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reidingmelodies · 4 years ago

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Finders Keepers

A/N: It’s been ages since I’ve written anything, so I figured it was about time I got back into it! Hope you enjoy, any feedback is appreciated :) Warnings: None Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.7K

“What’s wrong with you, Pretty Boy?” Morgan questioned as Spencer rushed into the BAU Tuesday morning, fingers threading through his curls and a look of pure agitation gracing his features. As if he didn’t hear the question directed towards him, Spencer continued to storm through the room, nearly stumbling into Morgan in his quest to reach his desk.

Pupils dilating, Morgan looked towards JJ who had taken stock of the scene from her chair, brows already furrowed and legs moving to stand and head towards her fellow colleague.

Taking the lead, JJ swiftly headed to Spencer’s side, moving to place a hand on his shoulder before thinking better of it and placing both hands on the edge of his desk instead, Mama Bear instincts dialed all the way up. “Everything okay, Spence? You seem annoyed.”

Morgan scoffed before thinking better of it, “I’d say he’s a bit more than annoyed, JJ”. No sooner than the words had left his mouth he was given a swift elbow in his side from JJ and an eye roll from Spencer and all that was left for Morgan to do was raise his hands in defeat.

Sighing, Spencer turned back to his desk before mumbling a response back to them, “I’m fine, guys. I think I lost my copy of War and Peace on the Metro this morning. It was in my bag when I left my place, it must have fallen out when I was trying to grab my umbrella. I thought maybe I just forgot and left it here, but apparently not”.

“You and I both know you don’t forget anything, Pretty Boy,” Morgan chimed in, visibly less tense now that he knew there wasn’t any immediate danger.

“Actually Morgan that’s not entirely true. I have an eidetic memory which means-”

“There’s the Reid we all know and love,” JJ chuckled, heading back to her desk to get ready for the day ahead of them. Morgan followed, leaving the bullpen in search of Garcia and Spencer sighed, trying to move past the fact that one of his favorite books was no longer in his possession. Logically, he knew he could buy a replacement copy after work, but deep down he knew it wasn’t the same.

The words dancing across the page would be the same ones that brought him entertainment and the comfort found in familiarity throughout his life, but the book within his hands wouldn’t hold the same nostalgic memories. He wouldn’t look down at the tattered cover and reminisce on his first jet ride with the BAU, thinking back on how he brushed his fingers against the book’s familiar spine while trying to calm his stomach filled with nervous jitters at the prospect of working with unfamiliar people. He wouldn’t look at the dog-eared pages and remember how the words on those exact pages brought him comfort on nights he would escape to his bedroom and try to leave memories of aggressive classmates and whispering peers behind.

Any thought of potentially buying a new copy of the book after the workday was dispelled though as Garcia called everyone into the conference room to discuss a pending case in Phoenix, no sooner followed by a “wheels up in thirty” announcement from Hotch. Grabbing his go-bag and leaving the bullpen, Spencer filled his head with thoughts of the case, half of his brain racing ahead to connect victimology and significant locations while the other half was stuck repeating a never-ending mantra of “it’s just a book” in the back of his mind.

***

As Spencer was boarding a jet to head 468 miles north, Y/N was playing with a loose thread on her sweater, thinking about the long day of work ahead of her. Breaking her trance, she looked up and instead glanced up at the now empty row of seats in front of her. Her brows furrowed as she saw a book stuck in the crack between the far left seat cushion and the back of the chair, and before she knew it her curiosity overtook her. Y/N found herself standing from the seat, travel mug and bag in tow, before reaching for the dictionary-like book that was calling to her. The title War and Peace glared back at her, and a quick turn of the cover revealed faded words written in blue ink proclaiming that the book was the “Property of Spencer Reid”. With the announcement of her stop blaring over the loudspeaker and the weight of someone else’s book in their hand, Y/N made a split second decision to stuff the book into her bag, leaving the Metro with not only thoughts of the upcoming workday but visions of whom the mysterious Spencer Reid could be.

The workday passed by slowly, each passing second filled with the overwhelming desire to search for Spencer Reid on Google. By the time Y/N was on the Metro ride home, any and all motivation to search for the book’s rightful owner went out the door as her irritation grew with the rising heat of the increasingly packed subway car. Needing a distraction, her hand reached into her bag, initially moving for her cell phone but making a last second switch as her hand brushed the spine of the book. May as well spend my time doing something productive, she thought as she gently pulled the book out of it’s temporary home. With a final sigh, she turned to the first page and began to read.

As Y/N was tearing through the pages of War and Peace at an alarmingly quicker rate than she anticipated that night, Spencer was filling out a WMTA lost and found form in the hopes that someone had the decency to return his book. Knowing his luck, he assumed it was long gone and in the trash somewhere, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to make one last ditch effort at finding it. Groaning, Spencer called it a night and went to bed, silently vowing to find his book the second he stepped foot off the BAU jet again.

***

Six days later the BAU team landed in Quantico, making plans to head to a bar for a drink before a well deserved day off. As designated drivers were assigned and phone calls home were made Spencer gathered his things, making a beeline to the door in the hopes of reaching the WMTA’s designated lost and found area before it closed for the night. He was a foot away from the door before a soft hand grasped his wrist, immediately stopping him in his tracks.

“Skipping out on the bar tonight, Reid?” Emily questioned, head tilted as she noticed how frazzled her friend was.

“I’m just gonna go home and watch a bit of Dr.Who” Spencer began, desperately trying to think of something that would let him out the door without further questions. “Speaking of Dr. Who, did you know that it was originally created to be an educational show for kids? It’s actually really interesting-”

“Say no more, Dr. Reid,” Emily laughed, letting go of his wrist and heading back towards the others, “enjoy your night”. Spencer tightly smiled, leaving the bullpen and making his way to downtown DC in search of his book. An hour later and he wasn’t any closer to finding his book, ultimately giving up and heading to the bookstore to buy himself another copy.

It was at that same time JJ and Derek found themselves hysterically laughing at a corner booth in the bar, thinking about how Spencer probably missed out on meeting the love of his life that night- a woman sitting in the booth directly across from them, War and Peace open on the table in front of her and a pen and highlighter busy at work marking up post its that were being meticulously placed on the book’s pages.

***

A month and a half went by and Spencer had officially given up hope on finding his lost book. In the six weeks since he had last seen it he refrained from reading his new copy, not willing to give up the small amount of hope he had that he would be reunited with his original book. That evening though, as the Metro had yet another delay and the subway car continued to get hotter and hotter, he figured there was no better time than the present and pulled out his new copy of War and Peace. A few pages in, a sudden jolt of the car made him glance up and almost immediately he locked eyes with the woman across from him. In the span of ten seconds, his thoughts ranged from she’s beautiful to hold on- she’s holding my book and before his legs fully alerted his brain what was happening he found himself on his feet and sitting in the empty seat directly next to her.

As Spencer’s brain began to register just how bad of an idea it was to sit next to a stranger as abruptly as he just did, the woman next to him gripped her bag slightly tighter, tilting her head to the side as she peaked a look at the man next to her.

Her mouth opened to speak, but before she could do so Spencer interrupted her, desperately trying to save himself from any embarrassment her words could bring.

“That’s my book,” he bluntly stated, mentally hitting himself as he watched her adorably confused features morph into a look of defense.

“No.. that’s your book,” she pointed down to his lap, where his new copy of War and Peace was resting between his palms.

“No it’s not- well, it is but it isn’t really?” Spencer tried to explain, his face growing more and more red with each word that left his mouth.

“So it’s your book, but not your book?” She questioned, lips curling up into a slight smile as she witnessed the sweet agitation of the man in front of her.

“Yes! I lost my book on the metro almost two months ago. This is just my replacement copy, and I don’t know how I know, but I’m positive the book in your hands right now is the one that I lost.” Spencer finished his spiel, watching as the woman’s eyes widened in realization and her mouth formed an “o” shape.

“You’re Spencer Reid?” she asked, and now it was his turn to play the part of the confused companion.

“I- yes? But, how do you know my name?” As soon as the question left his mouth the image of the title page of his book filled his head and all too soon he was practically yelling with joy in the poor woman’s face. “Wait, that is my book then! Does it say Property of Spencer Reid on the cover page?”

The woman laughed, and Spencer watched as any traces of tension left her body. “I’m so sorry! I found it on the Metro on my way to work, and I meant to look you up- not in a creepy way,” she continued, growing more flustered with each passing second. “I was gonna try and find you to return it but then I started reading it and I liked it more than I thought I would and I just,” She stooped, taking a breath and giving him the most adorable set of puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen. “I’m just really sorry, I shouldn’t have held onto it as long as I did”. She finished, and held the book up, holding it out towards Spencer’s hands. “I think this belongs to you”.

“It’s not a problem at all, I promise,” Spencer reassured her with a warm smile on his face, “thanks for keeping it safe”. Something about her filled his stomach with joy, and as he looked at her he saw a similar smile mirrored back at him. It was at that moment he knew he would do anything to keep that look of happiness on her face, stranger or not. “You know what,” he continued, “you should keep it- finders keepers and all that”.

Y/N laughed in disbelief, immediately shaking her head and pushing the book closer to its rightful owner. “It’s bad enough I’ve had it this long,” she admitted. “It belongs with you”.

“At least take this one then?” Spencer’s brain continued to be a few steps ahead of him, and before he knew it he was taking the book in the stranger’s outstretched hands and placing his new copy in her grasp. “It looks like you still have a hundred pages or so left and I wouldn’t want to keep you from finishing it. Besides, I definitely don’t need two copies”.

The woman smiled and gave him an enthusiastic nod, and Spencer couldn’t help but think he just made the best decision of his life. The speaker above them announced the next stop, and with a sudden jump she left her seat, discarding the new book into her bag and turning towards Spencer on her way to the door. “Thanks, Spencer!” she exclaimed, “maybe I’ll see you around sometime”. Another smile was sent his way, and before he earned up the nerve to ask for her name she was gone, disappearing into a growing crowd of commuters desperate to get back to the comfort of their homes and begin the weekend ahead.

***

The following morning, Spencer found himself in his living room with a mug of coffee in his hand, completely lost in his thoughts. He was trying to calculate the chances of seeing the mystery woman again, considering it took six weeks after losing his book to see her for the first time at all.

He groaned, inwardly cursing himself for his lack of courage the day before and wishing he at least had a name to match to the face that wouldn’t leave his mind. As the coffee cooled, he found his gaze wandering to the coffee table where he had laid the book and his satchel the previous night. With a sigh, Spencer picked up the book only to notice a bright orange post-it sticking out of one of the pages.

“The strongest of all warriors are these two- time and patience” was written in loopy writing, highlighted in yellow with exactly twelve exclamation points in red ink under it. He was a man of science, but he couldn’t help but feel as though finding one of his favorite quotes from the novel staring up at him was a sign.

