’s out of sight, a strange strange feeling in his chest.

Dad. It had been a mistake, sure, but for a second, it had fit as a name.

Dream closes his eyes, presses his hands over his face, tries to take a deep breath that doesn’t hurt.

Fuck. This kid is going to be the death of him.

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Hi hi! I saw your post asking for request/inspiration! Maybe Geralt x fem reader, and geralt has to hunt down a monster but the reader as well, so first they try to outsmart the other but eventually they realize they have to work together and they end up falling for each other? ❤️❤️

Bound By Blood - Geralt of Rivia x (f)reader - Part 1

side note- I have no self control and just kept writing so we’re gonna have a pt. 2 soon

Summary: Geralt has learned of a mysterious witch and her supposed vicious familiar, now he must hunt to bring them down for their crimes.

Warning: blood & gore, angst, bit o fluff, some smut sprinkled in the mix

It had been a good couple of weeks since his last kill, or since he had a solid amount of coin that could pay for food and board. So like any Witcher with a freshly sharpened sword and a thirst for coin with a little adventure included, Geralt was on the move, in search of his next monster to slay.

Though by the looks of it, the continent is starting to feel like a much larger place then he remembered, or perhaps he’s out in the wilds a bit further then once previously thought. Either way, the day is bright and the woods are green, although the occasional snowflake floating into his hair and Roach’s for that matter may become an annoyance later on. Guess he’ll just have to see where the road takes him this time.

No sooner would his swimming thoughts of wondrous curiosity be answered after a couple hours of traveling through the now very snow covered forest, where he would happen upon a small gathering of road worn travelers. All of whom appeared to be speaking over a small fire, their horses tied off close by. And most likely, weapons hidden at the ready for odd folk like himself.

Roach’s hooves are almost silent against the powdery white fluff as Geralt makes his way into view of this pack of loyal companions trying to have a meal in the midst of their camp before nightfall. Soon their eyes find Roach and himself, these strangers look on in cautious apprehension, wary and uncertain of what this Witcher’s true intentions are.

Suddenly a young foxy looking boy stands, his thick auburn hair falling in his face as he points a shaky steel knife in the air, “What business you have? We don’t want a fight.” Speaks the boy as confidently as he can muster, though there is a small waver in his voice. The others wait for an answer.

Geralt blinks, face unassuming and as relatively non-threatening as possible, “I’m just passing through, I’m trying to see what beast needs killed over the next hill.”

The boy lowers his knife, “Oh...well, good luck to you then. There’s been a great bear said to be hunting for Nilfgaard soldiers over that way, that’s why we’re headed west instead.”

Before Geralt is able to respond an older woman with a wolf rug over her back steps next to the boy protectively, “Best keep a move on Witcher,” She warns, eyeing him up suspiciously with her pale grey eyes, “said a woman with...unnatural powers commands the beast to kill for her. A witch of the wood it’s said, but that old bastard she has, been killing villagers and travelers alike who venture too far from town.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mutters Geralt before directing Roach to continue onward with a click of his tongue.

——

They had never seen you coming, and now they’re paying for their lack of scouting with their pathetic little lives. The soldiers of Nilfgaard were said to be the most deadly and dangerous, men who came with fire in their hearts and steel in their hands. They feared nothing and no one, dressed in black armor and growing in numbers from the south everyday was enough to make you feel sick.

They had no right nor proper business claiming and desecrating what wasn’t there’s, how dare they hurt innocent people, they acted like true barbarians. And you would not put up with it any longer, they had burned your home, murdered your mother, and destroyed the rest of your village.

So for their crimes, you decided it was time to do what was necessary for the continents future survival, it was time to hunt. For months have you and your furry companion been here and there eradicating soldier camp after soldier camp with great satisfaction, now finally at long last have you tracked down a group of Nilfgaardians who’ve strayed too far from the main hoard. How unfortunate.

You had waited patiently to ambush them on the main road where they’d been trekking down for the past day and a half, it was too damn easy, all you did was pretend to be a hurt scared maiden in the woods. Then when they attempted to comfort you, your bear burst forth from the underbrush and slaughtered a handful before they even knew what hit them.

Now here you stand, boots in the spattered snow as you look around the blood stained white blanket of earth where a multitude of soldiers lay dead and mutilated. Though one remains with air still in his lungs, you smirk a wicked grin, eyeing up the fallen soldier as he stares wide eyed up at you from his broken body against a tree stump.

Your furry accomplice breaths heavy mountainous breaths close by, though he’s aware enough to know you’ll take care of the last one. And the terrified soldier knows it too as you take more steps closer. He flinches as you crouch down to meet his blood spattered face, “Nu-no, no...do-don’t...”

“Shhh.” You smile, raising a finger to his lips, silencing him instantly.

 He’s shaking now, eyes like a young fearful child’s as he studies your beautiful yet frightening appearance. “I thought all Nilfgaardian soldiers feared nothing, not even death. What a disappointment you all are.”

“We will...ta-take it....a-all...” He whimpers out as you throw him a harsh glare that shuts his bloody mouth.

“Just like I have taken your brothers lives,” You whisper with a sly grin before casually shrugging, “an eye for an eye they say....so don’t be afraid, I have felt the same as you do right now. Helpless, terrified, in pain....but listen...” You look sincerely into his broken gaze, a small smile upon your lips as you rest a comforting hand over his arm, though he knows its anything but comfort. “Nilfgaard and all her subjects can burn in the fiery pits of the underworld for what they’ve chosen to do in these lands. I was on the wrong side of the sword once, now you are, and no magical bear is going to come save you.” Your words are as deadly as poison, like a cobra spitting venom to their prey before the final strike.

His eyes go wide, blood seeping down his cracked lips, “No. No..n-no no! No!” Suddenly you thrust your dagger right through his jugular and right back out again causing a spurt of blood to mark your cheek, standing back you watch as he gasps and sputters, choking on his own blood as it gushes out of him like a waterfall.

“He even dies like a bitch.” You mutter in disgust, cleaning off your sword with your arm before sheathing it once again, now looking over to the beast standing in the snow. Heavy white clouds of hot breath pierce the crisp air as he watches your every move in interest, “Come. Let’s get away from here before someone sees us, we don’t need anymore bloodshed today. Now these fuckers are food for crows.”

The bear growls in agreeance, trailing after you as some hungry black ravens caw from the trees in excitement for their new free meal. No village will burn today.

——

“Oh yes, I saw her command the bear to kill those soldiers just three days ago!”

“That beast took my son last week, kill them Witcher!”

“I’m afraid to visit my cousins in the next town over! You must kill them!”

That had been the comments and ramblings of the townsfolk of the local tavern when he asked who and where this witch and her bear was. Though he didn’t get much of a solid answer by any means, not until an old hunter had eventually directed him to where the most recent cluster of Nilfgaard soldiers had headed.

Stating that if Geralt follows their route, then he would most likely come upon the men’s remains somewhere along the road, and if he was lucky, he’d run into the two killers as well.

Indeed it had taken him about a day or so, but eventually the farther down the trail he got, the fresher the tracks became. Suddenly during his journey did he pass a rider-less horse on its way back towards town, a dark brown smear of some kind splattered across its grey leg. Now this looked quite promising.

Only a small trot up the road did he finally find the brutal remains of the soldiers that had most definitely not made it to wherever they had planned on heading. The snow in particular was disturbed and littered with chunks of men, swords thrown about and shields bent and broken. He could smell blood and piss from the men, most of all he could smell bear and what it had done here, though it was strange too. For a sweeter scent could be recognized on the cool wintery breeze, such a viable contrast to the current state of the environment. 

She still lingers close, thinks the Witcher. Quickly moving to pull out his silver sword from within its sheath. Sensing a new presence among the fallen, he whips around in a dark blur only to be greeted face to face with a beautiful woman.

He stood his ground eyeing your form suspiciously like a lion wondering if his prey will be easy enough to kill, though he wasn’t certain if he truly wanted to kill you at all. You looked rather unassuming and calm, less monsterly and more a simple traveling woman then anything else, such unlike the grisly tall tales that those travelers and townsfolk had gossiped to him about.

Honestly Geralt was beginning to doubt what he had been given coin for, but he would not submit to that thought just yet, he has faced creatures just as alluring as you and found them quite deadly enough.

Keeping his silver placed firmly at his side, though still tightly grasped in his strong hand, his golden eyes trail over you cautiously, “You do this?” He wonders, coming out more of an accusatory statement as he glances at the bloody array of dead Nilfgaardian soldiers gutted about on the soft white snow.

Your breaths are steady though you feel more annoyed by his random intrusion then anything else, you only came back here to take their weapons to give to the villagers, “I have no quarrel with you, Witcher.” Your voice is truthful and fierce, not an ounce of nervousness radiating off of your tongue. As far as you’re concerned this man is nothing but an inconvenience.

He keeps a stoic face, not revealing much but a tinge of amusement in his shimmering eyes, “Strange then. I’ve been given coin to kill a dangerous sorceress and her enchanted bear. Fitting your description exactly, and here we are. Among the dead soldiers you’ve been claimed to murder.”

Scoffing you curtly fold your arms over your chest, “I hardly see a problem here when these fuckers have slaughtered countless innocents! They’re marching for the north and I do not doubt they’ll get it if people like me don’t try and lessen their numbers.”

He looks to the ground then back up to you, letting out a low frustrated sigh, “Your beast has killed villagers. Innocents.” His words are almost a slap in the face, but you know those people only got in the way of taking down these soldiers.

“Yes.” You nod, watching as he studies your face, “And it is a tragedy that I am greatly sorry for...but my companion is still an animal with his own will even when I give him a task. A bear is a bear, Witcher.”

He hums, “I understand that. But I cannot let you kill anyone else.”

Taking a single step back you quickly unfold your arms, alerting the Witcher to raise his sword though you show no intention of fighting him. His grey brows furrow as you shake your head, “You’re better off leaving us be. Those soldiers deserved what they got coming to them, and the people of this continent will thank us in due time. For they do not know the wrath and ruin that Nilfgaard is capable of.”

He watches as you take a couple more steps backwards towards the pine trees, your face serious and unflinching even when he takes a few steps towards you. “I kill monsters, witch. You’re no different.”

Now this does anger you, for that your eyes almost appear to darken with rage, your posture taller as you stare him down, “You are nothing but a blind fool who cannot see the bigger picture! So I won’t feel very bad about this..”

“About what?”

He watches as you take a step to the side, ignoring him when suddenly without warning does a ginormous brown bear charge from out of the evergreens, teeth and claws at the ready as they swing for his throat.

Geralt just barely dodges the huge furry bastard when a blundering paw races down for his arm, he twists away and out of the bears reach though his sword does catch the thick black pad of the bears left paw. It roars in pain, face a mask of rage as it turns towards Geralt with lighting reflexes.

Suddenly the bear swings a heavy paw directly into Geralt’s leather armored chest, knocking the wind out of him while also managing to thrust him blindly into a thick oak tree. All that the Witcher can glimpse before slipping into blissful unconsciousness is the wounded beast retreating into the woods while your silhouetted form begins walking towards him.

Then darkness.

——

When Geralt comes to he’s distressed to find his armor gone and his torso bare except for a thick white bandage wrapped around his shoulder and chest where the bear swatted at him with its large paw. The fabric is oddly soft, though a slight pink uneven line has seeped out now visible across his breasts, no doubt the area where that bear had gotten him. 

His big golden irises blink hard, focusing better now to unexpectedly find your smirking face as you walk into view, “Have a pleasant rest?” You muse, sitting down in a soft cushioned chair at his bedside, “My old friend gave you a run for your coin huh?”

Well this is odd, he thinks.

His brows furrow even deeper, though his chest hurts too much to attempt an escape, “I would have imagined you were going to kill me. I don’t understand...”

Chuckling lightly you smile, “Remember Witcher, I have no quarrel with you. Just those fucking soldiers....and don’t worry, my companion will not bring you any more harm unless I see to it.”

“Well...uh...I guess that’s good then.” Mutters the Witcher, begrudgingly scooting himself up so that he may rest against the wooden headboard and have a better view of the small room, “Where exactly are we?”

Looking around the cozy cabin you’ve decided to inhabit for the time being, your eyes finally rest back on the curious silver haired man, “Somewhere that was once vacant and now is livable. That is all I will say, and all that matters to you now....so, my pursuer who’d see me dead if not for my cleverness. If you are going to be in my care for however long it takes you to heal, what is your name?” You watch as the Witcher purses his lips together, pausing for a moment to think if he should tell you, “Geralt. Geralt of Rivia.” He reveals in that titular gruff voice of his that’s honestly starting to grow on you even in the brief time you’ve known him.

Handing him a small smile of acknowledgement, you nod, “And I am Y/N of Stygga in the land of Ebbing which is north of Nilfgaard...so, Geralt of Rivia....what brings you to Thurn of all places and into my care? Besides the fact that my companion almost ended your pretty life.” You end with a wiggle of your brow.

“Coin.” He mutters humorously, so he is not just a man of silent beautifully chiseled stone after all.

You hum, “Simple and straight to the point, are all Witcher’s as intriguing as you are?”

Geralt blinks slowly, deciding to rest his head against the wood as he looks forward, “Perhaps only the ones who want to survive.”

Laughing you lean back in your seat, “Flattery and humor may yet keep you alive then. But you are mistaken with me, I do not intend to keep you as a prisoner in any way if that’s what you are meaning. You are free to go back to wherever you came from or to wherever you’re going....as I said, I have no quarrel with you. Witcher.” You speak his name with a bit of attitude considering he did originally come to kill you, nonetheless you quite enjoy his presence.

The look he gives you is enough to make you chuckle once more, then his eyes glance back to you, causing your laughter to die down, though he’s surprised that your smile has prevailed. “Then why have you kept me alive when you could have ended me just as quickly?” He wonders.

You shrug, “The world is scarce of such creatures like yourself, Witcher’s hmm...monster hunters. Others will need you, and this world is big after all and full of terrible things.” You add, hugging your cloak tighter as you tilt your head at him, “so I’d assume after you heal up you’ll leave me and my companion be as long as I agree to keep away from towns. Yes.”

“Hmm.” He utters, brows furrowed as he thinks over your offer. 

The Witcher keeps silent as his face shifts into deep thought, huffing you roll your eyes, “Geralt are free to leave if you so choose. I give you my word if you give me yours.”

“Which is?”

“You let me and my familiar leave in peace and we let you live.”

He studies your face for a moment, trying to find any signs of falseness though he fails to spot it, “Fine.” Grumbles the handsome silver haired man.

You smile in accomplishment before a slightly awkward silence fills the room, deciding to break the tension you tap the arm of your chair, “Are you going to leave then? Right now?”

He keeps silent for some time as you patiently await his answer until finally he looks into your eyes, “No.”

“Huh.” You slowly nod, not quite expecting that answer, “...are you thirsty then? You were out for some time.”

“Yes.” Answers Geralt, simple and straight to the point.

Smiling you nod, standing now to fetch your new friend some water from outside, once you return with a metal cup do you hand him the cold liquid, his warm hand just barley touching yours. Sending shivers down your spine that you didn’t know was possible as you go back to sit next to him. “Those wounds should heal soon enough, I’ve heard Witcher’s heal fast. Is there any truth to that?”

His golden eyes trail over to you, not a hint of annoyance in the way that he looks to you now, “It would seem so. Hopefully I never have another run in with your friend anytime soon. Though I wouldn’t mind running into you again, hopefully under less bloody circumstances.” Admits Geralt with the ghost of a smile.

You chuckle, “As would I.”

——

In the following days would you and Geralt find comfort in one another’s presence as you helped him heal from his wounds. This Witcher had told you numerous stories about his adventures all over the continent and what beasts have been slain by his hand and sharp silver.

They were undoubtedly fascinating though surprisingly full of such vigor and even respect for the ones he’s been given coin to kill. It was pleasant when he spoke of all those who he had prevented from meeting an untimely and violent end from said monsters.

Even more so bewildering to you was how invested and intrigued you had become with each passing day, you actually woke up excited to see someone, to hear their voice and have them ask how your morning was.

Unbeknownst to you, Geralt had healed two days ago but had come to the fascinating conclusion that he was in-fact enjoying your company more then first realized. He loves listening to you boast about all the clever tricks you’ve pulled on the Nilfgaardians and how you’ve kept them away from the villagers who would most like want nothing to do with them.

Maybe it is the palpable truth that he has been indeed a bit lonely, or maybe it’s just that you tell the best stories and are unlike anyone he’s ever met before. But Geralt has begun to grow a deep fondness for you that cannot be fully explained by himself no matter how hard he may try.

Though at first he found you beautiful enough, that wasn’t a large concern considering he was there to kill you. Then once all was revealed he decided you really aren’t as evil and malevolent as what was spoken to him by the townsfolk.

Now, he has seen you, heard your voice and been given a kindness that he knows is something he shouldn’t deserve. But he cannot fully know if you share the same growing feelings, why would you? He came to kill, he came to end your beautiful life and for what, gold? No, you mean something now, you are someone to him now, a person that he can’t help but care for. And maybe even love, that is if he knew what that truly felt like, is this it?

But what of you?

You’d be a filthy liar if you said this Witcher didn’t tug at your heart strings like he does so freely without even knowing it. He has wonderfully taken you off guard with his hidden tenderness and rough voice that you’ve decided is one of the most alluring sounds you’ve ever heard.

His eyes catch in the light like two shimmering golden coins, the way he asks you for a drink or a piece of bread sends electricity through you. How pathetic, you think, however it is rather nice. And most of all, his body is truly something else, you’ve never seen a man so toned and full of scars. How lucky you were to take his shirt off and keep his wounds from bleeding out, and in those hours after, he looked rather peaceful as he slept.

If only you could have joined him, felt his touch, been the one who he wanted more then the bread you’ve given him. But he is just a Witcher, he will leave and life will presume as it had been before either of you had met. He’ll become just another lost tragedy of your past, another loved one gone, never to be seen again.

He is just a Witcher you fool.

You frown now, your gaze focused on the small hearth as you sit by the fire, poking it with a metal stick as your thoughts drift to better days long gone, taken so suddenly and without so much as a sorry from who did it.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes stare vacantly into the beautifully glowing embers, you hear nothing but the sparks of flame crackling on wood.

“Y/N.”

A whisper perhaps, you can’t tell, you’re so lost into your own head at this point nothing but the fire matters to you.

Without warning a gentle hand is placed on your shoulder causing you to jump and drop the metal stick onto the stone fireplace with a loud clatter. Your eyes dart for the one who touches you as your heart beats heavily inside your chest.

Instead of a petty thief come to slay you, is the soft comforting eyes of Geralt, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Apologizes the Witcher as he sits down next to you, offering half of his huge warm blanket.

You oblige without a second thought and let him drape it over your back while he then scoots closer so that your crossed knee is touching his. You give him the flash of a sad smile before drifting your dreary gaze back to the glowing hearth.

“Thank you for sharing, winter is cold after all and this cabin isn’t the most insulated of places.” You add, a low drone in your voice much unlike your usual lively self that he’s grown to love.