As he continued to skim the pages, he found note after note filled with quotes, reactions, and doodles and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for the stranger who put them all there. It was a book that held countless memories for Spencer, but already he could tell that this was going to be his ultimate favorite.

Backtracking to the front page, Spencer saw his familiar scrawl had been slightly covered by a light blue post it note. “If this book gets lost a second time I don’t want to make the same mistake as the first guy… please call Y/N at-” Spencer laughed, immediately grabbing his phone to dial the number before he has time to talk himself out of it.

As the phone began to ring, he thought about how he couldn’t picture her name being anything else. It was as beautiful as she was, and he longed to properly meet the woman who managed to get his heart racing with just a few post-it notes.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of his phone answered, and Spencer could immediately tell it was the same woman from the subway.

“Hi, is this Y/N?” he began, fingers nervously twiddling together. At her hum of acknowledgement he continues, “This is Spencer, the guy who’s book you had? I was just looking through the post-its you left behind and I love the perspective you have on the book. Plus, it was so nice of you to even hold onto it in the first place so I was wondering if you’d wanna get coffee, maybe? So I can say thank you for everything and talk about the book with you?”

The opposite end of the phone was silent and Spencer’s face grew red, his hands moving to his hair because how could he possibly think she wanted to meet him, she didn’t even know him and-

“I was hoping you’d find that post-it note,” she giggled, and with the sound all of Spencer’s worries completely washed away. “Absolutely”.

***

Link to join my taglist ♡

#Spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #ash writes

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milliedazzledust · 3 years ago

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For The Lover That I Lost: part 2 (Bucky Barnes imagine)

Request: You and Bucky used to love each other back in the 40's, before the war, before you lost him thinking he died. Now here you are, more than seventy years later, at one of Tony's parties, slow dancing with him. The only catch is that he can't remember he loves you because he has no memories left of you

Part 1 is here

Words: 2.5k

A/N: I wasn't going to but you were a lot to want a part 2, so here it is! I'm not entirely satisfy with my work so I might try to rewrite some parts later - Enjoy :)

It was a rainy day, like many since she had left the Avengers compound. Hidden inside her apartment, she sat by the window watching the sun rise over the streets of Paris. The sky was almost dark, a gloomy atmosphere predicting the storm that would soon disrupt the city in a lighting battle. She had done everything she could to avoid thinking about him, even moved across the world to put as much distance as possible. Yet looking at Montmartre by her window, she wished she could share this moment with him. The saddest part of missing him was the knowledge that he was there, somewhere, on this earth but still remained unreachable. There was a time she would have been angry at fate, at the universe, at herself. She couldn’t find the strength anymore, so she let all those emotions turn into gratitude.

She often pictured her memories of him as little birds. They would come and go freely, bringing with them moments they shared, sometimes even unexpectedly. They would fill her nights with her own movie, playing scenes she had lived once but seen a million times. Yes, birds flying in the open sky, unaware of fate and torment.

That day, she had decided to go to the market. Roaming around the city, she crossed the boulevard near the Seine in silence. Traffic was slow because of the rain. She could already hear the thunder as she walked under the Eiffel Tower to reach the Marché Grenelle. Not a lot of people dared to brave the bad weather and she was glad it wasn’t as crowded as usual. She first bought a bottle of red wine that she securely put in her bag then ventured around. She stopped in front of a small stall displaying colorful choices of fruits. What caught her attention were the plums. She stared fixedly, tilting her head to the side as a wave of sadness and nostalgia washed over her. Just like that, out of the blue, she remembered they were Bucky’s favorite. She almost started crying at the mere sight of it and must have looked like a crazy woman being this emotional over a simple fruit.

She took a deep breath, reaching a shaking hand to grab a couple of them. The salesman wordlessly weighed them out. “ça vous fera 4,50€, Madame” (that’ll be 4,50€ mmam)

She handed him the money, almost in a trance, and took the bag he put them in.

“Merci” She whispered. (thank you)

She kept wandering, looking around without really seeing anything. After a while, she decided to just go back home. This was enough effort for one day, especially under this bad weather. She hurriedly opened her umbrella and started walking, only stopping in front of an old library she had seen before and took the time to look inside. It reminded her a little bit of her home, back in the 1940’s. She felt a warmth in her chest when she saw an old cover of The Hobbit. The first time she read it was with Bucky, right before they left for the war. Two different birds, one for the plums, the other for the book. One sad, the other happy.

Remembering those moments of vivid euphoria were the only comfort that could bring her to smile. Her finger brushed invisible tears and she turned to go, promising herself she would come back to buy a copy of that book. Looking around for the right street sign, she missed the figure standing not twenty feet away from her, waiting to be noticed.

When eventually her eyes landed on him, she stopped dead in her tracks. There he was, right at the corner of her street, drenched and staring directly at her, looking everything like a figment of her delusional imagination.

She dropped her bag, letting its content spill on the ground. She couldn’t trust her own eyes or rely on her own mind. Yet her heart couldn’t stop pounding in her chest, too fast to hear anything else than the blood rushing in her veins and the loud droplets of rain crashing at her feet. She felt on fire, almost afraid she might combust any moment. The simple image of him was a slow and steady match, lighting a flame she had long forgotten deep in the pit of her stomach.

She forced herself to avert her gaze and kneeled to pick up the plums scattered all around her. She was trying hard to slow her heart rate, calm her mind and convince herself it was all in her head. It didn’t stop the shivering, nor the tears on her face.

She dared to look up, only to realize that where Bucky stood only a second ago, there was no one anymore. She cursed, angry at herself for not being in control of her own emotions. A sob managed to escape her lips as she felt her throat closing up. She furiously wiped her eyes and sniffed loudly, the shock had her whole body shivering. The sound of thunder broke in the sky but she couldn’t care less about the weather. Here she was on the ground, soaking wet, tears mixing with the rain, heart so heavy she felt asphyxiated.

And suddenly, it was gone. She saw a shadow over her head, then there were no more droplets crashing over her. She hadn’t noticed the umbrella that laid upside down next to her being picked up. She studied the arm that reached to grab the rest of the plums and her heart stopped right there. Her eyes abruptly widened when she realized that hand wasn’t human. It was made of a metal she would recognize anywhere.

“Bucky?” She called in a question, astonished.

Her body felt cold all of the sudden, on overdrive.

“Hi, doll” She heard him call back.

Her head snapped up and she met his blue eyes. Her lips started trembling and tears fell on their own accord. Every single part of her ceased to function. She was unable to move and time seemed to slow down as they stared at each other. Her head was trying to catch up to a reality she couldn’t grasp or comprehend.

“I’m not dreaming, am I ?” She asked in a breath.

Her heart did a somersault when he chuckled in response. “No, you’re not”

“You promise ?” Her voice sounded so vulnerable.

When his metal hand came in contact with her skin and that she actually felt its coldness, she realized he was real. Her imagination would never have been capable of mimicking the level of comfort that only his touch could provide.

“I promise I’m really here, Y/N”

She closed her eyes, savouring the sound of her name on his lips.

“C’mon, doll” He muttered, holding her waist to help her up. “Let me take you home”

She hung onto his arm, not wanting to let go but also not trusting her legs not to give out. She didn’t question the fact that he knew exactly where to go or that he didn’t react to her sudden outburst. She just followed him. She couldn’t speak, only felt that cold numbness spreading across her head, into her mouth, taking her words away as if her muscles were paralyzed. And even if she could, she wouldn’t know what to say. She couldn’t make sense of his presence at all.

She didn’t notice them reaching the door of her apartment, barely felt his hand leading her inside. She was on auto-pilot, so much that she missed the way he looked at her, worried and cautious. He took her wet coat off, dried her hair with a towel he found nearby and gently led her to a chair.

“You shouldn’t be here” She got her mouth to work again.

“Where else am I supposed to be ?” He replied, leaning onto the doorframe as he watched her closely.

“Away” She whispered. “Far enough”

He snickered and shook his head. “Don’t you think I deserve an explanation ?”

“You caught me off guard” She tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to break down in the middle of the damn street”

“I’m not talking about that, Y/N” He cut her.

She pursed her lips and leaned her head back against the chair, taking an exasperated breath.

“What are you doing here, Bucky ?” She repeated. “How do you know where I live ?”

“I followed you” He simply said.

“Excuse me ?” She was offended.

He shrugged. “Steve wouldn’t tell me where you were, so I trace one of your call, took a plane to Paris and followed you”

Pinching the bridge of her nose to calm herself, she hunched over on her chair.

“You basically stalked me” She crossed her arms.

“That was never my intention” He defended himself. “But you left me with no other choices”

“What is that supposed to mean ?”

“I tried to give you space, like Steve asked me to, but it’s been three months”

She could see he was starting to lose patience but didn’t understand why.

“I had to go”

“Why ?” He demanded.

“You don’t need to know”

“So it is my fault” He guessed.

She stood up abruptly, shaking her head.

“I never said that”

“You suggested it” He rapidly reacted.

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Bucky!”

It all felt like a dream. She had just gone to the market and certainly didn’t expect to see him, break down then fight with him.

“What happened ?” It wasn’t a suggestion or a question. He wouldn’t let her get away without answering.

“I needed a little space” Was all she offered.

“You took a plane to Paris, Y/N. That’s more than a little space” He stopped in his tracks, boring his eyes into hers. “Who were you running away from ?”

“No one!”

“It was me, wasn’t it ?” He almost sounded cynical.

She unconsciously moved to hide behind the kitchen counter, needing the space between them. She busied herself pouring herself a glass of wine while he kept staring at her.

“So what, you were really gonna leave me ?” He finally conceded, putting his hands in his pockets. “Just like that”

“It’s a little more complicated than ‘just like that’” She retorted more violently than she should have as she took a sip of red wine.

“I figured as much” He pressed his lips together.

She arched an eyebrow. She knew he would press the subject but she was far from ready for that confrontation.

“Whatever I did, or said, I’m sorry” He apologized.

“It’s…It wasn’t because of you” She finally admitted. “Not directly”

He crossed his arms. “What do you mean ?”

“I don’t know what more you want me to say” She said, letting an annoyed sigh escape her lips.

He shortened the distance between them and stood on the opposite side of the counter.

“Don’t, please don’t” He shook his head. “I know there is something more than that for you to have been gone for three months just after we danced, Y/N”

“Stop pushing, Buck” She almost begged.

“Why is it so hard to tell me the truth ?”

“You’re not ready” She shouted, lifting her hands in irritation.

“Ready for what exactly ?” He raised his voice. “For the fact that you left with no explanation or for the fact that my own wife can’t even fucking talk to me ?!”

She almost dropped her glass when she heard him.

“What ?” She whispered in a strangled voice, slowly looking up at him. “What d… what did you say ?”

He offered her a lopsided smile, this wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go.

“You never gave me the chance to remember” He calmly stated. “You just … left”

“What ?” She repeated, dumbfounded. Her eyebrows creased as she stared at him with wide open eyes.

He took a step toward her but she backed away, her whole body shaking.