Furrowing his grey brows, Geralt studies your half illuminated face in the firelight, the only real source of light since the sun has gone down hours ago. “I figured you needed the company, and a blanket. I can almost of see my breath.” He says with a small chuckle though you barley acknowledge his very presence.

“Y/N?” He whispers, nudging your leg with his, “I haven’t spoken of it before but if I may ask, what happened to your hand?”

You look down to your left hand opposite of where Geralt is sitting, you hide it from the light though it is covered with a white cloth and your long sleeves. He is very observant isn’t he?

“Nothing important. I got it when fighting those damn soldiers before I saw you. It’s almost all healed up.” You whisper, “No need to think about it anymore.”

The room stays silent for another couple minutes before he finally speaks once again in that low gruff voice of his, “What troubles you?” He asks much to your surprise, maybe he is too observant for his own good.

“Many things.” You mutter quietly, turning your face to find his concerned gaze, a small smile on your lips to lessen his doubts, “Don’t worry my dear Witcher, you’re not one of them. And I’d rather not give you my burdens, they are not a fun little adventure like the ones you’ve told me about.”

“Neither are all of mine.” He speaks truthfully, staring deep into your saddened eyes, “I would be honored to comfort you of such miseries if you still want me near after.”

You look to the floor, biting your lip at this almost intimate news even if he only means to speak words of ease to you. Why not? What is there to lose if you tell him why you feel so full of melancholy.

Raising your eyes back up to his, you take a deep heavy sigh before looking back into the fire, “I had a good life. I really did, I had a mother and a brother. But that was all taken from me when those bastards plundered and beat their way into my peoples lands. Looting and killing as they went, what could I do huh...my family was in their way.” You admit with a hidden rage that just about causes the flames to glow brighter.

“They came into our village and began to burn everything they could, they ran into houses and stole away valuables untouched by the desolation yet. They took and killed my neighbors and friends, women and children, screaming infants.”

You pause for a moment, eyes welled up with unshed tears as you find your voice, “They burst through our door and pulled us three from our house before we could even react. Then those fuckers killed the only person who ever showed me true kindness and love, she didn’t deserve to die that way Geralt, she didn’t. Then again none of them did.”

“I can’t imagine.” Whispers Geralt sincerely, understanding how much it pains you to speak of your mother like this.

“For that,” You seethe out darkly, “I killed my first soldier that day, but of course they didn’t like that, not at all. Soon they held me down and beat me bloody like I was a fucking dog, if it wasn’t for my brother who stopped them. I’d be dead, he saved my life that day, helped me escape and I never looked back.” You swallow thickly as a lone tear slides down your cheek, “I haven’t seen him since, and I dare not think of how he met his end. It just fills me with rage and then...as you can see, I get like this.”

“Best not to linger in the darkness for too long.” Admits Geralt, his eyes truthful and honest as he takes you all in, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Breaking out into a crooked smile you blink more tears away as he moves an inch closer, “I already feel gone some days. I’m not a good person Geralt, I’m dangerous.” Your voice his raspy and soft now as the feel of the room appears to take a shift somewhere you’re not so sure of. Dangerous? Y/N he has no idea.

The Witcher’s lips curl into a pleasant smile as his face keeps mere inches from your own, “I like dangerous.” Whispers Geralt before his plush lips pull you into a new world of warmth and fire. He moves against your mouth, taking his time as the two of you find a comfortable rhythm. Well, this is nice.

He tastes as sweet as the apples you gave him for dinner and all the better to draw you away from your darkness as he showers you in his intoxicating light. You can’t believe how gentle and passionate he feels against you now and it’s only his lips!

You could stay like this forever but soon enough he pulls away, resting a calloused hand against your knee, “Forgive me I should have asked.”

“Don’t be a fool, I was thinking it too. And anyways you kept your word.”

“Did I?” Wonders Geralt, brows furrowed in confusion.

You smirk, “Remember? You said you’d comfort me of my miseries? Are you still planning on doing that...just a simple question really you don’t have to look so lost.”

Breaking out of his frumpled gaze he finally gives you a handsome smile, “How could I forget?”

“Well it was pretty traumatic so.” You deadpan with a dark humored snort before Geralt leans in to capture your lips once more.

The next morning you wake from the warm comfort of the cabins large single bed, an equally as warm arm covering half your face as you feel a large body pressed firmly against your side. Your hair lays free and unkept around your face as well, and you already know your naked underneath this soft blanket and snoozing man next to you.

His breaths are slow as he stirs in his slumber, pulling you in even closer as his arm now finds itself against your one free breast. You giggle quietly at the situation, how awkward it would be if someone was to burst forth from those doors and find you both in the nude like this. Ha, let them try.

Apparently you’re not as subtle as you’d thought, Geralt awakens before sucking in a deep breath as he stirs slightly, suddenly freezing in place once he realizes his hand is practically squeezing your boob.

You chuckle, moving your hand to keep it there, “You’re surprisingly a cuddlier, who would have thought?” You jest humorously.

“Uh....yes.” Mutters Geralt awkwardly as you smile, though he can’t see it.

Noticing his change of behavior you realize he doesn’t really know what to do about your boldness so you help him out by shifting yourself to face him. “With how well you were treating me last night I would have thought my breast would feel quite nice in your hand. Have I misinterpreted?”

He smiles, a small dusting of pink finding its way onto his chiseled features, “I find it important to respect you first Y/N, this is still...new.”

Biting your lip you lean in close to place a gentle kiss against his soft lips, “I enjoy your touch, you’re something that I believe I’ve been missing for a long while. Maybe we were meant to find each other and you not kill me.”

He chuckles a sweet sound that fills you with pure joy, “And you to heal me, I don’t feel much pain anymore.”

You smirk, rolling your eyes as you graze your hand down his face and arm, “I healed you enough about six days ago, I know you were just milking it since.”

“No I wasn’t...”

“Oh shut it, I think it was a clever idea to get in my pants if that was your plan.”

He fake scoffs, “That wasn’t the plan Y/N.”

“Then what was the plan? Oh wait,” You move yourself even closer to him, lips just barely touching, “Witcher’s don’t have plans, they just flatter and hope for the best.”

His strong arm holds you close as you rest your hand on his shoulder, “Maybe so.” Whispers Geralt before pressing his lips to yours.

Soon enough you find yourself pinned down to the bed, a very hot and visibly happy Geralt deep inside you as you try and keep yourself from screaming to loud. You can’t help how big and beautiful and so very large he is, and anyways he looks like a man on the edge of paradise. Who are you to deprive your new lover of his high?

Geralt does admittedly feel blessed against you if you’re being completely honest, the way he thrusts deeply into your womanhood like a man deprived of such pleasantries, or maybe the way your name falls onto his sweet lips when he feels his weakest. You can’t tell for sure, but he may be in love with just as much as you are with him and that is a promising thought. Or is it?

With an almost whiny moan do you finally come, the pleasure built up after such a ride releasing at long last. Sending a wave of euphoria throughout your entire vessel causing your slick walls to clench around Geralt’s hard cock as he continues to relentlessly pump into you.

Soon you can feel a hot warmness pooling into you as your Witcher grunts in satisfaction while his length twitches inside you, painting your walls with his seed like the skilled artist that he is.

Hovering just above your sweaty and very naked form does he smile kindly before leaning down to capture your swollen lips with his own. He bucks his hips into you a couple times more as he enjoys the feeling of making you squirm underneath him. Completely surrendering all that you are to him, though he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t doing the same with you.

Laying flush against you, his body still between your sore legs he pulls away from your pouting lips to lean his arms against your face. Soon another kiss is stolen, then another and another as he gently presses his lips to your cheek. Then jaw, where he decides to stay and attack for awhile which causes you to chuckle at his adorable-ness. 

“You need new clothes.” You practically moan as he playfully bites your jaw, kissing that spot just as quickly.

“It’s warm in here.” Mutters Geralt against your hot skin, “Nothing is as interesting as you.”

You bite back another moan, “We need food.”

He smirks against your neck, rolling his hips to try and sway your mind, “But you’re delicious enough Y/N.” Oh this man.

Breathing heavily you do your best to fight off your growing arousal, “Geralt.” You warn through clenched teeth, hands leaving red marks down his back as you playfully threaten him.

He kisses your cheek once more as a sly hand squeezes your firm breast, “Fine. Let me make love to you first then we can go.” States Geralt against your lips as he suddenly gives you three deep slow thrusts that send you into another realm of pleasure.

[whitexwingedxdoves]

the other side   part 3    [request]

Pairing: Negan x Reader Pronouns: She/Her Warnings: Language Summary: Negan finally finds the truth after all these years and swears he will win you back. A/N: Requested by @jinxeee​ - QUEEEEEEN. Aaaaaa, Its a little shorter than I had planned buuuuut...... I have a whole idea for a sequel. YAY.  Tags: @aubageddon91​ Part One ​  |   Part Two

​It took some convincing on Brandon’s behalf but Eugene finally agreed to meet with Negan, of course asking Rosita to accompany him. Once they made it to the cell, Negan didn’t waste much time questioning the man about the day he locked you away. Eugene shuffled on his feet slightly, wondering why he never allowed the truth to come to light before now. He looked over his shoulder at Rosita with a sorry look on his face before turning back to Negan. “I did in fact make the pills for your wives' ' he held his head proud despite how much he fiddled with his sleeves. “Y/N was telling the truth” he added before he turned to leave the room but the sound of Negan slamming his fists against the bars caused him to cower and stop in his tracks.

“You fucking asshole” the tall man spat at Eugene, everything he thought to be true, unravelling in his mind. He had locked the only woman who truly loved and cared about him, up in a cell for doing just that, loving and caring for him. His eyes closed as he tried to keep composure, Rosita now taking the stand as she watched Eugene’s lip start to wobble.

“Hold on a minute, Eugene did throw Y/N in a cell and threw away the key. That was on you” she spat right back at him before grabbing Eugene by the arm and leaving Negan alone.  

He couldn’t sleep that night, all he could think about was how different life could have been if he had just believed you. He had no reason not to believe you, you had never lied to him before and he knew how loyal you were to him. He’d never admit it but a single tear fell from his eyes as he thought of the torture he put you through and the only crime you ever committed was falling in love with a monster. 

 That night you sat around the table with Daryl, RJ, Judith and Michonne all exchanging stories of what they had done that day, Judith told you about a math problem she had and it even stumped you, Maths never being your best subject. Daryl told a story of how he killed a particularly stubborn snake, his arms thrashing around as he mimicked his struggle, causing RJ to laugh. Once the kids had finished, RJ was put to bed and Judith was ordered to take a shower, Michonne making a comment on how she was spending too much with Daryl that she started to smell like him – a comment which got us all laughing apart from Daryl that is. You sat there, poking at the last bit of food that remained on you plate, a smile swiping your face. “Wha’s got ya so happy?” Daryl groaned over the table his hand resting on his knee, you stopped playing with your food as you looked up at him, shaking your head a little at his question.

“I don’t know '' Now placing your fork down next to your plate, you leaned back into your chair a little more, your hand running through your hair as you thought about your answer. “A couple of days ago I was considering moving to Hilltop '' you admitted, avoiding the archers' eyes as you spoke. “When I saw Negan there, just nothing but bad memories came flooding back! I just wanted to escape but then I started thinking about you and Michonne and the kids… i’m not sure running away is worth losing my family” You heard Daryl's hums which only made you laugh more, sitting up correctly in your chair you offered the most sincere smile you possibly could. “Thank you” you whispered but it was met with confusion, playfully rolling your eyes at the man you bit down on your bottom lip before offering him clarification. “For being my friend, a real friend.” You finished, he gave you a smile back insinuating the feeling was mutual.

-

The next day Rosita stopped you on your way to the infirmary to tell you what had happened the night before with Eugene and Negan, you thanked her, being careful not to show any sort of emotion until she had walked away. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you tried to process what you were just told, your mind felt muddled. You ran your fingers through your hair as a wave of anger hit and suddenly your feet wouldn’t stop marching in the direction of Negan’s cell. Not entirely sure what you were going to do when you reached him.  

You swung the door open after one of the guards unlocked it, slamming it shut behind you. Standing in the middle of the room staring into the cell where Negan laid, reading a book. You were so angry you passed over the fact it was one of Judith’s books that she had bugged you for. “Why do you care now!?” you shouted at him as you watched him eagerly pull himself from the bed. “Why now after all this time do you care about those fucking pills!” you couldn’t fight the tears as they fell down your cheeks.

“I-“ Negan started but you cut him off instantly.

“For days, weeks hell even months I was left to rot in that cell and not ONCE did you bother to come see me? You just left me there. Now after all this time, all the time you’ve had to sit on that fucking bed and think about what you did to me, to everyone. Now you care about the truth?” your breathing never seemed to steady as you paced the room, barely giving your brain a chance to realise the situation you were in.

“I thought about it every day!” His words seemed forceful but it only fuelled your anger more as you took a step towards the cell making sure you were close enough so he could see the damage he had caused.

“Then why now!?” your jaw was clenched so hard, the words barely left your mouth, your eyes following him as he dropped his head in shame, taking his time before admitting his truth to you.

“I saw you and Daryl-“ he stopped at the sound of your laughter, his heart seemed to break at the sound of it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you sniggered at the man,  taking a step back shaking your head “and i'm the jealous bitch?” you whispered before pulling your lip between your teeth. “Is this some sort of, I don’t want you but no one else can, sort of bullshit?” you stepped closer to the bar, practically pressing up against, to be sure he could see the pity in your eyes. He didn’t try to deny you allegations as he watched you stumble around the room but he did try to hide the way his breathing seemed to stop when you came close to him, his eyes not leaving yours though he never saw the pity, he saw the same lustful flame he saw years ago when you were doting on his every move, the infamous smirk making its return to his face as he licked his bottom lip.

���You belong to me” he whispered, catching you off guard and it showed “you always will” he added before you stepped away from the man, the confused look creasing your soft face as you reached for the door.

“Go to hell” you snapped before leaving the room, once you were outside you pressed yourself against the brick wall to catch your breath, ignoring the stares you got from the guards. Your cheeks turned a slight pink colour as you replayed his words over and over again in your head. You knew deep down he was right despite how much you didn’t want it to be true. Your heart belonged to him and only him which explained why every time someone made a comment about You and Daryl you shook it off without even questioning your feelings for the archer. Once you had gained some sort of control over your thoughts you made your way back home, hoping that the war for your fragile heart wouldn’t hurt too much.

 A/N: STAY TUNED FOR THE SEQUEL. <3 

[moxfirefly]

Video calls and confessions

Part 2

Rated Explicit (18+)

Got around to that part teo for this one shot.

Hellboy/Cam!Girl

____________________

The world going to shit wasn’t exactly how’d you planned out your Friday afternoon. This morning you had woken up with enthusiasm and a desire to treat yourself.

You’d gone out to the city, had your nails done, grabbed an obscenely priced coffee and on your way had stumbled on a museum.

A little culture never hurt nobody.

For Christ sake it was a free entry day too.

So why then, as you admired priceless art and sculptures had literal hell descended upon the evening?

Creatures. Actual monsters. The screams of the public deafening.

That had happened about half an hour ago. In your haste you had thanked you fight or flight mode to quick into flight. The shaking in your body had cause you to run into one of the exhibit rooms most cluttered with random ‘junk’ whatever this art installation had gone for it was surely not for somebody to duck behind for safety.

You checked your phone. The news was reporting the attack of the art museum. Authorities had been sent as well as the B.P.R.D...

That made you pause and clutch your phone.

If the bureau was on its way then that meant Hellboy was too.

The very notion of possibly seeing him in the flesh made your heart skip a few beats. The two of you had been communicating on and off for a while now since the private shows had started. You knew mixing work and pleasure wasn’t smart but fuck, you had it bad for this guy.

There was a sense of relief washing over you. He’d be here, he’d take care of this mess. Maybe you’d finally see him and not through a computer screen. You knew things had escalated with him although neither of you had really properly addressed it.

“Please whatever is up there, if I survive this I’m fucking telling him I’m in love with him” You whispered to yourself. This possibly couldn’t be your last day on earth.

Something screeching and something akin to a human scream startled you. You hugged your knees closer and tried not to breath loudly. Gunshots and more screams could be heard.

Then something came crashing into the installation where you were hiding. Your scream was imposible to hold in. The creature was screeching so loudly, a sound that left your ears ringing.

Adrenaline made you run out as fast as you humanly could. You heard the great strides it took to catch up to you. This was it wasn’t it? You were gonna die?

Your legs kept pushing you forward even as your muscles burned with pain. Your eyes hurt from crying and your throat felt like it was sandpaper. Something like a claw reaching for your hair made you close your eyes. There was no way you wanted to see how this ended for you.

Two shots.

Loud and so very clear, the sound coming out of left field made you trip and fall. The screening fortunately had stopped.

“Miss?! You’re safe! Hey! You gotta get out of here now!” That voice you knew all to well. You looked up and saw red and a stone hand.

“R-red...” Your voice was small, a sob catching in your throat.

“Y/N!?” He was shocked, eyes wide as he knelt in front of you.

You weren’t sure how your body moved or if he moved you but somehow you’d ended up with your arms around him sobbing into his neck. Hellboy held you tightly, whispering that you were safe, an array of cusses slipped out as he breathed heavily.

The knowledge that you were here, if he’d been a millisecond too late, all crashed down on him as he picked you up and carried you to safety.

You could’ve died, was all that ran through his head.

You’re alive, was all that ran through yours.

_______________

One helicopter ride, a medical exam and a shower later you found yourself at the home base of the B.P.R.D. A nice young woman by the name of Alice had loaned you some clothes and had taken you to Hellboy’s room to wait. A debriefing was happening and all you could do was sit tight.

You resolved to canceling all your cam shows for the week stating you had fallen terribly ill. There was no way you could work, your hands were still shaking as you typed out the post and notified your one on one shows. It felt like hours as you sat on the couch, you had looked around at his room, seeing and array of personal items that made up his personality.

Such a big part of you often dreamt about this but your nerves had you glued to your spot.

The door opened and Hellboy came barreling in like a tornado. You flinched and bit too hard on your already chewed off nail, so much for that manicure.

“I’m so sorry, I wanted to leave that stupid meeting but it’s fucking mandatory because Daimio thinks it’s necessary, asshole that guy I tell ya-“ He took in your state, the still slight tremble in your hands, the few scrapes here and there. You looked small and scared and it absolutely destroyed him.

In his silence he made his way towards the coffee table and sat in front of you. “You know I often fantasized what it be like to see you in the flesh, this wasn’t how it usually went I promise” He smiled and for the first time in this piss filled day, so did you.

“How would it go?” You asked softly.

“Some mood light, a little wine maybe some music” The two of you chuckled. Your chuckles quickly dissolved in you trying to hold back your tears.

You were almost killed tonight, the shock would take some time to subside. “Hey hey kid, it’s ok, I’ve got you. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you on my watch” Hellboy’s flesh hand rested on your knees.

You leaned forward and rested your forehead on his shoulder. “...When I read you guys were sent out, I really got excited that I’d finally see you” You felt his flesh hand stroke your hair.