“Y/N…”

“You said wife” She quickly cut him, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“I did” He nodded, softly smiling.

She saw him slowly retrieving something from his pocket and nearly broke down when she realized it was her letter.

“I read it” He answered her silent question.

“You know…” She gulped as her vision started to blur. “You know who… I am ?”

He gazed at her with as much emotion as he replied. “I do”

Suddenly, as if her defenses had always only been made of paper, they fell into tiny drops. Before she could draw in the air her body desperately needed, she fell on her knees. He was quick to catch her and soon she melted into his form. His hands folded around her back, drawing her closer. Her body was shaking, the tears couldn’t stop falling. She cried for the missed time they would never have back, cried to release the pain she had kept bottling up for seventy years.

He pulled her head back, wiping her tears with a calloused finger. She kept her eyes closed, savouring even the roughness of his skin. She realized after a while that he was also crying, running his hand through her hair as if he couldn’t quite believe they were finally reunited. Even though she couldn’t find the strength to speak, when he tried to move, she clung onto him for dear life.

“Don’t go yet” She croaked.

His mouth painted a soft smirk and he nodded before folding his arms around her again.

“I don’t need another lifetime, doll” He whispered in her ear. “We’ve still got this one”

“You died” She cried. The sound of her despair was so loud it broke his heart. “You died and I buried you”

“I know”

“You left me!” Even if she tried, she wouldn’t have been able to stop the tears.

“Never intentionally,” He promised.

“I thought…I’d… I’d lost you forever”

“I made a promise to you” He spoke with emotions. “I said I’d always find my way home”

He stared lovingly at her and gently leaned forward. Finally, their lips locked in a sweet kiss that tasted of her tears. He then pecked every inch of her face, trying to remember what his mind couldn’t yet grasp.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back to you”

She sobbed even harder listening to his words. One of his hands clasped around her lower back and the other stroked her hair to try and calm her down. With each soft touch, more tears fell, tears neither of them wiped away. Every broken piece snapped like brittle glass and felt like shards tearing at her guts. This was aching grief waiting, begging, to be released. She had let it drain her for so long, taking everything she had and more. Years after years, she had watched the world move and change while her heart stayed the same, carrying the heaviness of a past she had never been able to let go off. And here he was again, offering her a life she never thought she would have back. Promising new memories she never thought she would create. Mending a heart she never thought would ever heal.

Nothing would replace what they lost or the pain they had experienced, but simple words written on a piece of paper had been enough to give them the chance to live again, together.

Tag list below (i put all of those who wanted a part2)

If you wish to be tagged on any of my work, please let me know !!

@fallenoutofrose - @jessyballet - @glitterynerdpersonafan - @okei888 - @falcvns - @silentkiller2374 - @verygraphicink - @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake - @spookass - @dexter99 - @tylard-blog1

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier imagine #the winter soldier imagines #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #winter soldier imagines

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xxwritemeastoryxx · 4 years ago

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Unintended Target

Author: xxwritemeastoryxx

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Avengers x Reader

Request: Hellus can I have a Bucky Barnes angst where you're dating and like you get hurt really bad on a mission because you tried protecting him and he just cannot stop crying while you're being treated. Steve like literally has to hold him through it. Ending in fluff. Sorry for so many details ahahaha! -Anon

Word Count:

Warnings: Canon typical violence, mentions of blood, a bit of angst

Author’s Note: We've reached the ending of the first week of May Madness! And welcome to my first one shot for the MCU! But you know me. I do hope you guys enjoy

Feedback gives me life and motivation for future things. ♥

Y/N never believed that she’d ever be able to run as fast as she had. Her heart pounded in her chest as she raced against time to get across the property in time. The sound of her boots hitting the ground had been lost to the sounds of gunfire that surrounded her.

She and the rest of the Avengers were dealing with the remnants of a hydra base. What was supposed to be a quick in and out mission seemed to take a turn. There was more manpower than they expected and it was taking longer just to clear the property.

At some point during the fight, she’d lost her earpiece making it difficult to keep in contact with the others. The others knew she could handle herself, even though they were currently trying to find her among the mess that was being created. She had been expecting to meet at the rendezvous spot with a smirk on her face with all the files she needed in her hand.

At least that had been the plan. But after her eyes had scanned one of the files, she dropped the file and began running out of the building. Hydra had a new plan alright. And it was that plan alone that had caused fear to course through her, wanting-more like needing-to be on the opposite side of the property.

“Anyone have eyes on Y/N yet?” Bucky called out as he took down another member of Hydra.

Bucky hated that Y/N currently couldn’t be reached. While he had trained with her plenty of times and knew that she was able to take care of herself, he didn’t know where she was at. He didn’t know if she was injured or having any issues. His girlfriend could easily wipe the floor with him, but as close as they were, he was worried.

She’s not in the west wing anymore. Bucky heard Natasha’s voice over the comms. She left a nice trail in the process for us though.

Natasha was trying to make light of the situation. If she could get Bucky to bring down his worry in the slightest, she was going to attempt it. Together the two were practically unstoppable, separate them and make it so they can’t speak to each other and they’ve got an anxious super-soldier.

I’ve got eyes on her. Clint’s voice came over next. And unless there’s something I’m missing, Y/N is either running from something invisible or she’s trying to get somewhere.

Anything from the west wing she could have seen? Tony’s voice filled their ears.

Still looking. Nat responded.

“Where is she headed?” Bucky asked a moment later, the swift movement of his knife piercing the body of another person advancing on him. With him down, Bucky had cleared his section. His concern now focused on why Y/N had been running away or towards something.

I’ve lost sight of her. She was headed towards the east. More than likely heading your way.

The plans had been replaying in Y/N’s head from the moment she read them in the west wing. The words on the pages she had found made her heart race in a way that all the training she had been through never made it race. The fear had threatened to bring tears to her eyes. All she knew was that she had to get to Bucky.

She hadn’t stopped for a moment since she had begun running. Even when she was faced with those that tried to stop her, she simply pulled out her dagger, allowing it to make contact for a brief moment before she continued. The bodies she left behind weren’t on her mind for more than a second.

As she made it towards the end of the property, her eyes landed on Bucky. From the looks of things, he had finished clearing things out and was beginning to look for her. She knew he had to be seeing as she no longer had her earpiece. It was something he’d always do no matter what the mission was that they were on.

Y/N believed she had made it there on time. That if he was alone he’d be okay. If there were no signs of Hydra, Bucky would be safe. That getting him out of the area would ensure his safety. It was as she began slowing down did Bucky notice her.

He took off on a light jog to meet her halfway from that point. “What happened?” He asked, seeing the look on her face.

“We need to get out of here, now.” she said in between the breaths of air she was trying to get.

You should listen to her. Nat’s voice picked up in Bucky’s ear. This whole thing was a damn setup.

The moment the words registered in his ear, they both noticed the way a red dot appeared on Bucky’s chest. His first instinct would have been to grab the both of them and find cover. Before he could do anything, Y/N’s instinct kicked in and she pushed Bucky out of the way, just as the shot had been fired.

Both of them had fallen onto the ground but it was Y/N that cried out in pain. Her hands automatically tried to grab at her back to take in the injury she had gotten. To apply some kind of pressure to it or at the very least to see where it was.

Just as Bucky moved to look her over a jolt of electricity shot through her body. One that caused a loud piercing scream to pass her lips before she went silent. Bucky could only watch as her body convulsed from the electrical charge running through her body. The last thing Y/N heard and saw was Bucky reaching for her the moment the shocking stopped his voice calling out to her before she passed out.

The minutes after had gone in a blur to Bucky. The others all speaking at once trying to figure out their location. They all had heard her screams. May it have been through the comms or even the fact that they were close by and could hear it. The words mixed in with the emotions that were currently playing through him.

From the moment she passed out, Bucky had her in his arms. He hardly even remembered yelling at the others to shut up and just get to them. They needed to leave before Y/N bled out or even died there in his arms. He didn’t even want to begin to think about her dying there. Not when that shot wasn’t even meant for her.

He could barely remember how long it had taken him to get to the quinjet, let alone the ride back to the compound. The whole ride back, he never left her side. Even when Bruce helped to stop the bleeding for the trip back, he never once took his eyes off of her. Even after getting her to the Med Bay, he fought to be with her. But he couldn’t be.

There was a storm of emotions brewing within him as he watched from behind a glass window as the team Stark hired had begun working on pulling the bullet out of Y/N’s back. The wound was simple, but because of the electric charge that came from it, her skin looked fried around the wound.

Y/N wasn’t even supposed to be in there. She wasn’t supposed to be wounded and it was because of who he was made to be. That the very organization that he had once freed himself from was desperately trying to get him back. And in the process, the woman he loved was injured.

“She’ll get through this.” Steve said as he came to stand beside Bucky. Steve knew that Y/N had been shot at, broken, and bloodied with several of the missions that she had been through. The woman always seemed to pull through.

“That charge that went through her body, was meant for me.” Bucky said never taking his eyes off of Y/N. “My body would have taken that charge and it would have caused little damage. She’s not like us.”

“She may not be like us, but I’ve seen her take on world threats and she’s come out of them right by your side.” Steve needed Bucky to have some kind of hope.

Bucky’s forehead placed against the glass as he shook his head. “I can’t lose her Steve.”

Steve watched as tears slowly formed in Bucky’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or anger that had caused the tears. He brought his hand up and placed it on Bucky’s shoulder. It seemed that the simple action had caused Bucky to let the storm inside of him be released.

He placed his arm around Bucky, allowing his friend to lean on him while he broke down. Steve listened as Bucky mentioned time and time again about it should have been him. That he should have been the one on the table. But if it hadn’t been for Y/N, Bucky would have been taken away.

Steve stayed with Bucky for the time it took to get Y/N closed up and have tests done to make sure the surge of power that went through her hadn’t damaged any of her organs. The testing is what took the longest. The needing to ensure that Y/N would wake up was something that held the heaviest weight.

Y/N’s eyes slowly opened and she found herself in a bed in the Med Bay. A confused look played on her face for a moment before her brain registered the pain her body felt in that moment. She winced as she began to look around before a small smile pulled at her lips.

Bucky had been by her side, his head resting on the space beside her. She could tell he had been sleeping. She could see it in the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as she watched him. Bringing a shaky hand up, she ran it through his hair. The action itself was comforting to herself and if she was being honest, she was sure that it would bring some comfort to him as well.

Her touch had caused Bucky to lift his head quickly. “You’re awake.”

The slight nod of her head had caused her to wince. “How long was I out?” Her voice was rough as she spoke.

“Almost a week.” She could hear the relief in his voice at seeing her awake. He sat up and moved his chair closer before he reached for her hand. “Have I ever mentioned how crazy you are?”

That caused a slight smile to grow on her face, her fingers tightening around his own. “We both know I’m crazy enough to take bullets for the people I love.”

“Doesn’t mean you should.” He said with a slight nod of his head.

“I couldn’t let them take you. Not after everything we’ve done to make sure you got better.” She wasn’t going to let him ‘win’ this argument. “The moment I saw their plans, I didn’t care about anything else. I just knew I had to get to you.”

Bucky sighed as stood up and moved to sit on the bed next to her. His hand came up and ran along her cheek, before bringing his lips to hers for a brief kiss. “I was afraid that you weren’t going to wake up. They kept saying that you were okay, that it would be when you were ready that you would wake up. All I could think about was how there was a whole day where I thought I was going to lose you. And I hated that feeling.”

“If you’re trying to say I shouldn’t go on-” She tried saying before he cut her off.

“No, I would never say that. Not when you know how to take care of yourself. I was just thinking it would be a lot easier and probably safer for the both of us if we stick together as a team.” His words had caused her eyebrow to raise.

“You mean babysit me.” It caused them both to chuckle.

“Is it really babysitting if we enjoy working together?” He asked with a smile pulling at his lips.

She shook her head slightly. “Fine. But even I know it might be a while before I’m out in the field again.”

“About that,” He said as leaned into her a little more. ��During your time away from the field, I was thinking about a vacation for the both of us. Lay low while the others cut all the loose ends to ensure there’s no one coming after us.”

“A recovery vacation, while laying low? I’m definitely listening.”

The two of them knew things would never be perfect out there. Not in their line of business. Not with their pasts or even who they’ve become. There would be times where they’d be placed in this same position. They'd be willing to keep the other one safe, no matter the cost.

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juleswolverton-hyde · 3 years ago

Text

Not by the Moon | 08

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.

I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.

Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.

Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?

Who knows?

I don’t know.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”

“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.

That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.

The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.

How did it get there? What did you do?

“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, “be here.”

The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”

“I like cooking for you.”

“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”

“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”

The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is.

Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”

Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.

Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”

I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”

“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.

“Yes.”

“I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”

“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.

“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”

Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.

To enjoy something sweet.

As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.

They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.

Be there even after he’s gone.

Then they will return to me yet still be his.

He will still be with me.

The pages filled with his love.

It’s everything that will be left of him.

His legacy.

His remains.

The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.

They could turn any place into our home.

The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.

Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.

“Mind your head.” Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.

“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”

For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.

When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks.

Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”

Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”

Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table.

Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”

Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.

I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.

“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned.

Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.

My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”

Did he turn the central heating up?

“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”

“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.”

If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.

And I’ll lose him.

Back to square one.

Loveless.

Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’

“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.

For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.

The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.

The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.

His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.

And in mine as well.

Rippling flesh.

There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?

I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.

There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?

How do I get you back?

Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.

The rage was beyond him.

Outside him.

Another’s.

Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”

There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.

Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”

A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.

Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.

Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.

Terrified of who he will become.

Of who he is.

“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”

Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.

Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.

A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.

It’s undeniably him.

I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.

A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.

The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.

A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.

I don’t deserve this.

Us.

Him.

The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.

Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.

I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.

Can we win at all?

“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.

Staring at the moon.

A woman as fickle as me.

And infinitely more beautiful.

Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.

In love with the heavens.

He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”

The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.

“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.

We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.

So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”

I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.”

Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”

Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.

And be a little better than before.

“What do they feel like, those days?”

“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”

He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”

“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.

Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.

The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.

It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.

“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”

“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”

“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”

“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.

Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”

Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings.

‘’What mean? Promised?’’

I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”

“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”

I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”

“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.

Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”

“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”

“What is?”

What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!

“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.

Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”

Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.

“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”

In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row.

For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.

I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.

That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.

Drunk on him.

A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.

Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.

Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.

Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)

Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.

Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.

Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.

Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.

I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare.

Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.

Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.

A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat.

A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.

For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.

Wow, she’s like a goddess.

A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.

Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?

“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”

I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”

“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”

“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”

“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”

“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”

“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”

Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.

Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.

Jaebeom?

I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”

I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.

“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.

Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.

A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.

As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”

Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.

Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.

It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.

Such is the female nightmare.

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”

“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”

He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”

“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”

“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.

Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.

“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”

Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”

“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.

She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?

So I remain silent.

And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.

The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure.

“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.

“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”

She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”

He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”

We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour.

After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.

An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”

“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”

“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.

I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.

I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.

Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.

“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.

“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”

“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”

“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”

Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.

Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.

We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.

Playthings of Chance and Fate.

“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”

“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”

“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”

Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.

Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue.

“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.

“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”

“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”

Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”

Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.

Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?

“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.

Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.

Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.

This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.

Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”

“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”

And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.

Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague.

While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”

Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.

“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.

“You know her?” I ask, frowning.

“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’

A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”

‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’

Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.

‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’

‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’

‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.

Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.

In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’

‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’

‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’

‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’

‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’

The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea.

Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.

‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’

Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.

She is telling the truth.

‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”

She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’

‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’

‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’

‘’Speak for yourself.’’

‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’

Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.

“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”

“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”

“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’

She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened.

“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”

“It is?”

“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”

“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.

My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.

Like I am at death’s door.

The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.

A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.

It was like the howl of a banshee.

#JB #Jaebeom #Im Jaebeom #GOT7 #GOT7 smut #Jaebeom fanfiction #GOT7 Werewolf AU #GOT7 x Reader #Jaebeom x Reader #Jaebeom smut #Werewolf!Jaebeom #Werewolf AU #Werewolf!JB #Not by the Moon

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cappymightwrite · 4 years ago

Note

So I’ve just read your meta on the TWOW Alayne I sample chapter (it’s amazing btw!) and I noticed something while reading it that I wanted to share and see if anybody else has noticed - nearly every man Alayne dances with during the feast could be taken as a reference to Jon or the Night’s Watch.

Ben Coldwater -> Snow is, obviously, cold water, and Ben is a sneaky Benjen reference

Andrew Tollett -> most likely related to Dolorous Edd Tollett, Jon’s old steward and good friend

Ser Byron the Beautiful -> GRRM has described Jon as a Byronic hero

Ser Morgarth and Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse -> these men are more dubious, I’m not really sure of the link with Morgarth. Shadrich is a callback from Brienne’s AFFC plot though, and a sign that Sansa’s cover isn’t as secure as she and Littlefinger think it is

Ser Albar Royce - a reference to Waymar Royce, he of the many Jon parallels and Sansa’s old crush, though she finds his cousin(?) stout and dull

The Sunderlands - their family are the lords of the Three Sisters. In ADWD, Davos is told a story on Sweetsister about Ned having to sneak across the Bite during Robert’s Rebellion, to get North and call his banners. A fisherman helped him but drowned when a storm caught their boat - but his daughter got Ned safely to the Sisters. The prevailing story on the islands seems to be that he left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly, whom she named after Jon Arryn

Uther Shett - I was half-convinced this guy also had a relative on the wall, because his name (insulting pun aside) seems to be a reference to Chett, the prologue POV of ASOS who had a grudge against Jon for losing him his position as one of Maester Aemon’s stewards in favour of Sam

Ser Targon the Halfwild - Jon will likely be half-wild when he comes back from the dead, but he’s already been described as ‘half a wildling’ multiple times. Also Targon = Targ-Jon?

Ser Roland and Ser Wallace Waynwood - both are described earlier in the chapter as long-faced with brown hair, which are also Stark features. Alayne thinks of them as “horsefaced”, probably an Arya reference that also calls back to her and Jon’s shared Stark look. Wallace is even the same age as Robb, and thus Jon, would be.

So though Jon wasn’t mentioned by name in the chapter, I think he was very present... not just lemoncake-wise ;)

Thank you! :D Haha for a moment there I was like...wait which meta? Had to take my mind back for a sec there because I've written quite a bit since then! But yeah, doing deep dives into certain chapters is really fun — my next one that's in the works is Jon XI in A Dance With Dragons. Great to hear you enjoyed my Winds one :)

Ooooh that is really interesting and a mighty fine catch! Definitely the vibe I got whilst reading that chapter, after having analysed Alayne II, AFFC (which chronologically precedes it), is that Jon's presence or references to him are made subtly throughout the chapter(s) — especially whenever Winterfell is alluded to because Jon is the "Snow of Wintefell", the "blood of Winterfell", etc. But also vice versa, Sansa is very much connected to Winterfell in Jon's chapters as well — "Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa."

But let's take a look at those names you listed below the cut! Big post ahead, so buckle up kids!

So, I hadn't noticed the significance of those names on my reading, but I can well believe what you're suggesting because it plays very much into how I interpreted the subconscious goings on of that chapter — that you have these rememberances/reminders of Winterfell and Sansa's Stark idenity at crucial moments within the chapter’s narrative pacing, especially prior to moments with Harry the Heir. Not to sound too crass, but it's sort like a marking of territory, and this is made even stronger by that goddamn phallic as hell Giant's Lance lemoncake (aka Jon's peen). It's all quite neatly buried, but when you start matching up the imagery...I mean, I guess wolves are territorial beasts, so...checks out? (George...why are you like this?)

It is interesting that we get that iconic entrance of the Giant's Lance lemoncake prior to these dance partners, i.e. a claim has been staked essentially, and it ain't from Littlefinger, which is what could be interpreted on first inspection. And let's not beat around the bush, as uncomfortable as it is (because Sansa is ONLY 13/14!!), this is a sexual claim being made owing to the phallic symbolism and the general tone of the chapter being about Alayne's betrothal/marriage:

And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar.

For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out.

I legit just snorted re-reading this: "splendid subtlety" MY ASS! What follows is a whole lot of gift-giving, which come to think of it, in combination with this bloody big cake...well, it reads quite a bit like a wedding breakfast to me, followed by dancing, in addition to a possible nod to a Stark bridal cloak, masked by the Arryn colours:

There were gifts as well, splendid gifts. Each of the competitors received a cloak of cloth-of-silver and a lapis brooch in the shape of a pair of falcon’s wings. Fine steel daggers were given to the brothers, fathers, and friends who had come to watch them tilt. For their mothers, sisters, and ladies fair there were bolts of silk and Myrish lace.

Because if we compare this "cloak of cloth-of-silver" with previous descriptions of Sansa's maiden cloak, we see this obvious recurring inclusion of either silver or grey as one of the Stark colours:

Cersei Lannister ignored the question. "The cloak," she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. "Your father's colors," said Cersei, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.

A maiden's cloak. Sansa's hand went to her throat. She would have torn the thing away if she had dared. – ASOS, Sansa III

"[...] and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back...why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright [...]" – AFFC, Alayne II

This is all very in keeping with the theme of the chapter, which is meeting Alayne's betrothed, Harrold Hardyng, so obviously a future marriage/alliance is very much a prevalent theme here. Furthermore, the mention of "Myrish lace" for the "ladies fair" does somewhat remind me of Alys Karstark's wedding garb:

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled.