“I’m in love with you” You blurted out, his hand going to still. “I said, if I’m making it out of this alive I’m telling him, so I’m telling you...” You looked up at him, e/c meeting his golden ones.

“I-Im not dancing around this no more, I’m tired of pretending that what’s been going on isn’t just some work thing that I do, fuck, I love you I really do and I think you do too” Your mouth want dry again, the scratchy sensation making you swallow.

Hellboy searched out your eyes, something in his head was going a mile a minute. Was he searching for a lie? Something disingenuous?

That all died when he lunged forward and kissed you.

A kiss that truly and utterly left no worry.

You were kissing Hellboy. You were gripping Hellboy by the scruff of his shirt. The way his lips molded against yours, the abnormal warmth to them, the softness to them, the roughness of his scruff.

Pulling back for air felt obligated but he’d insisted by pressing the stumps of his horns against your forehead. “Wow...that’s...so much better than I could’ve imagined” He was star struck in a way and it honest to god made you laugh.

The days events took a back seat for now you wanted to take in the being before you. You scanned everything you normally did while on cam with him. Your hands explored his face, running across scars and hair.

Then you remembered what lay to his right and your heart raced.

You gripped his stone hand, fascinated by the texture of stone, how he held your hand with so much regard to his strength. The patterns, the markings everything has you entranced.

“Extraordinary” Was all you could muster as you rubbed on what would be the inside f his wrist. “I’m sorry, is this weirding you out?” You looked at Hellboy only to find him grinning. “Having a beautiful girl touch me? Yes it’s completely weirding me out” He mocked and you couldn’t help but playfully shove him.

“God I need a beer, can we...?” He was leaning over toward the mini fridge next to the couch and pulling said drinks out. “Read my mind, beautiful” He offered one towards you.

This morning you were going about a normal routine, and now after a near death experience you were in the room of a man you had been falling in love with for months. The twist and turns of life.

Around round 3 you’d excused yourself to use the bathroom. As you washed your hands and saw your normal pristine face a little worn down from the stressful events you frowned.

But there you stood in Hellboy’s bathroom. Surrounded by things all him. The tips of your fingers ran through a brush of his. This was a reality right now.

You stepped out and caught him shrugging off his coat. Busying your thumbnail again at your teeth you watched his now visible arms flex with the movements.

“All good?” He smiled leaning against the dresser.

There was a pregnant pause in which the two of you merely just ogled one another from across the bed.

You moved first.

You walked over the bed and stood on it, you reached out a hand that he took without hesitation and with the extra height from the bed you met in a heated kiss face to face. You wrapped your arms around his neck, you felt his around your hips.

In a wordless haste you yanked at his black T-shirt and busied yourself with taking off yours. He watched mesmerized, as always, the revealing of your skin.

The image before you though, god you wanted to scream.

Hellboy undoing his belt and swiftly yanking the whole thing out of the belt loops without breaking eye contact. Off were your pants, and on was him as he took you down on the bed.

It was a haze, breathless kisses and chants of desire. He one handed the button of your jeans and his own. The brief separation to take the offending items off had the two of you giggling almost. In record time he was back on you and you welcomed it with a ferocity to your kisses. Tongue slipping into his mouth, you swallowed a groan of his that vibrated all the way to your cunt.

He was here, you were here. Physically.

You grinned as he trailed kisses over both your covered breast. “Take-fuck-take it off please, now right now” You felt the air leave your lungs when he simply broke the bra in half and met his reward, two beautifully round breasts he had craved more than any meal. Hellboy pressed his face between them and inhaled before leaving a series of bites and marks. Each time he bit down your raised your hips in search of friction.

The heaviness in the air, the warmth of him lapping and sucking at your breast. The heated tongue wrapping around a nipple. Hellboy devoured you, and if your breast had him like this...

“Baby please, wanna touch you too” Your hands ran down his back, sharp nails leaving a path. Hellboy shuddered as he left a nipple with a loud pop. “Go on, I’m all yours” That very comment sent a gush of heat and you bit your lip to hold a moan in.

You nudged him to lay on his back and you climbed on top of him. Hands running over your body, the feeling of that stone hand gently cupping your rear was enough to make you grind down on him with purpose.

“I promised you something every time we spoke, you remember what that was?” You rubbed yourself on him as you began to trail down his body. Hellboy’s eyes were fogged with lust. “Oh, you remember” You kissed his stomach, nails scratching his sides before hooking into the waistband of his underwear.

He was going to have a stroke.

Hellboy watched you slide his underwear down. Eyes hungry and mouth engulfing his cock. He bucked up without meaning to but you caught most of the onslaught by closing up your throat. A minor choke and you were back on track.

Fuck he was big and thick, you did your best swallowing as much as possible before settling the rest with your hand to jerk. The gut punched groan that left him egging you on. He saw your head bob, the way your lips stretched around his length, the blissed out look as you sucked earnestly. “Shit shit, you look beautiful” Hellboy reached a left hand across your cheek.

Letting him go with a breathy inhale, spit on your chin you jerked him lazily.

He was putting this look away for a rainy day. You had no right looking so utterly debauched and perfect.

“C’mere and kiss me, beautiful” Hellboy whispered softly and you obeyed crawling on him to meet him in a sensual slow lip lock.

Underwear gone, or more so also ripped apart. You were now on top of him about to guide his cock into your drenched hole. The initial burn was actually delicious, that breach between pain and pleasure sending a delightful shock through your body. Once fully seated on him you reveled in stretch and burn. “God this is, fuck I-“ You moaned as you tested with a sway of your hips, he was hitting your spot perfectly. You rested your hands on his chest and he gripped your waist.

Hellboy was gone, the sight of you riding him, lost in your pleasure caused by him nevertheless. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever see. Lost to it all you fell forwards, burying your face in his neck. Your impending release had you stuttering your hips. “I got you baby, I got you” He muttered against your ear. You moaned as he held you, hips pistoning upwards to drive that orgasm out of you.

It crashed something fierce, running all over your body and coming out as a scream against his neck. You felt limp as a noodle but held onto him as he fucked his way through yours. When he came he yanked another orgasm out of you along with his.

The two of you laid there, a mess of limbs clutching at each other. Hearts racing, lungs trying to catch up.

Exhaustion won. You fell a sleep on Hellboy, still inside of you, his mouth against your temple.

There was no turning back now.

[guiltysecretpasttime]

Grey Eyes

This is in response to a prompt I received:

camryn-bria I have a Linzin headcanon that there is a secret (airbending) child.  Could you write a one-shot of Tenzin finding out Lin is pregnant after breaking up with her.

I’ll probably put in a better summary, tags or notes later on. But hope you enjoy this 😊 

(So I had too much fun (maybe) with this and it ended up being a two-parter rather than a one-shot, hope this is okay)

Lin/Tenzin pre-canon fanfic | 1 of 2

 Legend of Korra

---

Despite what the public thought, Chief Toph Beifong was not a heartless person.

While truly a strong woman, it did not mean she did not have emotions. Family and friends played a huge role in occupying a space in her heart.

Family.

It was precisely because of family why she was pacing in front of the doctor’s examination room.

Toph closed her eyes in worry.

Of her two daughters, Lin was the one most like her.

Her youngest daughter, Suyin, at her current state, probably was who her own mother wanted her to be.

Initially scoffed at and at the brink of being of being disrespected, Toph Beifong later on was reputed to be one of the toughest police chiefs that the region has even had.

She had welcomed her daughter during her second year as a police chief of Republic City. The father, unfortunately, passed.

Lin’s father was Toph’s fellow detective. Toph had just given birth to her and was out of the force when Kanto responded to a call. He was hit and he died.

Since then, Toph promised herself that it would simply not do to miss time at work.

The first few months of raising Lin were particularly difficult. She had then elected to live near her married friends, Aang and Katara.

Toph took it hard – spent time away from Lin for the next months and sent her to Air Temple Island. She eventually got back to her senses, realizing her daughter needed her and had reached back to take care of Lin.

Lin always wanted to be like her mother and the father she barely met. Suyin, on the other hand, well, that was another story.

“Mom.”

Toph’s reverie was interrupted by the soft voice of her eldest child.

“Oh, Lin.”

In Lin’s hand was an ultrasound photo of a child, Lin took her mother’s hand and read out to her the notes on the photo.

Indeed, Lin was the child most like her mother.

 ---

What was he doing here? He has some nerve.

“Aunt Toph?

She tried to ignore the tall bald man in her office.

“Aunt Toph?”

Persistent little bugger, eh?

“That’s Chief Beifong to you.” She felt him squirm and fidget. “The citizens desk is on the other floor. Or have you gotten lost?”

“I, uh, no. I actually wanted to see Lin.”

“Captain Beifong, you mean.”

She felt him flinch. Good.

“I -.”

“Don’t you worry your bald head about it, Master Tenzin.” Aspersion dripping with every word. “Captain Beifong is away on suspension. She won’t be bothering you any time soon.”

“But – no! I didn’t come here to complain or file charges.” Toph could here the shock at Tenzin’s voice. “You didn’t have to – she didn’t need to be suspended!”

Chief Beifong ignored him. “Captain Beifong caused destruction to property – Air Temple Island’s reconstruction will be done soonest – and basically threatened you, a government official. She would have received worse.”

“But -.”

“Is there anything else, Councilman?”

“Uhm, no. I’ll just drop by Lin’s.”

“She not there,” Toph felt the airbender pause at her door. “She’s suspended until further notice; and she been sent away from Republic City.”

 ---

At least that was what the press was informed, to explain away the disappearance of a prominent person

But internally, with the higher ups in the Republic City Police Department, they knew differently. They were told that she was out undercover and they better not try to make contact – or there will be consequences.

Toph was proud of her daughter’s strategy. She had been an absentee mother in the past years. She wanted to make up for it by supporting Lin’s decisions.

Even if it meant no contact with her in the next months.

 ---

Lin found herself in a remote Earth Kingdom town which used to be a Fire Nation colony. She had come to this place years ago in a recon mission and had known that there were a good mix of nations, making it easy to blend in.

Her current mission was not anything dangerous – just another reconnaissance mission to look into whether there was some truth to the formation of a new organization similar to the New Ozai Society, who would seek to undermine the United Republic.

As someone fresh out of her 20s, Lin thought she was (or she should be) fit enough for the job at the local bar. Thankfully, she was able to convince the barkeep to hire her even after telling him of her predicament (she wondered if maybe the man really just needed help so badly). She also figured it was a good place to get in with the locals and, well, the local gossip.

Lin opted to keep her first name (common as it was anyway), rented a small apartment unit walking distance from the city center, and now, had landed a job  (that hopefully placed her in a good spot to fulfill her mission) which paid adequate wages.

She felt she was prepared to start anew – a new job, a new mission, and a baby on the way.

 ---

Tenzin huffed as he consulted his map.

He had gone to Gaoling, to the Beifong ancestral home (that was were Suyin was sent there before anyway. But Lin wasn’t there.

He even went out of his way and chanced a visit to Zaofu.

Su was surprised to see him and, no, she has not seen or talked to her sister in years.

Instead, the airbender got a slap for his efforts (“You idiot! You broke my sister’s heart!” “You weren’t even talking to her! You don’t know what’s with her.” “I knew enough to know that she loves you!”).

He tossed the map aside. He was stumped; he didn’t know where else to look for Lin.

He did not even notice his mother, watching from the doorway of his study, looking at him with concern.

 ---

“Hey, get away from him!”

“Eh! And what’re you gunn’ do ‘bout that lady?”

“I’ll show you!”

“What the -!”

“Scram!”

“Alright, we’re going – we’re going!”

The earthbender turned to the young man on the ground (maybe late teens or early twenties in age, she guessed) who was of Water Tribe ethnicity. “Hey kid, are you okay?”

“I’m fine – didn’t need your help.” The man grumbled, standing up and dusting himself.

“Right.” The woman stated, obviously not believing it as she had just walked across the scene of several benders pulling up by his collar, whether they were mugging him or not, she did not wait to find out before launching some rocks from the road at the thieves. “Of course, you didn’t need help. You had it all in control, didn’t you?” She deadpanned.

The man rolled his eyes. “A truth seer, aren’t you?”

She crossed her arms. “Maybe.”

“No – I don’t think so.” The water tribe man shook his head. “Thanks though.”

The earthbender extended to shake his hand.

“Lin.”

He clasped it with his own.

“Noatak.”

 ----

Months passed and Tenzin had not lost hope in finding Lin, but he had to admit that the hope was fast dwindling.

Twice Chief Beifong had said that Captain Beifong’s whereabouts were none of his business and that she will put his sorry ass in jail if he pried once more.

Neither Chief Beifong or anyone from his family shared any input to the media as to his relationship status. The disappearance of Lin Beifong and the sudden reconstruction of some of the pavilions at Air Temple Island made up much of the chatter and gossip though.

His cheerless disposition just about confirmed everything anyway.

 ---

Meanwhile, in the Earth Kingdom, Lin finally gathered enough courage to send out a letter to Tenzin. She had used a post office’s box from two towns away to ensure that he would not be led directly to her should he decide to respond.

After contemplating on the matter for the past months, and after finally admitting to herself, she decided to give Tenzin the option to be a father to their child.

It was the least she could do. She did not want her (their) child to grow up without a father if he was willing to be there. She knew, she grew up with, the alternative to that.

We may no longer be together, but it does not change the fact that this child is yours as well. I’m giving you this chance – to either declare this child as your own or to simply ignore and disregard this. I am fully capable of raising this child as my own so I am open to giving you an out.

Well then, so the proverbial ball was in the airbender’s court.

Gently, placing a hand on her now visible pregnant belly, Lin knew the waiting game has started.

 ---

In an ill-conceived attempt to raise his spirits, the Air Acolytes of Air Temple Island saw it fit to host a birthday celebration for him. His mother had given it a go signal as she was also at her wits’ end to help bolster his mood. Even the passing of her husband (his father) did not seem to have dragged him down this way.

What Katara did not know, however, was that the press had somewhat managed to get in with the festivities as well.

The papers for the next few days ran a feature on the last airbender’s birthday celebration. They also printed a picture of him with just about any single female he talked to during the party.

This was followed by a steady stream of letters and messages poured into Air Temple Island as well as into Tenzin’s office at city hall.

The first few letters, Tenzin had deigned to read.

But after the seventeenth letter, the airbender, with a furious blush on his skin, went to the kitchen where his mother was calmly instructing an acolyte for tonight’s dinner.

“Mother!”

Katara dismissed the acolyte before turning to her son. “What is it?” She held out her hand to take one of the letters that Tenzin was waving at her.

The waterbender briefly went through the letter. It appeared that –

“They have been sending me propositions!” Tenzin exasperatedly explained, showing the envelopes with addresses coming from different parts of the world. “Ever since the broadsheets and tabloids have been putting in these features about me being single.” He continued to pace in the kitchen while Katara went through the other letters. The content was fairly similar – a Fire Nation noble offering his daughter in marriage, an Air Acoylte from the Eastern Temple sharing her daughter’s knowledge of all things Air Nomad culture, an Earth Kingdom merchant living in the upper ring boasting of his niece… “I’m not interested in any of these, Mother. I just – I just -.” He took a deep breath. “I need to find Lin. It’s only been Lin.”

Katara could believe that.

“I know – Mother, if letters come to the island for me, please send it to my office. I’ll have my secretary handle them.”

And with that, Tenzin swept away, leaving Katara to only wonder and hope that whatever he thought of would truly help him out.

 ---

I see.

So he has made his choice.

Lin gripped tightly the letter she received in response to the one she had sent.

She tried but there was nothing she owed him now.

The earthbender then tossed the letter into her drawer, to be hidden from prying eyes, to try and forget its existence.

 Thank you for your interest but I already have a life partner.

I would like to request for your respect in this avenue and refrain from sending any more letters in this similar vein.

Respectfully yours,

Tenzin

 ---

Noatak knocked on the door one more time.

Lin was nearing her due date and the barkeep had place a notice for a reliever, a substitute while Lin was out.

The Water Tribe man took the opportunity – he had been juggling different jobs in town anyway so what’s one more?

Lin had been showing the ropes to him the past few days and was always ever so prompt so that they have enough time before opening.

This was why he stood at her front door now. The earthbender failed to show up at their regular time and so he worried.

“Lin? Are you there?”

There was no answer.

Something felt very wrong.

He looked to the left and looked to the right. No one was around and so putting his entire weight on it, he hit his shoulder against the door several times until it gave way.

“LIN!”

To his shock and horror, the pregnant lady slumped unconscious at her living room, blood surrounding her at the floor.

Noatak hurried to her, feeling her pulse and closing his eyes.

He had been hiding a secret for so long, no one knew in this new life he had been living. As far as they knew, he was a non-bender – no one had paused to ask, except this woman who had asked him and had graciously not pried further when he said he did not want to talk about his past. He knew she was trying to start a new life, but he wasn’t sure why. She respected him enough as well to leave him to his privacy.

That day when the muggers had almost done him in, he thought that would have been the end of it, revenge be damned. To his surprise, someone did intervene for him.

Enough reminiscing for now though, because now, this woman needed him.

Taking a deep breath, Noatak reached forward his arms, allowing him to feel the push and pull from the two lives in front of him, not in the way his father wanted him to but to save these lives.

 ---

Tenzin was absentmindedly tapping his pen on today’s agenda in the council meeting.

The monotony of his responsibilities to the city barely weighed on him now.

It was the same old routine at the council.

His interest was peaked when the doors opened and a man, who he recognized as Chief Beifong’s trusted secretary, hurried over to the Chief of Police’s side, whispering quickly.

Toph Beifong suddenly stood up, muttering her excuses to the rest of the attendees of the council meeting and left (something about an urgent matter regarding one of her subordinates’ mission?).

 ---

“Chief, it would appear that the Captain has now given birth to a daughter.”

“What! I need to get to her.”

“Unfortunately, protocols still state that no contact be made -.”

“But I’m her mother.”

“Please, Chief Beifong, Captain Beifong explicitly indicated that in her report as well. Everything is okay and not to let you go to her as it would impact her cover.”

Nonetheless, this did not stop Toph Beifong from instructing her secretary to send off a large box of baby things to a remote town in the Earth Kingdom.

 ---

The last airbender quickly made his way out of the restaurant where that farce of a stilted family dinner (that his mother insisted on) was still on-going.

It had been uncomfortable enough when Chief Beifong arrived, nary a word towards him but quite civil with his mother and their visitors. At some point during the meal, the Fire Lord started to pass around photographs of his teenaged grandson and even Chief Beifong was obliged to share photos of her own grandchildren.

Tenzin tried to ignore the longing gaze his mother had on the photographs.

He met the eyes of his brother, who coincidentally was stationed this week near Republic City, who in turn shrugged back at him.

Yeah, that’s not happening. Unless someone comes forward to speak up about the fruits of Bumi having sown his wild oats, their mother would need to wait a little longer to have her own grandchild.

“And who might this be?” His mother brought up a photo of a baby.

“Did Su have another child?” Fire Lord Zuko peered at the small plastic booklet that Toph had fished from her uniform’s pocket.

“Eh?” Toph reached out to get it back, fingers running through the little indentions at the edge, helping her identify the labels on the photos.