"Winter's lady." Jon squeezed her hand. – ADWD, Jon X

I think some other people have mentioned before how even though Jon makes a conscious comparison between Arya and Alys — "reminded Jon so much of his little sister" — the romanticised, flushed cheeked imagery very much points towards a subconsious allusion to Sansa (ETA: anyone spoken on this got a link?). With that in mind, we could see this as foreshadowing of not only Jonsa, but a Jonsa wedding, and Sansa as Queen in the North — "a frosty crown" "Winter's lady" — with Jon as her king/consort. In my current Jon chapter analysis I've been working with the idea that actually as soon as Jon starts romanticising a girl, which is notably different from just noticing someone's physical beauty (e.g. with Val), that is when the subconscious comparisons to Sansa really jump out.

But anyway! Onto those names...or rather, Jon Snow stand-ins.

Rising, [Ben Coldwater] offered Alayne his hand. “Would you honor me with this dance, my lady?”

“You’re very kind,” she said, as he led her to the floor.

He was her first partner of the evening, but far from the last. Just as Petyr had promised, the young knights flocked around her, vying for her favor. After Ben came Andrew Tollett, handsome Ser Byron, red-nosed Ser Morgarth, and Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse. Then Ser Albar Royce, Myranda’s stout dull brother and Lord Nestor’s heir. She danced with all three Sunderlands, none of whom had webs between their fingers, though she could not vouch for their toes. Uther Shett appeared to pay her slimy compliments as he trod upon her feet, but Ser Targon the Halfwild proved to be the soul of courtesy. After that Ser Roland Waynwood swept her up and made her laugh with mocking comments about half the other knights in the hall. His uncle Wallace took a turn as well and tried to do the same, but the words would not come. Alayne finally took pity on him and began to chatter happily, to spare him the embarrassment. When the dance was done she excused herself, and went back to her place to have a drink of wine.

And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. “Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?”

She considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

If I've counted that right, that's 14 men? Alright, here we go.

First up...Ben Coldwater

I think you're right that Ben Coldwater feels very much like a nod to Ben-jen Stark, who is referred to as Ben a few times I think, and Jon Snow (cold water = snow), both men of the Night's Watch. House Coldwater also traces its lineage back to the First Men, and are sworn to House Royce, who are also notably descended from the First Men, have previously married into the Stark family and still maintain close connections to the current house through Ned's fosterage in the Vale. So, through the Royces, we see another possible connection to the Starks and Jon Snow...Jon Snow who was named after Jon Arryn.

I would also add that we have Ben make this inquiry prior to his dance with Alayne:

“Are there no singers?” asked Ben Coldwater.

I don't know, maybe I'm reaching but...singers feature quite a lot in connection to Jon, for instance:

Mance Rayder, who infiltrates Winterfell disguised as a singer called Abel, an anagram of Bael, aka Bael the Bard;

Bael the Bard and the Blue Rose of Winterfell — a story told to Jon by Ygritte, which very much evokes the tale of Rhaegar and Lyanna;

Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon's real father, was a notably skilled lyre player, whose singing supposedly made Lyanna cry — "The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle," (ASOS, Bran II). He is also theorised to have written the song Jenny of Oldstones, possibly for the Ghost of High Heart, Jenny's friend.

Ygritte — when Jon starts to find her more attractive, when he starts to romanticise her, he observes that "sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him," (ASOS, Jon II).

Val — again, we start to see Jon begin to warm to Val, to see her in more of a romantic + typically feminine light, because of her singing to the baby Monster: "I have heard you singing to him," (ADWD, Jon VIII).

Sansa — oh, my sweet Sansa...when remembering his family, not quite in his dying moments, but a little bit prior to that, Jon thinks "Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow," (ADWD, Jon XIII).

I think it's clear that Jon loves a good song and you know what? He'd probably be asking about the lack of singers too! One final detail perhaps worth noting is the seat of House Coldwater:

[...] the Coldwaters of Coldwater Burn [...] – TWOIAF, The Vale

Obviously, the "song of ice and fire" is not a person, but more the elemental and destructive forces of the Others and the dragons, yet nevertheless, through Jon's parentage, as well as his actions (burned hand, etc.), plus his personality to a certain extent (hot-headed then repressing emotions) you do have this duality of hot and cold, of fire and ice...Coldwater Burn? Could be something.

Ser Andrew Tollett

So, like you said, the name Tollett immediately puts us in mind of Eddison Tollett, also known as Dolorous Edd, who is like Jon, a black brother of the Night's Watch. And he is a good brother to Jon, voting for him in the election for the Lord Commander, as well as becoming his loyal steward for a time, before being sent on a mission to Long Barrow. Interestingly, Dolorous Edd, as well as the Tolletts in general, do have a bit of a Stark vibe to them...

Like a typical Stark, Dolorous Edd is described as having a "long face" (ACOK, Jon III), a face like a mule's to be exact, but also notably a horse's as well:

"[...] Me, I have the mules. Nettles claims we're kin. It's true we have the same long face, but I'm not near as stubborn [...]" – ADWD, Jon XII

He only wished he had time to kill Tollett as well. Gloomy horsefaced fool, that's what he is. – ASOS, Prologue

He is given the nickname Dolorous Edd (dolorous = mournful), and is referred to several times as being "dour" (ACOK, Jon II, Jon III, ASOS, Jon V, ADWD, Jon XII, XIII), an attribute not entirely out of place when we consider some notable Starks and their disposition, as well as their house words:

He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. – AGOT, Tyrion II

Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now. – AGOT, Jon VIII

I gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger and sent him off to his war and his king and the woman who bore him his bastard, because I always did my duty. – ACOK, Catelyn VI

Ned was shorter and plainer of face, and so somber. He spoke courteously enough, but beneath the words she sensed a coolness that was all at odds with Brandon, whose mirths had been as wild as his rages [...] And after the war, at Winterfell, I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face. – ASOS, Catelyn V

So, not unlike Jon, Arya and Ned, Dolorous Edd has a "long and solemn" face (AGOT, Arya I), as well as a "dour" personality. Furthermore, even House Tollet of Grey Glen's sigil and words have Stark vibes, since according to semi-canon sources, their shield is "pily grey and black" and their words are "When all is darkest," which arguably carries the same ominous, Long Night warning of "Winter is coming". In addition to this, like the Coldwaters, the Tollets are sworn to the First Men descended Royces.

But beyond this, if we take a look at some legendary and historical Tolletts...we actually have two notable names:

Torgold Tollett — also known as Torgold the Grim, though ironically, because he was famous for riding into battle laughing, and naked from the waist up:

The songs say that Torgold knew no fear and felt no pain. Though bleeding from a score of wounds, he cut a red swathe through Lord Redfort's staunchest warriors, then took his lordship's arm off at the shoulder with a single cut. Nor was he dismayed when the sorceress Ursula Upcliff appeared upon a bloodred horse to curse him. By then he was bare-handed, having left both of his axes buried in a foe's chest, but the singers say he leapt upon the witch's horse, grasped her face between two bloody hands, and tore her head from her shoulders as she screamed for succor. – TWOIAF, The Vale

Ser Jon Tollett — In Fire & Blood, Jon Tollett is recorded as a member of King Maegor the Cruel's Kingsguard. After the king's mysterious death, his successor, King Jaeherys I, offered Maegor's surviving Kingsguard a choice between execution or taking the black. Jon Tollett chose the latter. This somewhat parallels Ned's decision to take the black, to a certain extent.

You could argue that there are more than a few similarities, or future foreshadowings, between these Tolletts and Jon Snow...

Ser Byron the Beautiful

Like you mentioned, Jon Snow has been described by GRRM as a "Byronic, romantic hero". I'm so annoyed with myself, because I had written up some good stuff on how Jon really does possess certain Byronic traits but as I was inserting a gif it ended up deleting most of what I wrote...so I'm still a bit bitter over that, but will rewrite it at some point soon. Take my word for it though, Jon Snow is 100% more of a Byronic Hero (a la Byron's own Manfred), than Sandor Clegane, for example:

GRRM: “Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love.” [source]

Ser Byron, as well as being described as beautiful, is also notably very gallant, the perfect knight:

"Dutiful and beautiful," said an elegant young knight whose thick blond mane cascaded down well past his shoulders. – AFFC, Alayne II

We all know that Sansa appreciates a bit of genuine courtesy, and in fact, she's taught Jon well in that regard:

"Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower."

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. – ACOK, Jon III

I think this Jon stand-in does rely mostly on Jon's connection to the Byronic Hero. So, if anyone is still a bit dubious on that (because Rochester and Heathcliff are trash), just hang in there for my eventual meta on the subject, which focuses on Lord Byron's OG Byronic Hero, rather than the later Brontë/Victorian iterations.

In fact, in terms of Jon's parentage and future romance with Sansa, there's one Byronic tale that may be a particular source of inspiration — The Bride of Abydos. This poem notably includes a romance in which half-siblings are revealed to be cousins...sound familiar?

Ser Morgarth the Merry

Another hedge knight, like Ser Byron, who is sworn into the service of Petyr Baelish. I've got to agree with you here, red-nosed Ser Morgarth's connection to Jon is quite a bit harder to decipher! I have done a little digging though, and it is possible that the Garth in Morgarth is a reference to several Garths that appear in Jon's chapters, as well as Garth Greenhand, the alleged ancestor of legendary House Stark founder...Brandon the Builder:

Garth of Oldtown

Garth of Greenaway

Garth Greyfeather

All of these Garths are rangers/members of the Night's Watch at the same time as Jon, though I think by Dance it is presumed that they are all dead, or at least missing — in fact, Garth of Greenaway kills Garth of Oldtown. Garth on Garth violence!!

Haha, oh god...I think I just got the pun...Morgarth = More Garth! More Garths the merrier! Get it?! More Garths everybody!

George, I hate you.

Ok, so that's what that is. It's literally just a dumb pun, yet it also connects Morgarth to the Night's Watch Garths, and therefore Jon.

Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse

I think you're right that Ser Shadrich's presence connects us to Brienne's quest, as well as foreshadowing potential shit hitting the fan at the tourney of the Winged Knights. But he also notably makes some interesting remarks, both to Brienne and Sansa, which we can connect to Jon Snow's secret Targaryen heritage:

"Where?" Brienne slapped another silver stag down.

He flicked the coin back at her with his forefinger. "Someplace no stag ever found...though a dragon might." – AFFC, Brienne III

On the surface, in response to Brienne's questioning about the whereabouts of the Stark sisters, Shadrich is talking about a monetary bribe. However, beneath that explicit meaning, is an implicit reference to a stag (Joffrey) failing, where a dragon (Jon) will succeed. Others have talked about this line in more detail elsewhere, but it seems like a pretty good allusion to the foils, Joffrey (a prince who is really a bastard) and Jon (a bastard who is really a prince).

In this exact Winds chapter, however, we also see a conversation between Alayne and Shadrich, which hints at his possible plans to uncover and abduct Sansa Stark in return for a lucrative reward:

“A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that’s not likely, is it?”

This "stumbl[ing] on a bag of dragons" could also be seen as an implicit nod towards stumbling upon Jon's Targaryen heritage later in the novel, something that is more "likely" than anyone would expect. That claim might be a reach, were it not for the implication that when Shadrich talks about money, i.e. dragons...he isn't actually talking about gold coins, he's talking about Targaryens, but more than that...he's talking specifically about Jon Snow.

Ser Albar Royce

"Myranda’s stout dull brother and Lord Nestor’s heir." I think like Ser Morgarth, the physical appearance of these stand-ins doesn't always play a factor, because it would be kind of unnerving if they all had solemn long faces... So, what is important here is, like you say, the name Royce and his relation to Ser Waymar Royce, Sansa's first crush, who just happens to resemble and parallels Jon quite a bit:

She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. – AFFC, Alayne I

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned. – AGOT, Prologue

Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. – AGOT, Bran I

"They're not my brothers," Jon snapped. "They hate me because I'm better than they are." – AGOT, Jon III

Although, it is worth noting that the Royces, as a whole, do somewhat resemble the Starks in appearance, at least in terms of their eye colour:

Bronze Yohn Royce, the current head of House Royce of Runestone, has "slate-grey eyes" as well as a "solemn face", (AFFC, Alayne I).

Ser Robar, his second son was "comely in a rough-hewn way" (ACOK, Catelyn III), with "pale" eyes (ACOK, Catelyn IV), possibly grey like his father's.

Ser Waymar, Yohn's third son, as mentioned, was "grey-eyed" (AGOT, Prologue).

It isn't as clear whether or not their cadet branch, which Albar belongs to, tend towards grey eyes as well, though we know that Myranda has brown hair, specifically "thick chestnut curls" (AFFC, Alayne II) — typical looking Starks, like Ned, Arya, and Jon, all have brown/dark hair.

As previously mentioned, the Royces are also descended from the First Men, have kinship links to the Starks, knew Ned when he fostered in the Vale, and Bronze Yohn even "knows" Sansa Stark:

"Bronze Yohn knows me," she reminded him. "He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black." She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. "And that was not the only time. Lord Royce saw...he saw Sansa Stark again at King's Landing, during the Hand's tourney." – AFFC, Alayne I

His seamed and solemn face brought back all of Sansa's memories of his time at Winterfell. She remembered him at table, speaking quietly with her mother. She heard his voice booming off the walls when he rode back from a hunt with a buck behind his saddle. She could see him in the yard, a practice sword in hand, hammering her father to the ground and turning to defeat Ser Rodrik as well. He will know me. How could he not? She considered throwing herself at his feet to beg for his protection. He never fought for Robb, why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell is fallen. "Lord Royce," she asked timidly, "will you have a cup of wine, to take the chill off?"

Bronze Yohn had slate-grey eyes, half-hidden beneath the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen. They crinkled when he looked down at her. "Do I know you, girl?" – AFFC, Alayne I

They also have the house words "We will remember", which somewhat evokes the recurring refrain "the north remembers" (ASOS, Catelyn, ADWD, Davos IV, ADWD, A Ghost in Winterfell, TWOW, Theon I), as well as a possible remembrance of the Long Night, similar to the Starks’ and Tolletts’ words. All in all, as well as evoking a certain Starkness (and Jon-ness), the Royces seem set up to be staunch allies of the Starks going forward.

All Three Sunderlands

Since these Sunderland brothers aren't given names, we can assume what is significant about them, in relation to Jon and Sansa, is their Sunderland name. As you noted, the Sunderlands are the reigning lords of the Three Sisters, and in Dance, through Davos' pov, we hear about Ned's time there during Robert's Rebellion:

"At the dawn of Robert's Rebellion. The Mad King had sent to the Eyrie for Stark's head, but Jon Arryn sent him back defiance. Gulltown stayed loyal to the throne, though. To get home and call his banners, Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down. They say he left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly. Jon Snow, she named him, after Arryn.

"Be that as it may. My father sat where I sit now when Lord Eddard came to Sisterton. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' Our maester chuckled at me and told us that Prince Rhaegar was certain to defeat this rebel. That was when Stark said, 'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true…but what if we prevail?' My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,' he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.' " – ADWD, Davos I

This passage has one of my favourite asoiaf quotes of all time..."In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true...but what if we prevail?" Truly iconic. So defiantly hopeful.

But, yes, you're right that this story, and the Sunderlands, connects us to Ned, but more importantly...to Jon Snow. Really, Jon has quite a few Vale connections, all things considered, and he is named after Jon Arryn after all!

Uther Shett

Well, along with his buddy Ossifer Lipps (ass for lips), Uther Shett (utter shit) is an example of George having some pretty lowbrow fun with punny names. During their dance, Uther paid Alayne "slimy compliments as he trod upon her feet"...so not the best partner!

But from one shit to another...I think you're probably right that Uther Shett is meant to recall Chett, indeed, if we take a look at his description in Winds:

The one on her left was no more than eighteen, and skinny as a spear. His ginger-colored whiskers only partially served to disguise the angry red pimples that dotted his face.

His bad skin is somewhat comparable to Chett's boils:

Chett had a wen on his neck the size of a pigeon's egg, and a face red with boils and pimples. Perhaps that was why he always seemed so angry. – AGOT, Jon V

What is also noteworthy about Chett's prologue pov in ASOS, is that we get this linking of literal snow and Jon Snow:

Snow was falling.

He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It isn't fair, he wanted to scream. Snow would ruin everything he'd worked for, all his careful plans. It was a heavy fall, thick white flakes coming down all about him [...] The snow's taken it all from me...the bloody snow...

Snow had ruined him once before. Snow and his pet pig. – ASOS, Prologue

This makes any mention of snow beyond this point a bit more noteworthy, especially since Jon is referred to as "the Snow of Winterfell," (ASOS, Jon I), and we also have Sansa's famous "drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses" whilst building Winterfell out of snow scene, also in ASOS, (Sansa VII). So, Chett is very important when it comes to establishing this connection.

Ser Targon the Halfwild

Targon is only mentioned once and it is in that list of dance partners. He's not connected to any particular house, all we know of him is that he is a knight and that he "proved to be the soul of courtesy." This detail is interesting because it sort goes against his "Halfwild" moniker — he is courteous in spite of his half-wildness. Likewise, Jon is also courteous, chivalrous and knightly even, in spite of the stigma attached to being a bastard:

They still think me a turncloak. That was a bitter draft to drink, but Jon could not blame them. He was a bastard, after all. Everyone knew that bastards were wanton and treacherous by nature, having been born of lust and deceit. And he had made as many enemies as friends at Castle Black...Rast, for one. Jon had once threatened to have Ghost rip his throat out unless he stopped tormenting Samwell Tarly, and Rast did not forget things like that. – ASOS, Jon VII

As mentioned in comparison to Ser Byron, Jon behaves courteously towards Gilly, calling her name "pretty", just as Sansa taught him. He also often refers to Val as "my lady" despite her being a proud woman of the Free Folk. Jon also clearly looks up to and wishes to emulate legendary knights to a certain extent, and behaving with courtesy and honour is very much part of that:

They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne." – ASOS, Jon XII

Furthermore, Jon has this connection to the Free Folk, also known as the wildlings, having spent a fair amount of time with them:

"The wildling blood is the blood of the First Men, the same blood that flows in the veins of the Starks [...]" – ASOS, Jon I

"Some of your own Sworn Brothers would have me believe that you are half a wildling yourself. Is it true?" – ADWD, Jon IV

Mully cleared his throat. "M'lord? The wildling princess, letting her go, the men may say—"

"—that I am half a wildling myself, a turncloak who means to sell the realm to our raiders, cannibals, and giants." Jon did not need to stare into a fire to know what was being said of him. The worst part was, they were not wrong, not wholly. "Words are wind, and the wind is always blowing at the Wall. Come." – ADWD, Jon VIII

"A wildling. A filthy, murdering wildling." Cregan's hands closed into fists. The gloves that covered them were leather, lined with fur to match the cloak that hung matted and stiff from his broad shoulders. His black wool surcoat was emblazoned with the white sunburst of his house. "I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first?" He laughed. "If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood."

"My name is Snow." – ADWD, Jon X

I am not the trusting fool you take me for...nor am I half wildling, no matter what you believe. – ADWD, Jon XI

If Stark blood is also essentially wildling blood, and Jon is half Stark on his mother's side...that would make him "Halfwild" in blood as well as in spirit. And like you said, Targon feels very close to Targaryen/Targ-Jon. So this name is there solely as a hint towards Jon's true parentage — half Targaryen and half Stark. But I think you could argue that the "Halfwild" element could allude to Jon's post-resurrection state as well. I do personally like the idea of Feral Jon™.

Ser Roland & Ser Wallace Waynwood

Like the Royces, and Dolorous Edd, the Waynwoods also bear some notable Stark physical traits, as noted by Myranda in this chapter:

“The first Lady Waynwood must have been a mare, I think. How else to explain why all the Waynwood men are horse-faced? [...]"

As we know, looking horse-faced, or in Edd's case, mule-faced, indicates a rather long visage:

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. – AGOT, Arya I

[Arya] even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. – AGOT, Sansa I

Interestingly though, Jon is never referred to as being called horse-faced, although we know he has a long Stark face. You'd think that Chett, in the ASOS Prologue would have made that kind of dig, since he says as much about Dolorous Edd? This is why I tentatively believe that, although long-faced, Jon isn't as apparently "homely" as these Stark looking Waynwood brothers:

Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought.

That being said, I don't think he's as "handsome" as Ser Waymar Royce, or "beautiful" like Ser Byron. But obviously, he's got something going for him because as GRRM says "all the girls love" him, and you know, he's got a good bod probably and if the Giant's Lance cake is anything to go by, as well as all Tormund's small penis jokes...um, well, maybe he's packing, I don't know! (Don't look at me like that guys...it's GRRM not me!)

But anyway! Like you said, Ser Wallace Waynwood is even of an age with Robb, and therefore also Jon:

Robb would be his age, if he were still alive, she could not help but think, but Robb died a king, and this is just a boy.

There is also a teeny bit of Stark blood, though obviously potent stuff, in the mix with those Waynwoods:

"No," Catelyn agreed. "You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son." She considered a moment. "Your father's father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest...it might have been a Templeton, but..."

"Mother." There was a sharpness in Robb's tone. "You forget. My father had four sons." – ASOS, Catelyn V

Shit — "all of whom wed Vale lordlings" — that's probably where all these Stark looking mother fudgers are coming from. So, all in all, I think there's some strong parallels.

And finally...Ser Harrold Hardyng

But let's not forget this bitch.

And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. “Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?”

She considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

Prior to Harry, who notably fits into the Ashford pattern of Sansa's suitors, we have all these Jon stand-ins, or references to Jon. We can actually separate them out into their different functions, though there is some overlap with Andrew Tollett:

Those who reference Jon's Starkness/the Stark Look™:

Andrew Tollett

Albar Royce

Roland Waynwood

Wallace Waynwood

Those who reference his position/location at the Night's Watch:

Because in the Alayne chapter prior to this one, Sansa learns that Jon has been made Lord Commander:

[..] Oh, and the Night’s Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark’s.” “Jon Snow?” she blurted out, surprised. “Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose.” – AFFC, Alayne II

So, it is interesting that you then have a number of dance partners connected to members of the Watch:

Ben Coldwater

Andrew Tollett

Morgarth the Merry

Uther Shett

This could be read as foreshadowing for Sansa's future journey north, and specifically to the Wall, where she believes Jon to be.