Tenzin did not miss the quick panic that showed on the metalbender’s face before it was back to her inscrutable expression.

“It’s an old photo of one of her boys.” She promptly placed the booklet of photos back into her pocket. “I must have taken it by accident.”

As the rest went about their meal, Tenzin could not help but revert to the photograph of the baby. The baby appeared to be a couple of months old and…there was something that was niggling the back of his head about the child.

Conversation went to work, the new policies in the United Forces, the statue of Fire Lord Zuko in Republic City… They were all pleasantries that Tenzin did not want to talk about.

As soon as it was acceptable, he had excused himself from dinner, citing an urgent deliverable from city hall. No one tried to stop him and everyone took it at face value. He had, after all, buried himself into work in the past months in between trying to look for Lin. The airbender simply did not believe anymore that she was merely suspended from the Force after being absent for more than a year now.

Tenzin thought that Suyin Beifong, by now, would have an idea as to her sister’s whereabouts. Recalling their last interaction, however, he rubbed his cheek gingerly in recollection, he felt he needed to soften her up first.

Coming from that awkward dinner conversation, he had an idea.

Her children!

 And that was how the airbender found himself at the nearest open store that catered to mothers that carried items (food, clothes, furniture, you name it) for their children.

Tenzin had a vague recollection on how old Su’s children were. He was unsure, though, as to what do kids at those age need or want. He figured that the store’s clerk would know and headed to the store’s counter, waiting until the clerk finished assisting two ladies in selecting the best bassinet that the store offers.

The airbender leaned on the glass counter, tapping absentmindedly as he was wont to do when waiting --- when he saw a brown box just behind the counter hidden from view of the common customer (it just so happened he was tall and nosy enough to see it). There was a small sticky note that caught his attention:

Monthly order of Chief Beifong.

Why on earth would Aunt Toph have a monthly order at this place when her own children have long since grown up?

Tenzin twisted his neck to peer at the label of the box, to check the address, thinking that maybe it was headed to Zaofu for Suyin and her kids.

To his confusion, it was to a place within the Earth Kingdom.

Tenzin froze.

What if…it was to another daughter and grandchild?

The photograph!

He now realized what bothered him – the baby in the photo was relatively fair-skinned and he was sure both of Su and Baatar’s children were tanned. Su was also not pregnant back when he last saw her so it could not have been a new Zaofu Beifong baby.

Toph Beifong would be hard-pressed to care about children or babies unless they were related to her.

This left Tenzin with only one plausible explanation.

 The airbender then left the store, hurriedly making plans to get to the Earth Kingdom by the next day.

 ----

And there she was – as radiant as the last time he saw her (never mind that it was in the middle of the unleashing of her powerful fury upon his childhood home).

With a pang, Tenzin saw Lin Beifong carrying a baby, accompanied by a tall (and very young, Tenzin thought unpleasantly) man who appeared to be of Water Tribe descent. The two were engrossed in conversation that they missed the airbender who had been staring after them.

Tenzin had arrived at the town square and was about to head to the address he had committed to memory when he saw Lin. He was about to approach her when the Water Tribe man intercepted her. The airbender noted the familiarity with which the two interacted (it felt like the air was being squeezed out of his lungs). The man offered to take what Tenzin assumed to be a baby bag and Lin had easily acquiesced.

He surreptitiously followed Lin, unsure where they were going but not wanting to take the risk of losing sight of the earthbender he had been searching for quite some time now.

As he watched every exchange of the two, Tenzin could not help but feel at a loss. He had tried to think of every possible scenario, of what he would say, what he would do once he found Lin.

But none of the scenarios he imagined prepared him for the reality.

He never did imagine finding Lin as a mother.

He never did imagine finding Lin with a partner.

And she looked – content.

Tenzin felt a pit form at the bottom of his stomach. Could he – should he – possibly ruin this with his appearance?

Call him selfish but…he’ll try just one last time. If there was an inkling, of the slightest chance of a future with Lin --- he’ll gamble it.

For himself. For Lin.

 ---

“Jinora, sweetheart, be a good girl for Noatak first, please? Mama needs to work for a bit.”

The eight-month-old child burrowed herself further into her mother’s arms but nodded nonetheless. “Good girl.” Lin gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead as the younger man hoisted the child, anchoring her to his hip.

Lin had gone back to work on a part-time basis, but more on the management side of the bar (accounting, menu planning, etc) rather than being actually behind the counter, serving the customers like before. The barkeep was pleased with Noatak’s performance during Lin’s maternity leave that he had decided to hire him full-time.

They would usually come to the bar before opening hours, Lin to check on the previous night’s accounting and Noatak with preparing with the rest of the crew.

Lin was scheduled to start with the local bookstore soon on her off-days from the bar.

Today, it was accounting morning at the bar. She would usually be able to have an hour or two of continuous work while the crew would take turns looking after her daughter if she were awake. If not, Jinora would be placed on her sling and Lin could still comfortably work.

Getting out several folders and her writing implements, Lin pulled out a chair near the window, preferring the natural light while working.

She managed to work for around ten minutes when a shadow fell on her work; before she could even raise her head to address who or what was blocking her light, she turned her head to the inner part of the bar as she heard her name being called.

“Liiiin!”

 ---

When he saw the Water Tribe man leave Lin with the child, Tenzin saw his chance.

He took some time to deliberate though; he observed her quietly, soaking in his view of the woman he had let go (and would be claiming back, if she would have him).

He took a bracing breath and entered the bar.

“Lin!”

Lin would look up at him. “Tenzin! What are you doing here?”

He would kneel – “I’m so sorry Lin, I know you have a child, I’ll love her like she were my own – I promise to treat you better than Mr Water Tribe there. Please Lin Beifong please – I regret letting you go, if you’ll have me, I’ll want to spend the rest of my life proving my devotion to you. Please- Lin please.”

Then Lin would get up, maybe give him a slap harder than what Su gave him then give him a hug before making him work for it.

Before he could even say a single word to put his imagined scenario into action, another voice (that he was starting to dislike) rang out.

“Liiiin!”

“Yes, Noatak?” Lin stood up quickly to address the young man, who was carrying a giggling baby at arm’s length. “What is it? How is Jinora?”

Tenzin felt his heart skip a beat, that Lin named her daughter one of the names he wanted for their daughter… well, he was not sure how he felt about it. Maybe he will explore it a little bit more when he was alone but for now…

“I know I helped bring her into this world –,”

Tenzin blinked at the sudden hurt he felt at his chest at this.

“But please, Lin – take your evil spawn away from me.” Noatak thrusted the still giggling child dramatically back at her mother, half kidding and half exasperated. “You know how much time it takes me each more to fix my hair. Then this little girl here,” He tickles her side and Jinora squeals with laughter. “Decides to blow a gust of air to my face – imagine that!”

The airbender heard this and froze.

“I know you said this brat (“My daughter isn’t a brat!”) is part-Water Tribe,” He gestured to his now unkempt hair. “But I don’t think this is a sign of respecting her culture?”

“My daughter is acting fine.”  Jinora kicked her chubby legs as though to prove a point, disturbing the dust on the floor. “And we did discuss this – no training until she’s older. I want her to have a normal childhood.”

“Ok then,” Noatak waved his hand and nodded, obviously agreeing. “Anyway, I’m in charge of family meal today so I better start prepping.” With one last tickle at the baby’s side, he left and headed to the kitchen.

Lin shook her head and called after him “I’ll pack up and get back to the books later!” It would seem her daughter was in a mood today.

Speaking of meals…

Jinora had been tugging at her chest. “Feeding time is it?”

 Tenzin watched Lin smile softly at the baby, a smile he saw rarely, a smile that he only saw between the dark of the night and daybreak, in between sleep and wakefulness as they laid in bed together.

He cleared his throat to remove a lump that was forming, a signal of impending tears.

Lin had forgotten about the newcomer as she angled the baby go position her for feeding when she heard someone clear their throat.

“I’m sorry, how can I help –,” Her eyes met familiar grey ones. “You.”

 ---

There was a lot to take in.

The Earth Kingdom.

Lin.

The Water Tribe man (Noatak, he spat.)

Lin.

The baby.

The airbending baby.

Jinora.

There was no doubt on whose child Lin was carrying.

Tenzin pushed forward at the surprised earthbender to take them (her and their daughter!) into his arms.

----

Note: This is part one of two --- ooor we could end it there? 🤷🏼‍♀️ Let me know!

(how do you tag people anyway?? @camryn-bria

---

2 of 2 here.

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Forbidden Notes: Hugo x Fem!Jewish!Reader

TW: Gestapo/holocaust

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :)  

Requested by @kabutosfatcock ____________ You and Hugo were married, and since he was not Jewish, your marriage would have been considered 'privileged,' but, you did not go down without a fight. You were marked as a political criminal instead, associated with rebels since 1933. You'd been outspoken. You'd been loud. If you hadn't been, you might have been safe now, on account of being married to one Hugo Stiglitz. But you couldn't abide by that silence. Silence, you knew, could kill just as much as loose lips could. And for the lives you'd saved, you were targeted. You were on wanted lists. And, you had been, for quite a long time. 

1943

You’d ‘disappeared’ some time ago. Only two people knew where you really were. Hugo was one, of course. The other was a close friend of his named Matz. Hugo had been arrested for killing 13 gestapo officers. Your home was raided. Only Hugo's knives and guns were found. In such an event, Matz was supposed to make sure you got away in case things went wrong for Hugo. Whether Matz got there in time, Hugo didn't know. He could only hope you found a safe place to hide. No matter what they did to Hugo as they interrogated and tortured him, he never said a word that would hint anything about your whereabouts. He gasped for air, watching through weary eyes as his blood spilled onto the floor, and orders and questions were drilled into his ringing ears. None of that mattered. Not a lash, not a drop of his own blood mattered to him. He took every beating, every scream, and every moment of torture, without saying a word that could be used against you. You were his wife, and he loved you with all his heart.

A file was thrown at Hugo, as another gestapo officer walked in, "You sent a few boxes to America, two years ago, Hugo. Any particular reason?" He lied again, and said something about an aunt who'd moved to Chicago about 20 years earlier, being down on her luck. All he'd sent were some spare clothes, things she might need. He was beaten again, and left face down, on a red splattered concrete floor. The truth was this: Two years earlier, you and Hugo saw where things were heading. Germany was no longer safe, and Hugo wasn't willing to wait. He'd sent a trunk of the bare essentials. Photographs, documents, mementos...things any young, newly wed couple would wish to keep. He sent these things away to his aunt, who really had been living in Chicago for 20 years or so...but Hugo had planned to sneak you out of Germany, after hiding for a year. Time had not been kind, and fate had been cruel. You had to go into hiding in your own home, and Hugo had to build a whole charade around your disappearance over two year's time, making it seem as you'd really gone away. The officer kicked Hugo over. He lay there, his eyes heavy, sleep deprivation and pain turning his vision hazy as he looked up at the bright lamps. The officer grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, muttering, "Tell us what we want to know, and we'll go easy on you. We send you off to Berlin, and it'll all be over, like this-" He snapped his fingers, signaling a path to a quick, relatively less painful way to die. Hugo grew enraged at the very idea: Getting an easy way out in exchange for your life? Never. He spat blood into the nazi's eye. The nazi dropped Hugo in disdain, cursing, as he wiped blood away from his eyes. "If you do, Y/n will be spared." "Y/n goes free..." Hugo had lost so much blood and so much hope, he believed them for a moment. But he saw the scowls and heard the cackles. He went numb, realizing he'd just blown your cover. He'd just confirmed you never left Germany at all. The officer  turned to the guards, with a pleased smirk, "Search the house again." "We haven't found anything." "Then burn it down." Hugo scraped together what little strength he had left, and lashed out, taking down two of the guards. But it wasn't enough. They already had what they wanted: a death sentence for Hugo in Berlin, and confirmation that you were still somewhere in your home. Hugo was taken to a cell, and would be moved to Berlin in the morning.

Hugo knew even if he escaped, he would quickly be caught again. Even so, he couldn't get far. His only hope was that his friend, Matz, would get to you in time. Even then, Hugo blamed himself for it all. He knew he was nothing without you by his side. The worst part was he had no answers, and he'd die not knowing if you got away in time. But, one answer came up, moments later as shots were fired down the prison halls. He initially didn't care to glance up. Whatever was coming didn't concern him, he was sure. But he was wrong. Nine basterds stood before his cells. One stepped forward, asking if he wanted to go pro in the nazi killing business. His mind was on one thing, and one thing only: You. He could do more for the world by hunting nazis than he could as a dead man...and if he could do it all for you, he would. A simple, silent nod sealed Hugo's fate. Another year passed since then.

The basterds were deep behind enemy lines, somewhere in the  French wilderness at the moment, tracking and hunting down every nazi patrol that they could. One patrol in particular that they caught caused Hugo to snap. He recognized one of the faces. "You." Hugo marched over to the man he'd known all his life: Matz. Matz, a childhood friend. Matz, the closest thing Hugo had to a brother most of his life. Matz, the only one who knew Hugo's secrets: He wasn't a real nazi. And you had never left home. There he was, an enlisted officer now. Matz, now a nazi. Blood on his hands. Matz knew there was no saving himself, because he knew Hugo. And he knew Hugo loved you more than life itself. So he admitted all he had to: "It was her life or mine." Matz seethed, not an ounce of regret in his eyes, as Hugo approached with a bloodthirsty glare. Hugo beat him relentlessly, demanding answers. Demanding to know where you were, what exactly happened that night. Matz' nose was broken, his eyes were black and swollen, and some of his teeth were littered on the ground. Blood poured from his nose and mouth as he sobbed, "ICH WEISS ES NICHT." "I DON'T KNOW" Hugo didn't believe a word Matz said. None of the other basterds asked any questions. They didn't even ask Wicki to translate. They just watched in awe, realizing Hugo was only beginning. He took out his knives, searching for the answers he couldn't get from Matz. But, by the time Hugo was done, the knives were drenched, and blunt, and Matz was no more. Aldo left no survivors that night. Hugo didn't ask for that, but Aldo was sure it was for the best. Whatever had happened, Aldo did it out of respect.

Hugo sat off on his own that night, quietly, as though nothing had happened, as he sharpened his knives. He lit a cigarette, and glanced at the sky. No one ever knew quite what he was thinking, and though sometimes it was an advantage for him...sometimes it was quite lonely. Especially when he remembered the only one who could tell what he was thinking all the time was you. He felt alone. Angry. Resenting himself, he again ran through all the things he could have done to save you, and inevitably tormented himself with the ceaseless thoughts of what could have happened to you, wondering if he'd ever really know. It was all too much, as he struck down his knife, lodging it into the tree stump he was sitting on.

The rest of the basterds were far enough in the distance where he couldn't hear them, and they couldn't see he was a little more wired than usual. "So....what was that about..." Smitty took a  piece of chocolate before passing the bar down to Omar. Hirschberg shrugged as he then took the chocolate from Omar, "I don't speak German or nothin'...but I'm pretty sure I heard them both sayin' "Y/n" about a thousand times. It's a name, ain't it?" WIcki sighed, having heard the story from Hugo himself, months ago. "His wife." "Hugo's married?" "How does a man with the conversational skills of a rock get that far with a woman?" "You're serious, Wicki?" Wicki nodded, "Her name was Y/n. She was Jewish." Donny noted Wicki said 'was.' Past tense... Donny glanced briefly at Hugo, who was but a shadowy figure in the distance. He turned back, and looked down with a shade of empathy, though his grip around his bat tightened as he glanced at the names on the bat, murmuring, "Y/n...Hugo's wife..." Wicki didn't say anything else. Frankly, that was all he had to say for the basterds to understand a whole new side of Hugo. Well... to understand the side of Hugo they knew. No one ever asked any question about it again. How could they? How could they blame him? They didn't know anything other than your name, but were certain he loved you. And...not a moment went by in his days that he didn't think of you. This day especially. He sat there, on the tree stump, burning through his cigarette, he lit another one, without a sound aside from the clink from the lighter. As he put it back into his chest pocket, his thumb brushed against a small scrap of paper. He sighed with a heavy heart, knowing that paper by memory. Every crease, every tear, every single word, and a tiny blot from a stray raindrop. He could remember the phone number written on the back of the sub. Every curve and line of every number permanently etched into his memory, He knew every last detail by heart. And yet, he looked at it every time he felt furthest from you, because that tiny scrap of paper was the closest thing he had to you. It was a ticket stub to an underground club. Secret, hidden, and forbidden. It's only form of entertainment was swing music, which had been banned. That was where he met you... and that was your very first date. He smiled for a brief, infinitesimal moment, which pained him beyond belief, as he set his eyes on the ticket stub. He slipped it back into his pocket, though even when he shut his eyes, he could still see it. He could see the line of young people ahead of him, eager to get into the forbidden club. He could see the moment he first spotted you, just ahead, when you smiled at him. He could see the moment you approached him, and took his hand for the very first time, leading him to a dance.  The moment he saw your eyes light up with those forbidden notes and songs. The moment you convinced him to dance... The moment his life became yours, and yours became his. ***Months Later*** Hicox blew his German act. "Say auf wiedersehen to your nazi balls." With that, the tavern was sprayed red in blood. The gunshots alerted not only the basterds, but a team of agents working with the MI6 that the British had sent to assist the lone OSS operative, last minute. So last minute, that Bridget, Wicki, Hugo, and Archie were unaware of the extra unit's assistance. That unit, unknown to the basterds trapped in the tavern, legally did not exist. Legally, some of the members of your team were dead, including you.  All documents and messages regarding the team, The Resurgent,  were kept in a vault, somewhere underground, some place in England. Each and every document was classified, and most of the documents detailing their work had been mostly redacted. The Resurgent: This was your team. This was a band of double agents, soldiers, and talents who were either left behind, fell off the grid, or thought to be dead. This was the team that you called family from the moment you left Frankfurt, believing Hugo to be dead. This was the team who you faced certain death with. A hideout nestled in the most populated, busiest side of Paris...so obvious no one would think to look. That was the place you and your team called home. Only recently had you heard of this American outfit called the basterds. So recently, you only arrived to the village of Nadine, a moment or two before hearing shots fired in the tavern. Your team moved toward the tavern, along with the basterds in what you would later realize was a turning point not only in history, but in your story. **** Among all the ringing in his ears and the shots and the screams and the shattering glass, Hugo heard something else. He heard the bells from the door upstairs ringing. But, he was too tired and weak to look to the stairs. He slumped down  in a corner, bleeding through a stolen uniform, shakily raising his gun to fire one last shot. You were the third or fourth Resurgent to make it into the tavern, and you scanned the area. In a moment, your heart dropped, and you couldn't seem to breathe. You saw a familiar face in a stolen uniform. "Hugo..." You knelt by him, seeing his bloody fist clenched around something, resting over his heart. You held his hand, and found something you never imagined. It was a ticket stub, from your very first date, with your old phone number on it. A forbidden note for a forbidden love. You took a breath, both heart broken, and filled with hope all at once. You put it back in his pocket, "Oh Hugo..." He managed to open his eyes, and saw you hovering over him. Startled, his eyes went wide. In his mind, it was the ghost of you, taking his hand through a gentle death, But you wouldn't let him off so easily. You looked at him, tears welling in your eyes, though you clenched your jaw, and quickly wiped them away with your sleeve. There'd be time enough for that later. You pulled Hugo up, and draped his arm over your shoulders. It was then that Hugo realized you were as real as the bullet in his side. He smiled again, though his arm instinctively pressed against his wound, his other arm wrapped around you tightly, as he gave it his all to walk with you, and walk away from the grip of death. He saw you every night in his dreams. But this was clearer than anything he'd ever seen in his mind, either in a nightmare or his most carefree daydream... This was the dream that couldn't be. Your smile was brighter than it had been in any memory, your hands softer than they could be in any dream, and your voice clearer than it could be in any hallucination. "It's you..." He stood still for a moment, looking at you, though he seemed as though he would collapse.  Not because of the blood... but because it was because it was you. It was really you. You set him down gently, outside of the tavern, while other agents helped Bridget, Wicki, and Archie out. You crouched by Hugo, your hands resting against his face. He whispered, with gentle eyes, and a subtle grin, "Du bist lebendig." 'You're alive.' You nodded, as you started to tend to his wound, 'So are you...' "It was Matz. He betrayed us. He-" Hugo started to get worked up, breathing heavily, until you pulled him back down before he could hurt himself. "They couldn't take me away from you. This bullet won't take you from me." As the basterds scrambled to get everyone out and away from the tavern before more nazis arrived, Wicki laughed through the pain, "Told you Hugo was really married." If Hugo hadn't been wounded, he would've laughed. But he didn't. He smiled softly, though, as he reached his hand up to your face, and nodded once to himself, as if confirming it was really you. Your eyes were the very same eyes he saw on that first date. Your kind (worried) smile was the same as it was every time Hugo clumsily hurt himself (which was surprisingly often, though he never let on around the basterds.) Your nose was the same nose he used to peck softly each morning before work. Now, as Operation Kino carried on, you and your team watched over the wounded basterds. You stayed by his side. Who better than you? You were by Hugo's side the day the world fell apart. You were there when the world went to war. And now that time seemed to slow down once again, you were still there. And you were there when Hugo, and every other basterd, got the medal of honor.