Those who reference his true/uncertain parentage:

Byron the Beautiful

Shadrich the Mad Mouse

The Three Sunderlands

Targon the Halfwild

All these guys get a dance, but when Harry asks? He is denied. It is only after some A+ dragging by Alayne, and begging by Harry that the latter gets his dance. Yet don't be fooled into thinking this is a win for Harrold:

"Should we ever wed, you'll have to send Saffron back to her father. I’ll be all the spice you’ll want."

He grinned. "I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?"

"You may not. It is promised to… another." She was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

First off, we have this reminder of the betrothal, but there is a lack of certainty there — "should we wed" — and I would argue that's because...they ain't gonna. Remember all that wedding breakfast imagery, including an umcomfortably phallic lemon (wedding) cake, gift-giving and nod to a bridal cloak? Remember how that was followed by several dances with Jon stand-ins?

"[...] It is promised to… another."

Oh, I wonder who that could be? Honestly...GRRM has very clearly, for those who care to really look, stated someone else's claim here, and it ain't Harry's. In fact, it is the very same person who also evokes Valarr Targaryen in the Ashford pattern.

...it's our boi, Jon Snow.

“Jon Snow?” she blurted out, surprised.

“Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose.” – AFFC, Alayne II

You "suppose", Myranda? Honey, I'm certain.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #cappy's thoughts #Alayne I Winds #i'm actually so chuffed with myself on the morgarth = more garth #thanks for this ask!#jonsa supremacy honestly

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amazingphanisnotonfire-imagines · 4 years ago

Text

Archie//happily ever after

Request: Archie Andrews imagine where the reader is pregnant and dodger targets the pregnant reader and you can add whatever else you want but a fluffy ending and then skip to the birth

hey! first, trigger warning: threats/stalking (ikr, what a way to spend valentines day) other than that, i hope you like this!! i really wasn’t sure what to do with it but i think i figured it out! enjoy!

“Archie, really I’m fine.” The last step creaks beneath your feet, the sound alerting your mom to your presence. She looks up from the book she’s reading and sends you a small wave and half a smile before going straight back into reading it.

It’s one of those that you always find donated somewhere, with the really weird cover of a poorly drawn woman clinging onto a half naked man. This time she’s branched out and is reading about a werwolf falling in love with a human, but it’s still got the same amount of R-rated smut in that makes you shiver every time you think of her reading it.

You’ve told her that if she wants to read about stuff like that, she’s better off going on the internet, but computers are a gateway to viruses and hacking so she doesn’t touch the computer thats years older than you, sat in the spare room.

Your dad is stood over the stove, stirring something in a pot that makes you feel sick and hungry at the same time and you’re not sure if you want to throw up or eat all of it.

You peer over his shoulder, and he looks back at you with a smile before lifting the spoon out and offering it to you. Your eyes light up as you taste it and give him a silent thumbs up while Archie rambles about nothing on the other side of the phone.

“Seriously I’m okay.” You say again, but he’s not listening and if it weren’t for the bump attached to your stomach that makes it more and more difficult to walk, you’d be over there in five minutes to kick his ass. “You don’t have to come over.” You roll your eyes at him.

Ever since you got pregnant and he lost his dad, he’s been obsessively worrying about your safety. And it was sweet at first, he was looking out for you and his baby, but now, you’re worried that if he keeps up with this level of anxiety, he’s going to break.

“Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You interrupt him and for a change he actually shuts up. “Byeee. We love you.” You add and hang up quickly.

“Was that Archie?” Your dad asks and you let out a small huff. “I see it’s still all rainbows and hearts with you two.” He teases and you narrow your eyes at him.

“He’s just worried about us.” You reply and point down to your rounded stomach, currently being hidden by the oversized t-shirt you stole from Archie. “Too worried if you ask me.” You mumble and shuffle over to the fridge.

“Hey!” Your dad smacks your hand with the towel resting over his shoulder. “No snacking, dinner is almost finished!”

“I’m eating for two dad. I could eat the entire contents of the fridge and dinner and still be hungry.” You reply and he grumbles quietly to himself while plating the food up.

“You know, I was just like Archie when your mom was pregnant with you.” He says and you place the jar of pickles back in the fridge. “Maybe a little less, but then again me and your mother did live togeth-”

“Dad.”

“Sorry. All I’m saying is that it’s natural for him to be anxious. I mean, it’s your first kid and a lot has happened to the two of you. He’s bound to be a little more nervous than most. But it’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s an annoying thing.” You reply and he rolls his eyes.

“What’s an annoying thing, dear?” Your mom asks as she shuffles past you and opens the fridge.

“Do you people not see the food that is literally on plates waiting to be eating?” Your dad throws his hands up and you and your mom share a look.

“We do dear.” Your mom cups his cheek and smiles up at him sweetly. “It’s just we don’t want to eat it.” She adds making you laugh loudly.

“Archie is an annoying thing.” You giggle while your dad glares at the two of you.

“All men are dear.” She replies and pats your shoulder sympathetically. “Here you go.” She hands you an envelope and you look at her confused. It’s blank, apart from your name in bold black letters and a small x near the bottom. “It was pushed through the front door just before I came in here to see what abomination your father had created today.”

“The only abomination I created was her, and you helped.” He says and grabs her waist, pulling her into his chest and the two of them giggle.

“Hey! And ew.” You pull a face and rip the letter open. Your eyes scan the same clunky writing and suddenly you feel your blood run cold. You drop the letter and rush towards the window, frantically pulling the blinds up.

“What is it?” Your mom joins you, her eyebrows knitted in confusion as she watches you move frantically.

‘roses are red, violets are blue, you can’t see me but i can see you’

Your dad reads aloud, his voice trailing off near the end and slowly he looks back at you.

The kitchen suddenly seems a lot darker than it was a minute earlier. The light flickers and bushes rustle outside, making you shuffle further towards your mom and suddenly you wish Archie had come over.

“What?” Your mom laughs. “Who would send something like that?” She shifts uncomfortably and wraps her arms around her. “Y/n, is this one of your friends playing a prank?”

“No.” You shake your head. “I don’t know who it is.”

“Well they know you.” She replies.

“Audrey.” Your dad says lowly and she shuts up.

The front bell ringing makes the three of you jump, and before either of your parents have a chance to do anything, you’re already stomping your way towards the door. They follow you quickly, both of them shouting for you to leave it but you’ve never listened to them before so why should you now.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath before swinging the front door open.

The only thing that greets you is the flowers and ornaments that line the porch and you let out a shaky breath, but then you see it and it feels like you can’t breath again.

“Oh. Isn’t that nice?” You say sarcastically. Your mom and dad look at each other and then at you, confusion turning into fear when they notice the picture pinned to the front door.

Your smiling face stares back at the three of you, with scratched out eyes and red paint splattered over it.

“Y/n, Audrey, go inside.” Your dad ushers the two of you back in before snatching the paper and slamming the door shut.

You watch your dad storm into the kitchen to grab the not so secret lighter from your mom’s not so secret smoking stash. Your mom follows and the two of them stand in front of the sink as your defaced picture burns.

You sigh and pull your phone out, already knowing that this is not going to end well.

“Hey Archie.” You start slowly and you can already hear his heart rate rising with each second that passes. “You might want to come over.”

---

A rattle at your bedroom window has you awake and sat upright within seconds. You watch the shadow of a figure contort and move across your bedroom walls and you know you should run and scream and cry, but you can’t. Your frozen still in your bed with nothing but a lamp and a duvet cover to protect you.

A silent sob escapes your lips and you slowly push the blanket off of you, your legs shaking as your feet touch the soft rug by your bed. The wood rattles and you feel the breath leave your lungs and a scream forces its way out of your throat.

Whoever had sent you that letter, whoever had been watching and following and mailing you pictures of you and your parents doing mundane things like mow the lawn and water plants, they’ve finally decided that tonight is the night.

Tonight the Y/l/n’s become the newest family to be added on to the growing list of Riverdale’s murder victims.

Honestly you thought you’d have a little more time, you seem to have escaped death before when investigating the going’s on in town. So you assumed this would just be another thing that gets solved.

But after four days of Archie and your friends working tirelessly to try and figure out who wants you dead...nothing. And so as you make eye contact with the person or thing that has come to murder you...hopefully in a fast manner, you know this is the end.

But then the window opens and you see a flash of ginger hair sticking out of a black hoodie and you drop back down onto your bed, ragged breaths leaving your lips.

“It’s okay.” Archie shushes and rushes towards you. “It’s fine. It’s just me.” He reassures you and pulls you into a tight hug.

“You idiot.” You smack his chest and he coughs at the force. “I thought you were it! I thought you were going to murder me, you’re a fucking idiot.” You smack his arm with each word. “Idiot.” You finish and he waits a minute before deciding to speak.

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “It’s just it’s late and I didn’t think anybody would answer the door.”

“So you decide to climb through the window?” You ask and he shrugs, kicking his shoes off and throwing his jacket over your desk chair.

“Hey, I used to do it all the time.” He replies and climbs into your bed.

“Yeah, I remember.” You reply and shuffle in next to him. He props his head on his arm and shifts onto his side so he can look at you properly. “What happened to you?” You ask and stroke his cheek gently. “Why do you look like you’ve just come from a fight.” You add and follow the bruises and dried blood covering his face.

“Because.” He mumbles and looks down.

“Because?”

“Because I have.” He replies and your jaw drops.

“Archie, you’re gonna be a dad. You can’t go around fighting people because they’ve stolen from Pop’s or threatened your friends.”

“I know.” He nods and drops onto his back. “I did it because of you.”

“What?”

“I know who sent you that note. It was Dodger.”

Of course it was Dodger. He’d been nothing but a pain in Archie’s ass since he turned up and started involving kids in drugs. Of course, Archie being Archie tried his best to get the kids out of it and Dodger away from Riverdale. However this place being the way it is, nothing is ever that easy, and now you’ve landed yourself a stalker.

“Him?” You ask surprised. “What the hell did I do to him?”

“Date me.” He shrugs and you glance at him.

“And he wants to do that?” You ask and wiggle your eyebrows making him laugh. “Now I understand the whole creepy poetry theme.” You say and glance at the small pile of threats sitting on your desk.

You’ve had one every single day for the past four days, meaning you’re under 24 hour surveillance by your mom, dad and Archie.

“No, he wants to kill me, so I guess he thought he’d go after you.” He replies and you huff loudly.

“Well that’s just plain rude. It’s you he’s got the problem with, not me.”

“I know.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I tracked him down and told him to leave you alone.”

“And did that work?” You ask and he sends you a look.