"Think your aunt will be upset that we're a little late?" "We're only..." he shrugged, as he looked down at his watch, "Three years late." "Oh, is that all?" You laughed, as you wrapped your arms around him. Hugo was quieter than he used to be. He had scars you didn't recognize, and stories he might not tell you for a few years. But, he held you tightly, as he always had before. And when Hugo looked down at you with the same old smile that kept your hope alive in your dreams, he still had that love in his eyes. The same love as the day he first danced with you. If he had to do it all again, just to be with you, he would. You looked around at the sea of reporters, families, and basterds. You watched as balloons floated to the sky, camera flashes went off, and confetti and fallen streamers adorned the ground. A band began to play notes that weren't so forbidden here You kissed Hugo, and he kissed you. You'd never have to go through it again. You'd never have to be apart either. Some things wouldn't be the same. But, as long as you had Hugo, there would come a day when the world seemed to be pieced back together. Until then, you both held on to each other, knowing no one could ever take you away from each other again.

[broughttoyoubytheletterf]

Telling the Family (ficlet)

At one time I was going to write an entire series of how different people react to finding out Elizabeth is running for President but this is the only one I ever finished. I’m cleaning out old files, so here have it. 

“You have to talk to your family you know.”

“Hmmm?” Henry continues to keep his eyes on the book in front of him.

Elizabeth plops down on the other side of the bed, disturbing Henry and causing him to give her an annoyed look. “I’m just saying, you should have a conversation with them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The campaign,” she responds simply. She settles into bed, pulling the covers up to her waist and grabbing a policy book from the floor.

He stares at her, agape, “Really? You’re just going to throw that out there and leave it to me? Isn’t it a little early to tell them anyway?”

She avoids his gaze and flips open the binder. “Give them some time to process everything, you know Maureen will have thoughts she needs to share. Plus, it’s going to be an invasion of their privacy as well.”

He huffs. “Well shouldn’t you be there when we talk to them then?”

“No.”

When she doesn’t elaborate further, he tugs her reading material out of her hands. “You’re telling me that you’re ready to face the scrutiny of the entire country but you won’t come with me to talk my family.”

“Yes,” she says blithely. She looks thoughtful, “What do you think the chances are that Maureen votes for me?”

He laughs. “Eh, I’d say about 75%, she’s mellowed out a bit since Dad died. So there you go, another reason to come with me, get some experience stumping for votes with intransigent constituents.”

Mulishly she says, “I don’t wanna.”

“Petulant isn’t a good look on you Elizabeth.”

She side-eyes him. “I’m not being petulant, I’m being realistic, I think the chances are better that she votes for me if I’m not there. Also, you’re lying, you like all my looks.” She laughs and straddles his lap.

He grips her waist and smiles. “You’re right.” He leans forward and blows a raspberry on her neck. “But you are coming with me.”

Two weeks later she is sitting on a couch next to Henry at Maureen’s house. She is bouncing Maria on her knees and the four-year old is squealing in delight. She still doesn’t know how Henry conned her into coming and got it to actually happen. She’s dealing with no less than three separate international incidents that could spiral into crises at any moment, but Henry hadn’t let her use that as an excuse. She’s dragged half the State department with her it feels like, Jay is in DC holding down the fort but she has Blake, Kat, Nina, and Daisy in the motorcade out front and Matt is down the street at a coffee shop feverishly writing a speech.

Henry is tapping his feet next to her. He had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive here, though that could have been because she spent most of the time on the phone, doing her best to restrain herself from yelling at her entire Bureau of East Asian Affairs. She’s not usually a yeller, so maybe Henry is not the only one nervous about this conversation.

Maureen comes back into the room, balancing a tray of glasses. “I have coffee for everyone, but I’m afraid I only have regular creamer, none of that flavored stuff.” She looks pointedly at Elizabeth as she sets her load down. Elizabeth barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes, she asked for vanilla creamer once, a decade ago, and Maureen still likes to act like it was the height of privilege. The child on her lap is getting restless, so she puts her down and she runs off to play.

After everyone is settled into their seats with their drinks of choice, Maureen breaks the now heavy silence. “So is there a particular reason you gathered us all here? Is one of you dying or do you just like to see your subjects scurry?”

Elizabeth lets out a breath, clearly Maureen is feeling particularly intractable, which does not bode well for this discussion, but she also knows that the other woman mostly gets that way when she’s scared. She responds quickly, “Both of us are fine, as are the kids, they send their love by the way.” It’s almost imperceptible, but Maureen relaxes. “The reason you wanted to talk to everyone, all at once, is because…” she rehearsed twelve different was to say this but she still feels unprepared. Henry reaches over and squeezes her hand.

As if saved by the bell she hears the front door open, and when she looks over Kat and Blake are standing there, wringing their hands. She looks at them expectantly. Kat grimaces, “Apologies all for interrupting,” she focuses her attention on Elizabeth, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we just heard back from Chen’s office, he says they’re moving forward with their plans, immediately, they’ve already started..”

Elizabeth interrupts, her face turns murderous, “Get me Chen on SVTC now.” She might yell that last word. She stands up, “I swear, China is going to be begging us to sell Taiwan drones by the time I lay out the alternatives, which reminds me, Blake let Russell know I am 100% behind repositioning the fifth fleet, maybe some military posturing is just what we need, remind them that we have our own array of antiship missiles and that they do not want to get into a damn shooting war with us. Especially over some fucking drones.” She stalks over to the doorway. Kat looks taken aback, Elizabeth rarely curses at work, or ever. She doesn’t even want to look back and see what Henry’s family looks like.

She purposefully softens her tone, though she feels like preventing World War III, for the fifth time this year, merits some coarse language. She gestures towards Blake who is already on the phone, “Tell Russell I think Conrad should call Li. Ask if he wants me on the call.” Blake nods. “And I swear if this is the Assistant Secretary’s fault again, I’m firing her, I don’t care whose niece she is.” She slams the front door behind her.

Henry stares at the closed door for a moment, and sends up a quick prayer for peace, both for the world and in his family. He turns back towards his family, who look a little aghast. He’s not surprised, Elizabeth has done her best to not talk about work around them, and she definitely never lets her temper show like that. He smiles in what he hopes is a disarming way. “So, that might take a bit, so why don’t we talk about something else? Shane, how’s the new job going?”

Shane starts to respond, but Maureen stops him, “I’m not going to wait around while Elizabeth is off starting wars, so just tell us whatever it is you wanted to tell us Henry and then you can both gallivant back to DC.” Maureen’s husband squeezes her shoulder in support and Erin and Shane are purposefully avoiding his gaze so he imagines that he isn’t going to be able to put this off until Elizabeth gets back.

“This is really more her thing than mine, so it would be best if she could tell you.” Maureen glares at him. “Okay, okay, we just wanted to talk to you guys about some changes in our life, changes that might effect you, though we’ll do our best to prevent that.” They all shift nervously. “Well you’ve probably heard the rumors and speculation, but we wanted to let you know it’s true, Elizabeth has decided to run. She won’t be announcing for a while yet, we’re thinking in about four months, but we wanted to let you know now.”

They stare at him blankly, until Erin asks, uncertainty in her voice, “Run for what?”

He almost laughs, because he forgot for a moment that there is a whole world that doesn’t follow politics obsessively, that doesn’t spend every second enmeshed in world affairs. “President,” he responds simply.

That sends them all atwitter and there’s lots of cross-talk and yelling and accusations. He spends the next 45 minutes fielding questions, from Elizabeth’s position on abortion (he tells them they’ll have to ask her, he’s well aware his wife is ardently pro-choice, but he’s not stepping on that landmine before it’s necessary) to, once the kids wander back in, whether that means they can get free tickets to football games.

Elizabeth slips back in, she looks marginally more relaxed, so he takes that to mean there are no nuclear missiles currently incoming. Maureen spots her first and pins her with a glare. “So I hear you’ve decided you want to be an actual queen.”

Elizabeth moves further into the house and resumes her seat on the couch next to Henry. “Well democratically elected is the plan,” she says lightly and reaches forward to grab her now cold coffee. Maureen guffaws. “And really that’s only if I win, which is still a relative long-shot.”

“Once again you’re only thinking of yourself.” Oddly, Henry notes, Maureen’s voice doesn’t have its usual venom.

Elizabeth takes a sip out of her cup. “I like to think I’m thinking of the greater good, how to ensure a better future for our country and the world. Believe you me this isn’t something I sought out, I never thought I’d do this.” Henry struggles to hide his smile, because Elizabeth sounds exactly like a politician, she doesn’t think she’s ready, but in moments like this he sees it. And if he calls her a politician to her face he won’t have sex for a month.

[liesfallaciesfabrications]

Mr. Queen Analysis

My take on the rather heartbreaking and vague ending of the KDrama, Mr. Queen.

  Okay, I’ve been thinking long and hard on this subject (way too much) and have come to the following consensus:

Bong-Hwan and So Yong are both versions of the same soul. What got me thinking about this was that scene in episode 5 where SoBong talks about original and past lives but then mentions parallel time-streams. To illustrate, she draws two lines running side by side and explains how a past life can be in one and the original/current being in the other. This had me stumped a bit, and I thought it a bit random that they put that in there, but then I looked up “reincarnation and parallel lives” and there’s a surprising number of articles on it - though obviously not conclusive or scientific as it involves spirituality. 

Episode 5 also explains why time in the present is flowing at the same rate as the past, which we discovered when BH’s consciousness briefly reentered his body and explain why they chose to reveal that fact. Time isn’t linear here but more fluid with both versions existing simultaneously - harkening back to the two lines Mr. Queen drew to illustrate.

The reincarnation theory would explain many of the elements of the story that I found hard to accept. For example:

If So Yong’s separate soul was in there with Bong Hwan’s soul then why did he never feel her? In fact, the show repeatedly makes reference to the idea that Bong Hwan does not feel another soul and attributes characteristics of SY to the body (telling her after the kiss that the soul is in control of the body so she ought to behave and in another scene he tries to get her soul to return by addressing the lake - where he believes she is hiding).  The only time he accuses her of being a separate entity inside of him is when he wants an excuse for his feelings and reactions to CJ. The “it must have been her that took control. If I knew it was CJ I would have....still enjoyed it?!? What’s wrong with me?” moments. LOL What if the reason he couldn’t feel another presence was because there wasn’t another? He merely had his consciousness wake up in the body of his past life but didn’t realize it.

It would explain the gradual integration of both personalities. For example, when CJ returns the book to Mr. Queen, she never thinks of herself as NOT being the girl from the well as she did when he first confesses his love for her at the lake. As BH spends more time in her previous body, the lines become more blurred not just in memory but also in identity because he IS her. If they were two separate souls, I don’t think she would have that same reaction nor do I see anything to indicate that So Yong “took over” in that moment or any other. Memories were accessed, personality traits were mingling, but we saw SY come out in episode 20...that personality was immediately recognizable. Fantastic acting by SHS - especially as she had me loving the one and hating the other, despite being both.

It would explain why Mr. Queen falls for CJ so hard, despite his initial protests. I never liked the idea of his feelings being manipulated, but I can get on board with the idea that he accepts his feelings for CJ because this is a man that some part of him has always loved - and falls in love with “again” through their shared experiences and journey.

It would also explain the question of why Bong Hwan. What was the connection between this man and So Yong? They are reincarnations of each other. When So Yong was feeling hopeless and needed strength, she pulled upon her stronger version of herself to help her - made possible in that moment when she desperately wanted to give up on life and he desperately wanted to live. She came to him in that pool and appeared to the queen again when she was looking for answers in the lake. This does not give the impression of a soul cruelly imprisoned in her own body against her will. 

It would also explain why, when Bong Hwan briefly went back to his body, So Yong did not reappear. She wasn’t being suppressed. She purposefully had her reincarnated self come to give her strength and was not ready at that time to assume her life again. I found her choice of words at Byeong-In’s grave to to be telling. She said he always knew where to find her whenever she was hiding. It’s also why I believe BI didn’t realize Mr. Queen wasn’t SY - for the same reason CJ doesn’t at the end of the drama. These two men, both of whom deeply love her, could sense it was her, just in reverse order. CJ-SB-SY and BI-SY-SB.

It would also solve the pesky issue of why BH is an overall better person - not just at the moment of his return but before. Someone on Reddit mentioned the implausibility of CJ’s political accomplishments causing a ripple effect to change BH, and I agree. However, if we look at BH as SY’s reincarnation, then the positive attributes he now displays in the altered timeline can be accounted for because he prevented his previous incarnation from killing herself, therefore in his next lifetime his soul didn’t carry those grudges. This fits with the idea of reincarnation as a person’s life experiences and emotions/grudges/regrets/mindset at death will determine the psychological and even physical manifestation of their next life. 

SY was told by evil Kim that she had no power b/c she was a woman - next life is a man. 

SY had her love cruelly rejected - next life is a playboy who doesn’t seem to believe in love. 

SY felt that she was living a lie - next life is a man who doesn’t care who he offends with his opinion and does what he wants when he wants - to the point of selfishness - though this changes when he prevents many of these resentments by his actions in the past. 

Finally, it would explain why CJ is so “oblivious” at end of the show. He promised when he returned the book to SB that he would never fail to recognize her, and he doesn’t. While her personality has changed, it’s intrinsically also the same person, though this is the area I felt the writers dropped the ball in execution, but I get that they were pressed for time. The implications of this aspect also seem to be what KJH meant in his comment to a fan’s question of whether the king knew that BH had left.That it didn’t matter: SY or BH didn’t matter, only how CJ saw her.

So why send BH back? I believe they did it because it wouldn't make sense for him to live a life he essentially already lived as SY. Reincarnation is meant to be for a soul to grow and spiritually evolve, which it could not do by simply repeating what it had already done. Also, for some reason (I suspect so as not to offend Koreans by skipping over one of the most prominent historical figures in their culture - Queen Min), they still have CJ dying at age 32. This can be seen in the book BH is looking at when he's seeing his portrait, and is mentioned as early as episode 1. This was never going to be a happy ending for CJ/BH in the sense that many viewers wanted. Rather, he was going to facilitate the relationship of SY/CJ so that his previous life could run its course...ugh, I feel sick typing that out...with the hope that they meet again in another lifetime. Our SB is many things but trapped in Joseon without modern medicine, a miracle worker she is not. CJ dies without any heirs; his baby with the queen dies at just six months. If the BH decided to stay for love and then lost the baby and CJ, that would be just as heartbreaking for me as the ending I received. 

Wiki and other sources speculate the CJ was poisoned by the Andong Kims, but many historians (including Bong Hwan’s mother, it seems) dispute that fact as it would serve no purpose since he was a puppet king and since his death then allowed the Jo family to briefly take control until King Gojong’s father pretty much crushed both the Kims and the Jos. In reality, he probably died of unhealthy habits and a life of excess. In the show’s world, who knows...cancer or any number of possible illnesses that could not be treated at that time. During the banquet planning, we see CJ suffer a nosebleed. In the spinoff, Mr. Queen mentions how CJ is trying hard not to collapse from the strain of his burdens. These could be hints left by writers to indicate that CJ’s health has been compromised by the grueling struggles and stress he’s had to endure, not to mention allowing himself to get blown up.

They writers did give us the hope for another reunion - perhaps in BH’s lifetime or perhaps another one. It’s why I think they tried to imply a SY/CJ connection in the Bamboo Forest prequel (the only prequel in the spinoff) as well as end Bamboo Forest with a reincarnation wish. The setup seemed quite intentional and in specific order. The prequel created a sense of destiny. The next segment was about Mr. Queen confirming if it was just his body or his soul that was attracted to CJ...literally the words out of the character’s mouth...and they gave an answer to that with the last shot. The final segment introduced the wish for CJ to meet his queen again, and he is clearly thinking of Mr. Queen - so why the prequel, which would seem to introduce a separate love interest, unless it’s actually not because they’re one and the same with the middle segment emphasizing the genuine attraction and love for each other.

This might not be everyone’s cup of tea; it certainly wasn’t mine, and I think the writers should have handled the leaving better instead of going for an quasi mind-wipe of all the characters’ remembrances of Mr. Queen. I mean, CJ went from being horrified at Mr. Queen acting like a perfect little queen for a few seconds a mere handful of episodes ago to just asking "why the formality" at a more permanent display of temperament and seemed practically oblivious otherwise. Then Choi and Yeon were "shocked" when So Yong didn't revert to her witch of the palace act and chastise the maids that were laughing by the pond - as if Mr. Queen didn't already change that way of thinking months ago. Not to mention that they were also nonplussed by the fact that their relationship to the queen had gone from being regarded as family back to a servant/master status quo. Even with the soulmate angle, there was to much deus ex machina thrown in. The idea of soul mates is a romantic one, but the execution of it fell through.

They should have never gone with the reincarnation route, especially if they were never intending to let SY have a true voice in the drama, even if it’s just a final conversation between herself and BH before he leaves, made possible in that split second before true separation. Viewers never got to bond with her, and in those moments we did see her, she was either a watered down version of the personality we were emotionally invested in or emphasized the opposite characteristics (demure, feminine, etc...) that we loved Mr. Queen for rejecting. Also, this angle gives us no true feeling of completeness and satisfaction. SY is with CJ in the past - we won't see them develop their feelings for each other and grow to like them as a couple. BH is in the present but who knows if he'll find CJ's reborn soul and happiness with whoever it is. Promises without fulfillment demand too much from the audience to fill in the blanks. If that's the case, next time just give us a tag line and tell the audience to imagine the rest.

Even if they share the same soul, we are given two distinct personalities and not enough connection between them in terms of their recognizing each other, acknowledging their feelings for CJ to each other in some sort of passing the flame moment that would make it feel more homogeneous and prevent feelings of resentment at what we perceive as an injustice to a personality we adore.

Instead of creating an emotional divide between the two, they should have just have SY die before BH's soul enters, and develop the romance between CJ and HB's as the novel and even that cheap and campy Chinese version did. Having SY there just muddied the waters, and became a distraction and an excuse for every emotional milestone Mr. Queen experienced, negating that character's development and laying it at SY's feet or claims of deliberate interference.

They should have chosen a fictional king and not boxed themselves into a limited outcome. Granted, it gave them a valid reason for booting BH back to present times, but look at the result: limited number of years with someone the audience isn't really familiar with for our beloved ML (plus their baby dies) and a huge question mark for our F-turned back into ML in the present with the hope that maybe the reincarnation thing works in his favor but who knows because they couldn't even toss us that small crumb which would have alleviated some of our heartache for BH as well as give more credence to the fact that SY/BH are the same and thereby lessened the feelings of resentment to the SY character as well. Or they could have gone with a multiverse theory and left it wide open as to what sweeping changes would occur. BH being initially thrown back to the Joseon era as a result of his dying would have achieved that because then the audience would have no reason to revisit the present nor see that the worlds were linked via changes upon his return and stuck with the poisoning threat averted. Blow recorded history to smithereens and leave that to our imagination instead.

Yes, the fish-out-of-water hijinks were great fun, but the completion of the character arcs/relationship/etc...shouldn’t be an afterthought. 

The other element I would have liked to have seen that was in neither of the televised versions (though the Chinese one came very, very close) but was in the web novel is the king fully accepting that his wife is not the woman she was, believing that her previous body was a man, falling in love regardless and she with him. However, I think we all knew that wasn’t going to happen in a kdrama. 

[midnxghtsunwrites]

SMOKESTACKS | 12, SIT WITH ME

previous post

NADINE SHOULD'VE KNOWN better than to actually come when Gemma called. Especially the day before Thanksgiving. School was closed for the week so Nadine spent most of her first half of the week trying to catch up on her shows and go shopping for her Thanksgiving night in.

Based on the fact that Gemma invited her to her house the night before, she can tell that her plans — both for Thanksgiving and distancing herself from the group — are going straight to the trash.

She enters the house to be met with a bunch of girls running around with bags of groceries and whatever else Gemma gave them to do. This must be their preparation for Thanksgiving, Nadine thinks to herself.

Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, Nadine steps further into the house, sending small smiles to the women. Having a sense of where Gemma is, Nadine enters what she assumes is the kitchen and sees her and another blonde woman talking over a raw turkey that was being thawed in the sink.

"Yeah, Ope hasn't been home in a few days," The blonde woman sighs, disappointment clear in her tone, "He says it's club business but it feels like he's distancing himself from me."

Gemma shakes her head and rests a hand on the blonde woman's cheek in sympathy, "Give him time, baby. He'll come around."

Seeing as the conversation seemed to end, Nadine steps closer, her shoes notifying the other women of her arrival.

"Hi," She tucks her hands into her back pockets, awkwardly. Even though the conversation was over, she still felt like she was impeding on a moment, "Sorry for interrupting."

"You're fine," Gemma turns to the teacher with a small smile, "Didn't think you'd come around with how long it took me to convince you."

Nadine sends her a sarcastic smile, "I almost wasn't going to."

The blonde woman steps forward, her hand extended in greeting, "Lyla Winston. You must be Nadine." The teacher shakes her hand, a little confused on how she knows her name. Lyla, expecting the question, continues, "The boys talk about you. You're Abel's teacher, right?"

Nadine sends a smile her way, and nods, "Yeah, I am. You must be Opie's wife." She connects the last names and the fact that she was talking about him not even a minute ago. Lyla nods, "It's nice to meet you — you're very pretty, by the way."

Lyla blushes at the compliment, kind of taken aback. Nobody ever really compliments her right off the bat, especially when they know how she makes money. Even Tara when they first met was an absolute bitch towards her.

"Thank you," Lyla tilts her head in awe, "You're absolutely gorgeous."

If Nadine was lighter, her cheeks would've been red as hell. But luckily, she's not. The conversation is carried over to the sink where Gemma is lighting a cigarette away from the food.

"So, why'd you call me, Gem?" Nadine questions, crossing her arms over her chest.

The woman in question tosses the cigarette after three drags and begins to pull cans of pineapples and maraschino cherries out of one of the brown bags with groceries, "We're cooking Thanksgiving dinner, why do you think I called you?"

Nadine rolls her eyes as she leans against the counter, her ass acting as her cushion, "Gemma, you know I have plans —"

"What? Munching on donuts and microwavable dinners for Thanksgiving? Hell no, sweetheart, you're a part of the family. You eat with us."

For a moment, Nadine wishes she could just disappear — how the hell is she a part of the family already? She's only been here for four months and known the club for three. Maybe she should be happy for it. Right now, she can't even think about that possibility.

Hours pass with the women, who Nadine learned are called 'croweaters', prepping the food for tomorrow. Some foods are sitting overnight for flavor and Nadine had gotten the chance to make one of the meals her mom taught her way back when — a carrot cake that causes taste bud explosions.

After some advice from Gemma, she made about three trays, knowing the boys would not go gentle with the food put in front of them.

By the time everything that could be done was done, the croweaters had left and Nadine was in the kitchen washing dishes — she finds it soothing. Just being in her own corner of the house, the only sound is the water rushing out of the tap.

Gemma left to pick up Abel and Thomas from the clubhouse while Lyla had gone home to relieve the babysitter for her kids. She and Nadine had gotten closer in the hours they were working together — Nadine learning that Lyla is a pornstar for a living and not judging her for it.

That made Lyla's night more than she thought.

Nadine is so into her chore that she doesn't hear the front door open and close. She's only knocked out of her reverie by a familiar voice calling into the house.

"Ma?" Jax's voice cuts through the silence as he follows his way to the sound of the tap. Nadine props the last dish on the drying rack and turns, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel. When he walks into the kitchen, Nadine sees that he has a lit cigarette between his fingers and a clenched jaw.

She furrows her eyebrows at the visible anger on his face, "She's picking up your boys from the clubhouse." She steps closer to him and watches as he takes a draw, "Wanna talk about it?"

He sits at the head of the dining table and taps the cigarette into the ashtray in the center of it, "Can't."

Nadine tries not to look offended as she throws the towel down on the counter, "Club business. Right." Part of her knows that he's choppy with her because he can't tell her what's going on, the other part tricks her into thinking his choppiness is because of what went down the last time they saw each other. She pulled away from him. Overthinking leads her to her next statement, "You wanted to kiss me last week."

"Hmm," The man hums, nonchalantly.

Nadine rolls her eyes, "Stop with the macho act, Jax. You're allowed to be annoyed with me."

He blows the smoke out of his nose and glances up at her. He scans her defensive stance along with her curvy body. The sight of her waist on display makes him furrow his eyebrows — he had no idea she has a tattoo peeking out from under her pants.

He shakes his head and looks away, earning furrowed eyebrows in return, "I'm not annoyed, Nay. I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

She searches his face for a moment, seeing the exhaustion in his azure pools. Realizing how insensitive she's being, she nods slowly, approaches him and lowers herself into the seat adjacent to him. She gingerly rests a hand on his flannel covered forearm and leans forward.

"Anything I can do to help?"

Shifting his gaze to her, he tilts his head, searching her beautiful brown eyes for comfort which he receives. The day had been long — he lost one of his brothers to a minefield and more shit had gone down with the cartel — shit that's getting out of hand.

With that in mind, he stumps the cigarette and takes a hold of the hand resting on his forearm. He lifts it to his lips and kisses it sweetly before allowing his next words to leave his mouth.

"Just sit with me for a little bit."

With her free hand, she pulls her chair closer to his and nods, "Yeah, of course."

TAGLIST

@bettergetusetoit @complacentviawattpad @gwenspacy @rosenoirwrites @dollyhoess

[thewhumperinwhite]

The Winter King’s Ward: Endure

WKW masterpost

OKAY. SO. I’ve been blocked on this story long enough that I just wanted to post what I have, even though it’s out of order. So, there’s about a month-long time skip between this and the previous piece. Sorry about that.

Also: This is nsfw. Please read the warnings carefully, because this is the most graphic thing I’ve posted thus far. It’s an outsider perspective (i.e. not the victim or the perpetrator) but it’s fairly intense.

TW for: rape/noncon; oral sex; nsfw text; abuse of power; guilt; vomiting; mild gore.

Not tagging anyone just to be safe.

----

Andry told the people to endure, there on the balcony with his arms unbound but the least free he had ever been, and he did not say it lightly. He knows that the people are under the power of their enemies in ways many of them never have been before. In this respect he feels he has an advantage; he is used to having his movements restricted, though he knows he has less protection now than he did, even in his father’s house.

He knows it’s coming, in other words. When it inevitably does, he’s almost relieved; he had been afraid it would be The Winter King, and he’s not sure he could have kneeled for the Winter King as easily—it would have been too easy to shake, from anger or from fear.

It isn’t Morden Crane, and it isn’t Thorne either, against all odds; he had been fairly sure Thorne would be the first, since that was Crane’s intention from the first. It’s three drunk Leisevan soldiers, after the feast.

Three is a bad number; enough to egg each other on and spur each other further than one would probably go. But that doesn’t really matter. Andry knows it’s coming. He’s ready to endure. 

----

Thorne stays longer at the party than he might otherwise; the wine his Master has liberated from the Lion’s cellar is sitting warm and pleasant in his belly and he isn’t eager to leave this room filled with people who think he’s funny for his own chambers where the Summer Prince will be waiting in sullen silence. After two months with His Highness, a few more minutes in the company of those who think him more than a murderous brute does not go amiss. Or, people who think his being a murderous brute is cause for slaps on the back more than frigid silence, at least.

He’s in charge of the Summer Prince’s care and feeding, however, so when he’s weaving very slightly and feels impenetrably Approved Of, he snags a plate of what meat is left, and a full cup of the excellent wine in anticipation of the Prince’s silent martyrdom at being brought table scraps. 

He passes the locked door of the Prince’s closet first, and then he stops, because it is very slightly ajar.

Thorne blinks owlishly at the cracked-open door. It doesn’t even really occur to him that the prince may finally have made his first escape attempt. Presumably because he is drunk.

For similar reasons, the low voices and muffled laughter coming from inside don’t set alarm bells ringing in his head as quickly as they should.

The men standing in Andry’s closet are definitely drunker than Thorne is, though, as evidenced by the fact that they don’t immediately notice when he pushes the door open, making no effort at stealth.

Drink is why the two on either side don’t see him enter, anyway. The center one is presumably drunk too, but probably more distracted by the fact that he is busily shoving his cock down the Summer Prince’s throat, rocking back and forth on his heels with the force of his thrusts and making fast, short little gasps of pleasure.

Time slows for a moment. The room is dark; they’ve lit one candle to see what they’re doing and it’s near the entrance, casting everything in harsh shadows, but Thorne can see more of the middle guard’s ass than he wants to, and two different hands twisted in the Prince’s short-cropped hair, and a knife held clumsy and half-forgotten in the center guard’s hand, very close to the Prince’s already-scarred face.

He also sees the second Andry, the only sober one, knows he’s there, and when the Summer Prince jerks in surprise, he chokes on the Leisevan soldier’s cock, gags just loud enough to carry.

“What the hell is going on here,” Thorne says, and his voice sounds like a stranger to his own ears; it isn’t until he hears it that he realizes he’s the angriest he’s ever been.

The guard fucking the Prince’s mouth starts badly, stumbling backwards and trying to turn at the same time, and Thorne sees the knife he’s holding bite deeply into the Prince’s cheek, but the Prince just rocks back on his heels and coughs slightly, like he doesn’t know there’s blood pouring down his face. Thorne sees the stricken look on the Prince’s face, and then he sees the guard on the left left tucking his cock hurriedly back into his trousers, and the guard who had been kneeling to hold the Prince still stumbling to his feet, speaking quickly and swaying, while the man whose cock had been in the Prince’s mouth is just standing there, slackjawed, his pants still down around his knees and his cock standing at confused attention.

Thorne is still carrying the Prince’s dinner. The goblet he borrowed from the great hall is sturdy ceramic, Craeten make, borrowed like everything else in the castle. Thorne drops the tray of food, and then he swings the goblet with all his strength, and it shatters against the guard’s jaw; blood sprays hard enough to splatter on the wall behind him. The impact throws the guard into the wall and he sinks down, keening. The other two stare at him. At some point they succeeded in tucking their cocks back in. Thorne looks at them, so he’ll know their faces tomorrow.

“Get him out of here,” he says, and the two who can stand scramble to follow his orders, dragging the third between them.

“My lord Wolf, sir,” the one who had been kneeling mutters on his way past. Thorne doesn’t answer. 

Thorne stays with his head turned halfway toward the door to give himself a second to catch his breath without having to look at either the fleeing soldiers or at Andry, still kneeling on the floor. He drags a hand through his hair; he’s glad his Master isn’t here to see him. He feels like he can barely stand up straight.

“I ordered guards posted on this door,” he says, because his brain feels like molasses. He’s heard people are supposed to sober up suddenly in serious situations; he can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved it doesn’t seem to be true.

He isn’t sure who he was addressing. Not Andry. But since he’s the only one there, after a pause the Prince says in a cracked voice, “You did. You’ve just sent them away.”

That is—no mystery, should have been easy to guess. Part of assigning men to this door had meant giving them a key, in case the Prince was doing something suspicious. And he hadn’t needed guarding, really. It had been a show, to prove Thorne was the one with the power. As if the Prince could have somehow forgotten.

Thorne makes himself look at Andry. The Summer Prince hasn’t moved, his head bowed, his hair tangled and hanging in his face. Blood is dripping slowly down his jaw and landing on his legs, which Thorne realises with a sickening jolt are bare. He’s wearing a nightshirt and it’s torn badly at the collar, exposing most of his chest. He must have been sleeping when they came; it is, after all, very late.

The Prince is looking down at his mismatched hands, which are resting on his bare knees, the whole one open and empty. His voice is that way too. What he says is, “Why did you stop them?”

Thorne has to catch himself against the wall. He makes a noise, but it certainly isn’t Craetan; he isn’t even sure it’s Leisevan.

“Did you want that?” he almost yells. He’s never been more miserably drunk than he is now.

The Prince doesn’t answer that, since it wasn’t a real question. He doesn’t look up or move from the floor, either. 

Thorne’s head is swimming, and he can’t think with Andry kneeling on the floor in front of him. “Get up,” he says, his voice lower and huskier than he means it to be.

The Prince does as he’s told, though he lists to the side in the process, as though he’s been on his knees for a while and his legs aren’t yet ready to bear weight again. Thorne instinctively reaches forward to steady him, and for just a second, Andry jerks away from him, his face spasming with panic. Then it goes blank again and he stands completely still, clearly waiting for Thorne to do what he will.

Thorne stares at him, his hand still outstretched, feeling as though he’s just been slapped.

Andry has the cover on his wrist stump, since that seems to be permanent, but his arms aren’t manacled together. And Thorne knows, distantly, that the Prince knows how to fight, has seen him spar with skill and grace. Even down a hand, the guards were so drunk they were unsteady on their feet; for someone with years of training, even woken suddenly from sleep, the one narrow blade among them and the difference in number should have made little difference. Physically, he could probably have stopped them, in the same way he could have pushed Thorne away, a thousand years ago, in the banquet hall.

Except. Except of course that the men who woke him and forced him to his knees were the men Thorne himself had assigned to watch his room, to report back to him if the Prince did anything suspicious. What would he himself have done if those men had come to him with bloody noses and said they’d caught the Prince trying the windows? Who would he have believed?

Andry’s made no escape attempt so far, nor fought any of the soldiers since the House was taken; Thorne wants very badly to think he would have found it suspicious. But he seems to be a bit too drunk to effectively lie to himself at the moment.

Thorne turns abruptly, leaving the Prince standing there in the middle of the disarray of his closet-room in his torn nightshirt, still dripping blood onto the floor. Thorne stumbles to his chest of drawers and pulls out something that feels like a shirt and pants, then returns and thrusts them in Andry’s direction without looking at his face.

The Prince hesitates a moment, and then he takes the clothes from Thorne and stands there, as though waiting for further instructions. It makes Thorne’s stomach turn.

Thorne looks around the room so that he won’t have to look at the Prince’s face, and realizes with dismay that he can’t ask Andry to sleep here. Even regardless of the fact that he didn’t retrieve the key from the guards, Andry can’t keep living in the same room where they—it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Come on,” Thorne says roughly, gesturing toward the door to his own chambers, and the Prince’s face shutters so completely that Thorne wants to tear out his own tongue.

“I’m not—all gods, Andry,” Thorne says, and either the strain in Thorne’s voice or the sound of his own name—how long has it been since he’s heard it spoken?—seems  to bring a flicker of life back into the Prince’s eyes. Thorne lowers his voice, trying to keep it steady. “I’m not going to touch you, Andry, alright? On my mother’s grave, I won’t.”

Andry blinks at him, his eyes as blank and reflective as they were the first time Thorne saw him, with blood in his hair and his hands newly bound. Then he blinks again, and inclines his head very slightly. Thorne doesn’t know what that means—whether or not the Prince believes he isn’t about to be held down again—but it’s all he has, for now. He scrubs at his eyes, deeply wishing he were sober. With one hand still covering his face, he gestures to the door with the other hand. 

“I want to get the hell out of this room,” he says. “My chambers have a perfectly decent couch, as you probably remember. I’m inviting you to sleep on it. I’m the only one with the key.”

Andry stares at him. He’s still holding the clothes Thorne gave him, and the cut on his face is still dripping freely onto the floor. When he doesn’t move, Thorne throws up his hands with a despairing grunt and stalks through into his chambers himself.

Thorne doesn’t know where they keep the extra linens, and he doesn’t want to check whether the sheets on Andry’s narrow bed are clean, because if they aren’t he thinks he’ll be sick. But it’s not too cold this far into the palace, anyway, so he drags the comforter off his own four-poster and tosses it in the direction of the couch.

“Don’t get blood everywhere,” he says over his shoulder, on the off-chance Andry has actually followed him into the room instead of standing there blank-faced in his own smashed-up closet. Thorne’s pack is lying near the door of the room, and the gods smiles on him enough that it’s still stocked with bandages from the last time he took it out. He could use something to clean the wound with, though.

When Thorne finally steels himself and turns to look, Andry is shrugging out of his ruined night-shirt, the leggings Thorne grabbed for him already sitting low around his slim hips. Thorne watches him, biting his lip. No part of him wants to ask, but--he doesn’t know how long the men were in there. He doesn’t know how badly Andry might be hurt.

Andry pulls the shirt off over his head and freezes when he sees Thorne’s eyes on him, not able to keep his face blank this time: he looks like a deer catching the eyes of a wolf. Thorne curses himself for cowardice and forces himself to speak.

“Andry,” he says softly, and the Prince shifts slightly at the name, though his expression doesn’t change. “They cut your face. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Andry looks at him with glassy eyes, as though Thorne’s gaze is hypnotic. Mechanically, he shakes his head.

“They were too drunk to think of anything complicated,” he croaks. “I don’t even know why they brought the knife. I got on my knees when they told me; that was all they wanted.”

Thorne closes his eyes and takes a deep breath until his ears stop ringing. “I’m going to tell my Master,” he says when he’s confident it will come out steady.

Andry blinks, the spell apparently broken. Then he almost laughs, a single mirthless huff. “Why?”

What the hell kind of a question is that? “I want to tell him his men broke orders.”

Andry raises a brow, his face more open in confusion than Thorne’s almost ever seen it. “Did you order your men not to fuck me?”

Thorne rocks back from that one like it’s a blow. “It didn’t—occur to me,” he says, which is the truth but isn’t an excuse, but Andry shakes his head, like Thorne isn’t getting it.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says softly. “What makes you think Morden will be angry?”

Thorne stares at him. Gapes is a better word, actually. “Andry, they raped you.”

Andry’s face twitches slightly; Thorne feels like scum. “I know what they did,” he says, and Thorne can’t read his face, but he feels a sudden shift—like he’s seeing the Prince clearly for the first time, the solemn steel-spined truth of him. “What makes you think Morden is against the idea of me on my knees?”

Thorne shakes his head wildly. His ears are ringing, and he isn’t sure why “Master didn’t—Master wouldn’t want—“ His brain isn’t working.

         Andry turns to look at him, his ruined bed-shirt still in his hand. “Thorne,” he says slowly, as though explaining something very obvious. “Why do you think Morden gave me to you?”

         Thorne takes a step backward. He shakes his head again, dumbly; his mouth is dry, and he feels unsteady, like a man standing on a high cliff in a strong wind.

Andry is still staring at him. He almost looks angry, now. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft and very cold, “did you think it was for your impeccable fashion sense?” Andry’s hands are in fists on the torn cotton of his shirt. “Do you think one single person at the banquet didn’t see you leading me around on a leash and immediately think you were bending me over in my father’s quarters?”

It occurs to Thorne very suddenly that he’s never seen the Prince angry before—never seen him anything but quiet and resigned and ready to survive whatever Thorne and his people want to do to him. Andry’s eyes aren’t ice now; they’re blue fire.

“But you hate me,” he says through numb lips; his mouth is working entirely without his consent, his brain is too occupied with not processing anything he’s hearing to say anything that makes sense. “Everyone knows that. They know you wouldn’t--”

“You think that matters?” Andry says, his voice rising to almost a shout. “You think that means anything when they all know I can’t—" Andry cuts off abruptly, his face going white. “I’m going to be sick,” he says suddenly in a panicky voice.

Thorne has exactly long enough to thoughtlessly reach for the chamber pot and slide it towards Andry before the Prince half-collapses, hunching over it, and throws up a stomach-full of bile. Thorne suddenly remembers that Andry hasn’t eaten, possibly all day. The guards could easily have brought him something, but apparently they had other priorities.

Thorne watches Andry dry-heave into the basin, wanting to help but knowing he absolutely cannot touch him, and is just distracted enough that the idea that his Master and the entirety of the Falconers thought he’d be happy to repeatedly rape anyone they left under his power crashes down over him like a bucket of hot oil. Thorne’s Master has known him since he was in short trousers; and he’d thought that if Andry suited Thorne’s tastes it wouldn’t matter if Andry said no or not. Crow and Harpy have known him almost that long, and Thorne suddenly remembers that they’ve been clapping him on the back since he first cleaned Andry’s wounds, like they’d be proud if he held Andry down and forced him. Thorne slithers down to floor level, landing on his ass on the carpet, hard. Then he blinks the black away from his vision enough that he can see Andry shuddering over the basin, spitting the last bit of bile from the back of his throat. The cut on his face is still bleeding into the basin.

They’re both on the ground now, at least, which is better than one of them kneeling in front of the other. And they’re very near the couch, so Andry won’t have far to go when he can stand. Thorne blinks harder and looks up at the end table beside the couch, just above their heads. There’s a half-full bottle of whiskey sitting on it; a gift from Crow, but Thorne doesn’t have time for that to turn his stomach. He reaches out a hand that barely feels attached to his body and takes careful hold of it so he can hand it to Andry when he raises his head.

“Here,” he says, his voice raspy, though he hasn’t even been shouting.

Andry blinks at the whiskey, then scrunches up his nose, but he takes it, spitting the first mouthful into the basin and then taking a long, rather desperate swig.

“Give me that shirt,” Thorne says, when Andry hands the bottle back to him, and Andry does. Thorne covers the bottle with a corner of the shirt that looks clean, and lets it soak up the alcohol. Then he lifts it tentatively toward Andry’s bleeding face.

“It’ll sting,” he says quietly. “Can I?”

Andry looks at him. The fire is gone from his eyes; he looks—breakable. He nods once.

Thorne touches the alcohol-soaked cloth to the cut on Andry’s face; Andry sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn’t move back. Thorne pats the wound clean as gently as he can, and Andry holds very still while he does. He’s grateful to be able to turn away when he’s done, stretching to grab his pack without getting up.

Andry lets him roll enough gauze to catch the remaining blood still coming from the wound, and cover it over with bandages. It’s short, just a few inches starting at his cheekbone, but it’s deep; Thorne knows it will scar.

Thorne thinks he’s probably mostly sober now. It’s become very hard to tell. Either way, he doesn’t know how to say any of what he’s feeling; doesn’t want to talk about how sick he feels when he’s not the one who’s been cut and violated tonight--but it seems wrong to say nothing.

“I wouldn’t—have done it,” he says very quietly, and Andry, his eyes still closed, shakes, a single shudder through his whole frame, his brows drawn down as if in pain.

“You do everything he wants you to,” he says, so quietly Thorne has to lean closer to hear it, heart thudding. “If he asked you,” Andry whispers. “If he wanted me broken in front of the court, in a way they wouldn’t forgive.” He opens his eyes, freezing Thorne in place; he looks like he’s already broken. “I wouldn’t be able to stop you,” he says, his voice all air. He sounds more honest than Thorne’s ever heard; Thorne’s hands are still on his face, he can’t move.

He remembers the high, the relief, of his Master’s approval, running down his back like a caress; he knows the place he goes when his Master is pleased with him, like nothing else matters; he knows he’ll do anything from that place. He’s never been afraid of it before.

He wants to make a promise, to swear he would never force anyone, wouldn’t force Andry, but instead he just stares at him, tongue-tied, and he knows he looks scared.

Andry takes a shaky breath and lifts his hand to push Thorne’s away from his face, gently. He touches the bandage Thorne’s just put there and briefly closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” Andry says very softly before he turns to climb onto the couch, and somehow that’s the worst thing of all.

[oohnoniall]

Hawk & Sparrow [Rowan Whitethorn x OC] - Chapter One.

WARNINGS; Fantasy violence, cursing, Mirima doesn’t have self-control and that leads to her burning out a Lot, Rowan avoiding his feelings, Mirima having no idea about her feelings, there’s a lot of feelings being avoided, power dynamics in the relationship.

Prologue.

        "Guard your left," his voice drilled into her very soul. Harsh, brutal, beautiful.

        Thirty years. Thirty miserable years of Rowan Whitethorn telling her that she wasn't good enough. Her control would never be what it should. She didn't have focus, didn't have the drive. He'd been trying to make her give up and go home since the day she had arrived. 

        All it had ever done was make Mirima go harder. She was stronger than she had been that day Maeve had found her. She didn't wobble when she used her power, didn't rely on surprise to vanquish her enemies. She couldn't surprise Rowan Whitethorn if she tried.

        Her blade came up to block his, guarding her left side as he had told her. 

        "Really, Whitethorn," she breathed out, sweat coating her brow. "You can't come up with something more imaginative? 'Guard your left'. Where's the drama? I'm missing out!"

        Rowan swung his blade towards her neck, Mirima quickly brought hers up to block it. She grinned at him, a feral thing with both of her elongated canines showing. 

        "Focus, Mirima." Rowan growled out, blocking her as she took the opportunity to attack his right side. "You keep that mouth and you'll lead an entire legion to their deaths."

        "Just because some of us can fight and compose poetry doesn't mean we're less focused," Mirima thought about pouting but figured that would send the wrong message. 

        A soft yelp did leave her lips as she jumped over his left leg. He was quick to use her jump to point his blade at the base of her throat. 

        "Dead." 

        Rowan lowered his blade, sheathing it as he stared straight at her. Her chest heaved, soft pants leaving her. Rowan never let up, never gave her a moment of peace. It was something that she had needed. 

        Mistward was different than Varnsway in every sense of the word. The quiet town was nothing like the fort. Messy, loud, full of those who couldn't wait to get to Doranelle or those who never would. She was one of those who needed to be trained first. Maeve did not need a hurricane set loose upon her city.

        But she was close. So close that she could taste it on the breeze. That elusive spot on the cadre would be hers. She would stand side-by-side with some of the greatest warriors that history had ever known. She would laugh with Fenrys, Gavriel would teach her how to heal. Rowan would be less of a stick in her ass.

        Not to mention getting to fight beside Lorcan Salvaterre. That thought kept her up late into the night, often filling her with shameless giggles that she struggled to keep hidden from Rowan during training the next morning.

        "You fight dirty," Mirima told him as she wiped the sweat from her brow. "You and I both know that I could've won had you not been a jackass."

        "The enemy will use whatever advantage they can," Rowan's voice was nearly dead as she wiped at the small dot of blood that had bloomed on her throat. "There is no such thing as fighting dirty on the killing field."

        "Oh so if I bite someone I will be seen as a hero?" Mirima's grin spread across her lips, lighting her face as though it had been hit by the first rays of summer.

        Rowan's scowl made the tattoo on his face scrunch in an awkward way. She knew better than to laugh. "No, you'll be put down."

        "You speak as though I'm an animal." 

        "If you go around biting people," Rowan shrugged just slightly as he looked at her. "You might be seen as one."

        "Don't be an ass, Whitethorn. It doesn't suit you," Mirima shot him a wink as she stretched out her arms. It didn't matter how many times she and Rowan worked, swordplay always made her sore. She was better with daggers and knives, better with her magic. Maybe a bow if she didn't have another choice.

        "Get back in position," Rowan sighed, pulling his white hair up into what could only be described as a messy bun. Mirima had learned the hard way not to tease him about it. Not unless she wanted to run until Luca was holding her hair while she vomited for the rest of the night. She shuddered at the mere thought.

        "How long are we going today?" Mirima questioned as she moved to get into their normal fighting stance. They worked more on hand-to-hand than they did on swordplay. If she could learn to control her breathing and her body, Rowan thought she'd be able to control the storm inside of her.

        "Another hour. I have business in Wendlyn."

        Rowan normally did not tell her so much. It made her curiosity flare.

        "You're not coming." He stated before she ever had a chance to open her mouth. "Now bring up your shield."

        "Rowan..." Mirima swallowed uncomfortably as she looked at him. "I ... I can't keep it up."

        "That's why it's called training, Mirima." The sardonic tone in his voice made her bristle. "Bring it up. I won't ask you again."

        Mirima stared at him for a moment before she gave a very subtle nod of her head. She took a deep breath, held it for a count of seven, and then exhaled for the same count. Slowly, water began to come up from the ground, forming what looked like an old wooden shield in front of her.

        The moment the shield had been created, Rowan came at her. He used his full force, never slowing as he brought his fists toward her body. The shield was supposed to be a way to anticipate his movements. She would block where she thought he was going. If the shield worked as it should, his fists or his feet would be repelled. 

        Most of the time, the shield was not solid enough for it to work.

        Mirima wore her bruises like battle scars. In some odd way, she was proud that she had survived each day of her training sessions with Rowan. Not many people would. She knew his techniques were brutal. That he would not stop until she was crying out for an end, or when he had to leave her.

        Rowan brought his knee up towards her sternum, Mirima blocked him with the shield of water. It held. He was knocked back a few feet.

        The smirk on his face told her that it was just the beginning. A wise woman would have fled in the other direction. Mirima was not a wise woman.

        "Come on, Whitethorn," she challenged with that feral grin. "Stop going easy on me."

        The challenge in the words brought a snarl from Rowan. She loved to make him angry, to see that animal nature come out of him during training. It meant she was a threat. Or at least that she was annoying. He rushed forward, lunging for her left side.

        She brought the shield down, ready to block his attack. 

        He feinted, jabbing his fist into her right underneath her rib cage. Her breath left her lungs, the pain bringing tears to her eyes.

        "Don't get cocky, Floros," he smirked at her. She wondered what it would be like when she one day wiped that smirk off of his face.

        Droplets of water fell from the shield, more began to run down her arm. She breathed in again, holding it and letting it go, praying that the shield would come back together.

        It didn't. One good hit and she was done for. One good hit and everything came crumbling.

        "I'm not cocky," she stated as the shield began to lose its solid form. She brought the water down on Rowan's head, watching as it exploded into a tiny rainstorm. "I'm good."

        Rowan scowled at her, water running down his face and soaking his hair. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"

        "Twenty-eight? Not counting the first time." Mirima crossed her arms in front of her chest, moving to rest against the stump of a tree that one of her floods had broken. The flood had happened less than a month ago. The meadow was only just starting to go back to normal. 

        "Mirima," Rowan warned, his glare should have been enough to dry him off. "You need to begin taking this seriously. I'm meeting with Maeve in two days. Should she ask about your progress, I won't be able to tell her anything good."

        With just the word 'Maeve', Rowan could get Mirima to sober. She stilled, her arms falling to her side. Her eyes focused on him, on the water that was slowly dripping from his hair. She did not think about her own failings. How she could not control the hurricane that lived within her heart, nor how she could barely keep up during their drills in swordplay.

        She was getting better. But it was not good enough. Not yet.

        She had a long way to go before she ever became cadre worthy. She knew that, yet she would not accept it.

        "Can we go again?" Mirima asked, taking a few deep breaths to still her mind as he had taught her years before. She still remembered that first lesson.

        Rowan had been ruthless. He had put her through her paces, made her reach her limits and exceed them over and over again. She had thought about giving up that day, had thought that he was right. She wasn't cut out for this. She was nothing more than a girl in over her head. But she had stayed. She had done her damned best to prove him wrong every step of the way.

        She still felt like a girl who was in over her head.

        "No," Rowan shook his head, causing Mirima to scowl at him. "I need to leave. You'll be working with Fenyrs for the next few days. If he tells me you've given him any of the hellas you give me, you'll be running until your legs give out."

        "What happens if I give him a different type of hellas?" Mirima knew she shouldn't have said the words the second they came out of her mouth. She didn't like the look that crossed Rowan's face. Any trace of the handsome Fae prince was gone. Instead he looked like the killer she had always known him to be.

        "Then you'll wish Maeve never found you." 

        He turned his back to her, disappearing in the blink of an eye. Mirima watched the horizon for half an hour, just trying to keep from following after him. She knew for a fact that she would get in even more trouble if she followed after him.

        It had been a difficult lesson to learn. Mirima had trouble when she didn't know what was happening. It made her anxious, made her want to claw out of her own skin and release the hurricane that was constantly building inside of her. Rowan had made her shift time and time again to relieve the tension when he had learned of her restlessness. 

        Mirima still found it hard to stay still and silent. She found it hard to not rush after him when she wasn't allowed to. It took all of her resilience to keep herself from fleeing Mistward. That and the knowledge he would send her right back to Varnsway if she did. 

        "Mirima," Luca's voice pulled her from her thoughts. She hadn't noticed that she had walked back to the fort, her feet having listened to Rowan when her head had not. 

        "Hmm?" One of her brows cocked, her suntanned face looking over at the curly-haired boy. 

        "Emrys is about to lose it," he warned with a grin. "You're late for kitchen duties."

        "I am never late, Luca." Mirima scoffed, praying that he could not see the way she wanted to rush from the fort itself. Ride the winds and find Rowan before he did something stupid that might get himself killed. She knew he could keep himself safe but she didn't trust him to.

        How would she get into the cadre without him?

        Luca laughed brightly, taking Mirima by the arm and leading her towards the kitchens. It was a fairly normal occurrence. Since he had arrived, the pair had gotten close, mainly by making fun of Rowan Whitethorn at every turn. There was only so much scowling that they could handle.

        It was a miracle more people hadn't realized how easy it was to joke about Rowan in the silence of Mistward.

        The fort offered a sense of comfort to those inside of its walls. Even the restless souls of would-be soldiers could find solace in the stone building. Mistward was more of a home to her than Varnsway had ever been. 

        There were times when she missed the sea breeze, the scent of the salt on the air. When she missed sparing with her father, laughing merrily whenever she managed to block a blow or land one of her own. She missed climbing to the tops of the highest trees, watching as ships sailed into the harbors. But that had never been the type of life that she had wanted.

        Solitary. Confined. Alone.

        Mirima couldn't stand being alone.

        "There you are," Emrys' voice was warm, friendly even. She always felt more at ease in the kitchens. It was better than dealing with aggressive Demi-Fae males when she was cleaning rooms. "Do I need to speak to Whitethorn about keeping you too late?"

        "Whitethorn isn't going to be a thorn in our side," Mirima smirked as she washed her hands. "He's run off to Wendlyn for some mysterious reason."

        "I bet Maeve is finally declaring war," Luca piped up from his spot at the pantry. He was gathering the ingredients for dinner, whistling softly to himself as he did.

        "She can't!" Mirima cried out as she wiped her hands on a tea towel. "I haven't been let in yet. How can she hope to win a war without her greatest warrior?"

        "Oh yes, Mirima Floros the conquering hero," Luca stuck his tongue out, laying the ingredients down on the countertop.

        Mirima took up a position at the counter, taking a knife out of the great wooden block that Emrys' mate had carved for him. She twirled it between her fingers for a moment, a wordless threat to the young male who stood across from her. 

        "No one else could dare keep Whitethorn in check," she thought too much of herself. Anyone who listened to a word she said could tell. "We all know that I'm the only one who keeps him from growing stagnant."

        "Of course you are," it was Emrys who spoke this time. A smile crossed his features, making him appear like a kind grandfather from a mortal tale. "Little Bird, you would do well to remember that he's moved mountains. You're still struggling to move stones."

        It was Mirima's turn to stick her tongue out. Emrys laughed, filling the room with a vibrancy that she was sure would be a shade of the brightest yellow.

        "My shield is getting better each day and my swordplay is coming along," it wasn't. She was trying but Rowan was faster, stronger. She didn't have time to block and plot out his next move. She was certain he was trying to avoid her getting to that point.

        "You'll get there in time," Emrys assured her, stirring a pot filled with what smelled like Mirima's favorite stew. "You just need to be patient. Maeve will see you when the time comes."

        But Maeve had seen her. She had known what Mirima could do from the moment she had sat at her bedside. She was certain that was the only reason why Rowan had even been assigned to train her. A dream would come crashing down as soon as he returned from Doranelle. The hurricane had not been tamed. Doranelle would drown if Mirima ever stepped foot in the city. 

        Her stomach hurt at the thought.

        She said nothing to Emrys or Luca about her thoughts. She hadn't said a word about her feelings to Rowan either. She knew he would tell her it was a sign to give up. To make things easier on herself and go home, never to see his tattooed face again. She dreaded Rowan telling her that it was worthless. She dreaded knowing that there would be a time when Rowan lost faith in her. 

        She just hoped it happened after she lost faith in herself. 

        "Fuck," she cursed under her breath as she sliced her finger with the knife. Ruby red droplets of blood landed on the countertop, avoiding the vegetables by inches. She sucked the finger into her mouth, wincing at the coppery tang. She never should have been thinking about anything other than the knife in her hand. Rowan would have yelled at her for twenty minutes all the while patching up her finger.

        Rowan had a habit of making sure she regretted her mistakes while also taking care of whatever wounds she sustained. There had been many nights where he had sponged her forehead with cold water while reprimanding her for going too far. She wouldn't say she enjoyed those days, but they weren't the worst of her life.

        "Careful," was all Luca said. It was a far cry from what Rowan would have done. It almost made her miss him.

        The three finished cooking without any more injuries. She was able to eat quickly, wash up her dishes, and disappear into her bedroom.

        The room was on the third floor, high enough that she could see the horizon without too much obstruction. It was fairly basic. The same furniture that had been there when she had arrived. A single bed with a threadbare quilt that her mother had made for her, a washstand with porcelain basin and chipped pitcher, and a single oak wood desk that was now strewn with letters from home. A tapestry of Varnsway was hung above the window, blocking it so the sunrise did not wake her after a burnout. Different knives hung on the wall by her bed. Several had come from Rowan after good training days. Others were presents she had received during Yulemas celebrations.

        The room did not appear inviting, just basic. Bare. Almost cold. 

        Mirima thought it was perfect. It kept her from falling into a comfortable lifestyle. She was ready to leave at a second's notice, ready to run out and fight whoever she needed to. 

        She doubted she would ever want a stationary life. She had always dreamed of something ... More. Something grand. The cadre was her way to grand.

        Mirima sat on the cold stone floor, a sharp intake of breath at the feeling of the stone against her legs. The chill seeped through the worn leather of her pants. She would have to get rid of them at some point, but not yet. Not now. She'd wait until they had holes or one of the legs had fallen off at the knee.

        Soft breaths left the woman's throat, her legs crossing in front of her while her eyes fluttered to a gentle close. Breathing helped her to clear her mind, helped her to calm the storm that was warring inside of her. Even if it was not always the best method. She needed a chance to reflect on the day. On what she was going to do in the morning to prove herself.

        Mirima knew that proving herself would be more than a flashy shield made of water. It would be more than fabulous swordplay and witty banter. She did not quite know what it would take to be who Maeve wanted. To be who Rowan wanted. But she would find it at some point. She had to. Mirima did not know who she was. She did not know what she believed in, or if she believed in anything at all.

        All she had ever known was that she felt alive when she was using her magic. When she was in the midst of a fight it felt as though her blood was singing. She had always known that she was supposed to be a soldier. Someone who lived their life chasing that thrill, that singing of blood. 

        The closest she had ever been to a real battle was those raiders thirty years before. She didn't know if she had killed them. She didn't know if she had even stopped them. But that was the most alive she'd ever felt. Protecting the only home she'd ever known. Being the person she was certain she had to be. Mirima was still chasing that high again. She was chasing the feeling of being someone other than just a girl with magic that was too powerful. She wanted to be someone to look up to. Even if she knew it was a ridiculous goal.

        As Mirima opened her eyes, she felt a sense of calm wash over her. Fenrys had arrived at Mistward, his scent clear on the air. Tomorrow was a day of proving herself all over again. She was ready for it.

[dadolorian]

Just like me- Part one

A/N: this is the first time i have ever shared a fic to tumblr.  Credits: Thank you @oloreaa​ for being my Beta reader/editor ! 

Title: Just Like me  Fandom: Prospect (2018) Ship: Ezra/Reader Warning: Talk of injuries/amputation. Ezra and reader get to know each other. Reader is an amputee. No use of Y/N. Word count: 3K +

MASTER LIST  Request status AO3 Link Next part. - coming soon

Prospecting was a dangerous job sometimes.

You were proof enough for that. 

Some would ask why bother with the risk, but they can not understand.

The thrill and joy of finding and securing your payload, the rush you got for a job well done, the chance to drift about to new and wondrous places, was more than worth the risk in your eyes.

And the pay, well, when you had a good job, the pay more than made up for the dangers of prospecting.

You could almost guarantee that after each run  your account would be filled up with more points than what you started with. And once you paid off the rental of your pod and supplies, more often than not you made a decent enough profit if things didn’t go tits up.

It was fair to say you were a decent enough prospector, maybe not the most experienced,but you had a decent enough excuse for that. Until a few months ago you were in recovery, having injured yourself on the last run of jobs you had been on before your current drop onto the Green.

Arguably, you could have retired after your injury. Caused a big enough fuss to get some serious compensation, but that would have meant giving up chasing the rush. 

At heart, you were a wanderer, a floater, and you couldn’t settle just yet.

Of course, after the accident you couldn’t just swing back to it. You needed to recover, and medical bills were expensive, not to mention you couldn’t let your employers get away with their gross negligence that caused the accident to begin with, so you had come to an agreement. 

It worked out for both of you, you get to keep your lifestyle and be financially secure at the same time, and they didn’t have to go through a public court battle. 

Your last, and most recent swing had been average, ending with a gig on the Green, you had just caught the ride back home.

Your routine getting back aboard was always the same, even after such a  longtime. Say goodbye to your (temporary) partner, sell your Aurelac, drop your belongings in your bunk and take a shower.

Thanks to your hush contract, you had the luxury of a second class bunk this time around, not having to rely on sleeping in your drop ship. It was bigger, private, had its own bathroom and all free of charge for you. Some perks for not choosing to sue.

A new, and rather annoying addition to your routine now would be to check into the medical bay, the only reason your doctors had allowed you back to work was that you agreed to regular check-ups when you weren’t on a gig.

So, a few days later, having waited for after the rush of people docking to catch the last swing to die down, you made your way to the medical wing for a drop in appointment.

Even though the waiting room was empty, you were forced to wait.

You sat down at an observational window, passing the time by watching the stars as the ship flew by them.

Lost in the view for an unknown amount of time, the sound of the door caught your attention, that familiar hiss of them opening and shutting.

You turned to make eye contact with the other patient… another amputee, just like yourself. You took note of his face, a small scar on the left cheek, the prominent nose, a streak of blonde in his otherwise dark and slightly scruffy hair, square jaw, and short facial hair. He was certainly handsome, even with his slightly disheveled appearance. 

His right arm was gone, you noted, just below the shoulder. His stump was well bandaged, you didn’t feel guilt about staring at his injury, you were one in the same after all, but he seemed to mind.

He tried to subtly turn himself away from your inspection so his left side was facing you more, a little self-conscious over his injury, it would seem.

You gave him a warm smile, trying to ease his embarrassment a little by pulling up your right pant leg to show him your prosthetic.

A silent way of telling him you were one in the same.

It seemed to have worked, for he visibly relaxed a little, returning your smile as he found a place to sit close by after checking in.

He hesitated, looking like he wanted to ask you something. He was lost in his thoughts for a short while before you decided to speak first.

“Recent amputation?” You asked, giving him another smile.

“Yeah, happened less than a cycle before catching the swing back,” he said

You nodded to yourself “Looks pretty fresh. You don’t look quite comfortable with it yet either”  

“No, indeed I am not.” He sighed “May i ask... if I were to inquire about your own heretofore displayed impairment, would you have any issue in disclosing what had caused your own injury to me?” He asked , eyes roaming over your face, small crooked smile tugging at his lips

Did he swallow a fucking thesaurus? You thought to yourself, leaning back in your window seat. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours first.” Tilting your head, you looked him in the eyes.

“I asked first,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, you did. Seems rude to ask my story without offering yours first,” you said, the smile  that was on your face letting him know you weren’t actually bothered.

“Very well,” he said, sitting back into his chair, getting comfortable by throwing his one arm over the back of it. “I was shot by a little bird. Scared kid who was completely justified in her actions, so I do not find myself with much blame towards her." Something like regret flitted over his face, but it was quickly gone as he launched himself into the story." I had originally been the cause of her predicament becoming much direr than it currently was, so she fired upon me in what she believed to be defense despite my lack of intentions to harm her."

He then gestured to his shoulder, and gave a half shrug as his brows drew together." Sad truth is it became inflamed , dust had entered my wound and I was not able to treat it accordingly. Before I knew it, infection set in and I eventually had to make the onerous decision to amputate it before it spread to the rest of my body.” Smile wry, he made a gesture at you like 'What can you do?', the corner of his expressive eyes crinkling slightly.

“You did it yourself?” You winced.

“Naw, Little lady who shot me became quite the welcomed, albeit reluctant, ally. Managed to do it all herself, cool as a cucumber." He huffed to himself, amused, before continuing: "Wish I could say the same for myself, I was wracked with nerves during the whole procedure.” He looked at you, a self-deprecating tone in his voice that was offset by the hawk-sharp look in his eyes.

“Ah, well at least you’re not bullshitting your bravery,” you huffed, before backtracking to what he said, eyes becoming wide as saucers. “So, you were conscious?” You asked in shock.

“Regrettably so. We did not have the luxury of professional medical facilities such as this.” He gestured around.

“I’ve heard some nasty amputation stories over my time recovering, and it’s always the ones where they are conscious that bother me the most,” you explained, feeling ever so slightly queasy at the thought.

“And…what about yourself?” He asked.

“Unfortunately for you I am not allowed to tell my whole story." You smiled at him, holding up your hands. "An unnamed private business was responsible for an accident in which I can’t disclose legally. Had to sign a lot of papers,” you sighed at that, unable to keep your annoyance out of your voice, before continuing. ”What I can tell you was I was in an accident involving machinery. I broke everything below my waist, most of it was healed, but my right leg was the worst. Completely crushed. When I was pulled out, the limb had undergone some extreme tissue damage." You paused for half a second, mind wandering. "They tried to save it, but there was nothing that could be done,” you explained with a slightly dismissive shrug. His brow was furrowed, looking at the prosthetic slightly exposed at the ankle in thought. “You seem to handle it quite well” He said eventually. You took a closer look at him. Bags under his eyes, avoiding prolonged eye contact with you, lethargic body language. It was recent for him, you concluded, he was still traumatized. Not that you blamed him. “A lot of people say that, ” you said, wanting to give him some hope and comfort, his eyes seemed so sad, you couldn’t help it. You wanted to be the support you had needed yourself when you were in his position. “It’s gotten easier, but I can’t lie and say I’m not still affected by it anymore. There are days where I continue to struggle. But each day gets easier. They will get easier for you too.” You looked him straight in the eyes, face serious. You needed him to understand that you were not simply saying things, that it was something that you had experienced yourself. He gave you a skeptical look, silently challenging that notion. “I know, I know,” you sighed, looking down to the floor before meeting his gaze again. “It’s hard to believe right now, but it’s true. You’ll struggle, but that means you’ll learn and adapt. You’ll get there.” Giving him a big smile, you hoped that some of your words will stick. .

“If I can be honest, I’ve already gotten sick of hearing those words of encouragement from my doctor. It seems so hollow and disingenuous when he says it, like a fallacy. It feels infantilizing to have him repeat his mantra over, and over again, and frankly, I struggle to believe it." He scoffed slightly, before quieting. Looking at you, head slightly tilted, he continued. "But coming from you, someone who has been in my own shoes, so to speak, I feel inclined to believe there is some truth behind those words, even if I do find myself skeptical about them,” he said, brows drawn together, eyes roaming across your face. . You shrugged lightly. “It usually helps, knowing someone who’s gone through the same thing. A friend.” “And is that what you are offering me? A friendship?” He asked, an amused smile gracing his lips and a curious look in his tired eyes. 

You shrugged again “I think that depends on you. But, at the very least, I can be an understanding ear, and I'm willing to listen. If you’re interested that is.” 

He cocked his head slightly at you, a small smile playing around his lips, “I…”  he began, choosing his words “ I appreciate the offer. It would be nice to have someone who will listen to my long-winded nammerings without judgment or pity.”

“No pity…  just…sympathy, compassion,” you offered.

“I think, then, I would like that very much. So long as you promise not to grow weary of my contemplation's” 

You gave him an amused huff. “I think with the way you talk, it would be very hard to be bored.” 

“Very well, annoyed then.” He smiled and you laughed at his small joke. 

You were content to sit there and chat to him more about anything and everything, but unfortunately for the two of you your conversation was interrupted by the receptionist calling your name. “That you?” He asked. “Yup” You sighed standing up reluctantly. ”It was nice to meet you…?” “-Ezra,” he supplied. “Ezra,” you repeated, testing it out. It suited him. “I hope I can see you around then, I mean it, having someone who understands how to help would really benefit you.” “I know, thank you. I’ll have to take you up on it soon.” He smiled, giving you a small wave as you left the waiting room for your check up. 

It surprised you to find him waiting outside the medical wing for you when you finished with your appointment. He was leaning back against the wall trying to look nonchalant.  “How the fuck did you get out before me?” You asked with a smile, pleasantly surprised. He had a small smile of relief on his face,“I only went for a bandage change,” he said, waving his stump a little to show. “I hope you are not too put off by my waiting here. I fear i may come across as overzealous.” “It’s fine, don’t worry about it” You smiled, shaking your head in indication you didn't think that way of him. “Sorry you had to wait so long. If I had known you were waiting I might have tried to hurry things along.” “It’s not a problem," Ezra insisted "I didn’t really have plans to do anything, and I was hoping for a better chance to talk to you." He gave a boyish smile, and you could not help but being charmed a bit. "Perhaps in the mess hall, if you would be so inclined to join me?” You nodded in understanding and agreement. “Fair enough, I suppose. How’s it healing then?” You asked, motioning to his stump. “As well as it can be. My doctor is worried about my exposure to further infection so it's being heavily monitored. Daily changes at the moment.” “That gets boring fast,” you said, motioning for him to follow you as you made your way to the mess hall. “I am very much in agreement with you there, I must say," He said "I have only been on board for a few days and I am already finding myself bored and frustrated with the routine,” Ezra sighed slightly, annoyance in his voice. “Just wait until you get a prosthetic. Then you’ll be in there for ages,” you snickered before you realized something. ”Are you wanting a prosthetic?” You asked. “I don’t think I would be able to even consider choosing not to invest in one." Brows furrowed, he looked at you. "I can not even fathom how i would be able to continue on in my career without the use of my arm.” “Quite the investment, if you want one good enough to act as a full replacement. I would have to imagine they would cost more than a prosthetic leg.” “That's what the doc said. I am a little overwhelmed with decisions because he keeps showing me all these different options that I cannot quite distinguish from each other." Frustration was written all across his face and in his voice. "I had not realized it would be so complicated.” He sighed, sounding a little dejected. “I’d be more than willing to offer my help in that then,” you offered, “It's best to figure out your needs and work backwards from there.” 

“You are surely a godsent from the heavens themselves,” he chuckled, you ignored the way his compliment and laugh made your stomach flip. “I am simply wise counsel,” you joked, making him chuckle more. “Either way, your offers of help in all kind of regards is much appreciated. I do not feel quite so daunted towards my own recovery now." Ezra smiled at you brightly, and you smiled back. "I thank you for your kindness, a rarity i fear in this line of work sometimes.” “Not wrong there,” you sighed knowingly as the two of you entered the mess hall. It was quiet, given the time of day, a little too early for those wanting their lunch that wasn’t from a ration or nutrient pack. You preferred it like this anyway. 

The food wasn’t amazing, neither of you were first class citizens but it was damn better than the food you were all able to store on your pods and ships. A hot meal of any kind was sought after on these kinds of trips, even if it was just hot mush.

You filled up your tray alongside Ezra, watching him curiously as he easily filled his tray as he pushed it along, the hard part would be maneuvering to a table. You weren't going to offer him any physical help, not yet at least. Giving him the space to learn and adapt would do him better than to dote on him. You remembered how frustrating it was, but you also remember how equally frustrating it was to be physically dependent on others. 

You would not offer him help with physical things unless he asked. 

Regardless, he managed it, balancing his tray on one arm as the two of you made your way over to an empty table. You pulled your chair out and he kicked his out before you both sat down. 

“I think I like coming here earlier,” he said, looking around. “Less people means less well meaning individuals offer to help me out,” he said, tucking into whatever food he had piled on his tray. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound ungrateful. I appreciate help but I do not want to be treated like someone completely invalid, the idea of not being able to take care of myself physically is a wretched notion.” “No, I get ya,” you said, understanding. “You need to do things for yourself. You value your independence, and when people dote on you like that, you feel pitied, your independence feels invalidated. You start to resent the ‘help’ because of it.” “A perfect way to describe the mix of feelings I have found myself with over these past few days,” he agreed, looking at you, chewing on his food “Just wait until you get your prosthetic” You smiled “You’ll be able to hide it well under a long sleeve and no one would be able to tell” “Well if you are any indication to go by, i am more than willing to believe that," He said "If i had not known you were missing a part of yourself beforehand, i would not have been able to tell just from watching you walk. It's impossible to notice at a glance” He complimented, smiling, eyes dropping slightly wistfully. “Thank you, I was fueled purely by spite in my recovery” You said, your smile growing. He laughed “Why, I am truly inclined to believe you." He grinned at you, smile sharp and endearing all the same time. "I shall take that to heart in my own recovery and take inspiration from you.” 

There the two of you sat in the mess hall with him what felt like hours. You found him so easy to talk to and could not help but be entertained by the way he spoke and whatever story he told you. You had found yourself hanging onto his every word, and when you spoke he made you feel like the center of the universe. Your conversations drifted between your shared physical disabilities as well as more personal topics, to get to know each other a little better. You spoke about the places you had visited, the difficult jobs, and your shared love of books. You couldn’t remember the last time you had such a pleasant conversation with another prospector. Most of your interactions were your temporary partners or hostile ‘competition’, there was never any opportunity to share in such deep conversations.

When the two of you reluctantly parted ways, you made sure to let him know where to find you in the second class quarters should he feel inclined to want to speak to you again.

He assured you very much that he was definitely interested in seeing you again. You felt like a teenage girl at that and as you said your goodbyes, hiding a bashful smile as he promised he would come find you again soon.