“Does it look like it worked?” He points to his bruised eye and you shrug.

Silence fills your small room and you stare up at the ceiling, hoping that it’ll tell you the right thing to say.

“Archie?” You ask and he hums in reply. “You know I love you right? Like more than anything ever?” He nods and you take a deep breath. “You know that me and this baby are going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen. I know you’re under a lot of stress and I know you’re really worried, but beating people up isn’t going to fix everything, no matter how much they deserve it. Maybe you should talk to your mom or something.” You whisper and he sighs.

You feel his hand against your skin, his touch light and soft as his fingers run up your arm, until he rests them against your stomach. You rest your own hand on top of his and let out a shaky breath.

“It will be okay.” You say, although right now you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince. Because having a baby is terrifying anyway, but it’s even scarier at 18 in a town that’s most famous for murder. It feels like every year there’s something new that you, Archie and your friends barely get out of alive.

It’s hard keeping yourself safe when the baby is safe inside you, but what happens when they’re born and it become more difficult to keep them safe.

“Y/n. Listen to me.” He starts, picking up on your panicked breathing.

“I promised you I would keep you safe. And I plan on keeping that promise. Nobody is ever going to hurt you or our baby.”

---

It’s been a long and stressful journey, and there were parts of it that thought you wouldn’t make it.

But finally you’re here.

The hospital smells like machines and hand sanitiser, and the four blue walls feel like they’ve paled in the time you’ve been stuck between them.

Archie thought he’d never be able to step foot in a hospital ever again, not after everything that has happened, and not without his father. But then your waters broke in the middle of Pop’s and all of his fears were forgotten.

Everything after arriving at the hospital seemed to pass him in a blur. He was sure five minutes ago he was helping you through the front doors of Riverdale General Hospital, rambling incoherently about you and the baby and how you need help, and the next he’s stood beside you, letting you break his hand and watching nurses and midwives rush around you.

Your scream forces him out of the daydream he’s in, and then it’s not you’re scream he can here anymore. High pitched wails are heard throughout the whole room and he lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Well done babe.” He whispers and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Your let out a tired chuckle and drop your head back onto the pillow.

“I did it!” You whisper, and a few stray tears roll down your cheeks. Archie grabs a tissue to wipe them off, before pressing a gentle kiss to your nose.

“I’m so proud of you.” He smiles and kisses you again. Your eyes flutter closed, but a loud cry makes you sit up a little straighter, despite the pain you feel.

“Y/n. Archie. Meet your son.” A grey haired woman grins as she hands you your son. His small fists kick away the blanket wrapped around him and you both let out a small giggle as you watch his face scrunch up into a yawn.

“Our son?” Archie asks and runs a hand over his cheek. “Do you think he’ll be ginger?” He asks and you look up at him. He’s already staring back at you, and there’s a look in his eyes that is reserved only for you. It’s so full of love and awe and it makes you feel more loved that you ever have before.

“I really, really hope so.” You smile and kiss him slowly. A small noise forces you to pull away and the two of you stare down at your newborn son. “Have you got any ideas for names?”

“Archie Junior!” Archie replies and you send him a look.

“I have not spent the last 9 hours in labor for you to call our baby Archie Junior.” You say making him huff and mumble a small ‘fine’. “What about Freddie?” You ask and he looks at you quickly.

“Really?” He asks, his eyes watery and you smile sadly.

“Of course.” You nod. “Freddie Archibald Andrews. Named after the kindest, sweetest and bravest men I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”

✨tagged ✨

@moxleybabe

#archie #archie imagine #archie x reader #archie x you #archie x y/n #archie andrews #archie andrews imagine #archie andrews x reader #riverdale #riverdale imagine

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bookshelf-in-progress · 3 years ago

Text

Beneath the Surface: A Retelling of “The Frog Prince”

If I’d had any choice, I never would have taken the underground train. I had accompanied Roger to a political summit in the city of Roshen, but spouses leave after the opening speeches, and since I couldn’t leave Roger without the hovercar, I had to use public transportation. The train--built by the natives decades before humanity absorbed Arateph into the Interplanetary Coalition--was a horrible excuse for technology. It rattled me to my destination, jolted me into an underground station, and left me so shaken that I could feel my bones clattering as I climbed up the stairs to the street.

The crowd surged around me as I emerged onto the sidewalk. There were far too many tephans. You know what Arateph’s natives look like—almost like humans, but it’s an unsettling almost. Their eyes just slightly too high on their heads, their ears just slightly too far back, and hands (ugh) split into only three fingers and a thumb. Like a person shaped by a sculptor with a hazy memory of how humans look. I can take them in small doses, but in groups? My skin was crawling. I powered through the crowd as quickly as possible and tried not to let any of them touch me.

I sped several blocks away from the train station before I realized I was nowhere near my hotel. The buildings in this neighborhood were old, made of crumbling stone bricks that had been stacked by physical labor rather than printed by machine. Half the windows were made of colored glass, and half of those were broken. Garbage rustled in the gutters, holes marred the concrete sidewalks, and all the signs were written in an unfamiliar alphabet. I was, somehow, lost in a tephan neighborhood. And not a nice one.

I turned in circles, trying to figure out which way I’d come. Tephans watched me from storefronts and doorsteps and alleyways, and I kept walking to prevent them from figuring out just how lost I was. I was Priscilla Overton, wife of a Coalition finance minister, pillar of this planet’s elite—and human. Some groups violently opposed human rule, and tephan attacks against humans were on the rise. Who knew what these savages would do if they knew how helpless I was?

I rushed through narrow, dark streets until I reached a wider thoroughfare--a residential area with slightly less grimy apartment buildings. Still not a nice neighborhood, but not a place where I suspected otherworldly rats would tear the flesh from my bones or criminals would murder me for my technology.

I pulled my datapad out of my purse to look for directions. Dead.

I unfolded my wristcomm and tried to call for help. No signal.

I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a frustrated scream. Why did these things happen to me?

I stormed further down the street, cursing Roger for ever bringing us to this planet. We’d been happy on Earth. Comfortable. Respected. With no chance of wandering into streets where aliens stared at you with their off-kilter eyes. The rewards we got for helping to civilize this backward planet weren’t nearly enough to make up for this torture.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a long, low yellow-brick building with dozens of small windows. The window boxes had flowers in them—fist-sized bundles of tiny red and gold petals. Not something you’d find on Earth, but...nice. Nice enough to pull me down from my fury and make me think I could give my wristcomm another try.

I powered down the wristcomm and stood next to a pink metal lamp post (Arateph has strange color trends) while I waited for it to restart. A metal grate was below my feet. These primitives still used storm drains! I shouldn’t have been surprised, since the road clearly wasn’t made of Draincrete, but it was still jarring. Living on Arateph was a strange combination of living on another world and living in the backward past.

My wristcomm buzzed, still powering up. I was ready to explode with anxiety. There were tephans straggling by—not many of them, but too many and too poorly dressed for my taste. To calm myself, I played with my wedding ring—a gold band with a spray of amethysts and pearls. The ring had been in Roger’s family for centuries. Some days, it felt like my last tie to a familiar world.

I kept my life on Arateph as Earth-like as possible, but it could never be the same as living on Earth. Alien things always lingered at the edges. Trees that turned purple in autumn instead of familiar orange. Toothy red-and-purple-feathered birds that rooted through the trash and woke me with their awful screeching. And around every corner, people who looked like grotesque parodies of my own kind. An entire world conspiring to make me constantly aware of how far I was from home.

My sisters were going about their own lives on Earth, and the few times we could afford appointments at synced comms stations, we found little to talk about--we literally came from different worlds. If Roger and I ever had children--doubtful but possible at our age--our families would only know them as data-images.

This was why I hated being alone on this wretched planet. Gave me far too much time to think about these things.

My wristcomm chimed—finally awake. I unfolded the screen and attempted to bring up my list of contact codes. I found Roger’s; he’d be in the middle of a meeting, but I couldn’t help that. I pressed the code and waited.

A discordant note sounded. No signal. I threw down my hand in frustration. My ring flew down with it. The golden band slipped off my finger, tumbled toward the ground, bounced off the edges of the grate, and fell into the drain.

I gasped in horror and fell to my knees. It couldn’t be, not now.

The ring sparkled in the sunlight, caught on a lip where the structure of the drain met the tube of the deeper pipe. I put my purse on the ground and slid my arm through the grate, but my arm got stuck just above the elbow. The ring was still a foot beyond my reach.

I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. After the day I’d had—lost among tephans, fighting faulty technology, no hope of help from people who looked like me—this was the last straw. This planet had taken me from my home, my family, my friends, everything familiar, and now it was taking my one reminder of it all. Anybody would have cried.

Long before I felt any relief, a harsh voice broke through my sobs. “Are you finished yet?”

I looked up, furious at whoever was rude enough to interrupt my misery.

A tephan girl sat in the stairwell of the long yellow-brick building next to the gutter. I yelped and reeled back, tears still flowing. Have you ever seen a tephan child? They’re ten times worse than the adults; all their slightly-wrong features stretched even further out of shape, their eyes big and bulging in their heads. This girl was gangly. Her skinny limbs dangled out of baggy green clothes, and a wild brown bush of curls frizzed around her face and over her eyes. By human standards, I’d have judged her to be about twelve years old (though I have no idea if these creatures age like humans). By any race’s standards, she looked positively feral.

I couldn’t believe the creature had spoken to me. “Did you say something?” I asked.

She held up a thick book, bound human-style but with blocky tephan letters on the cover. “Can you cry somewhere else? I’m trying to read.”

She spoke Anglese with only a lightly slurring tephan accent. Somehow, this child spoke the Coalition’s language better than most of the tephan diplomats at Roger’s interminable meetings.

In my shock, I blurted, “How do you know Anglese?”

The creature rolled her eyes. “I go to school. With humans and everything.”

Roger hadn’t been in favor of the integration policy, but it apparently had some benefits. Or would have, had I any interest in talking to the child. Before I could decide if I wanted to reply, I glimpsed the ring again and burst into another involuntary round of tears.

The girl closed her book with a sigh. “What are you crying about anyway?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was crying because of her terrible, technologically backward planet and all its inhabitants, but I had to talk to someone and it was so good to hear human words, even from an alien’s throat. I pointed to the drain. “My ring,” I gasped. “It fell...”

She picked up her book, scrambled down the stairs, and peered in the drain. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’re making that much noise over that?”

I drew back my shoulders and snapped, “It’s an irreplaceable heirloom! Centuries of human history! You can’t get those stones anywhere but Earth!”

“Then you should have been more careful with it.”

That made me want to scream, but before I could gather enough breath, the child gathered the book to her chest and turned away. “Can you at least try to keep it down?”

As the girl sat on the building’s stone stairs, the wind tore a scrap of paper out of her book and sent it fluttering. She reached up and snatched it out of the air. My gaze fell on the girl’s arms—long, lanky things that were thinner than human arms. With four-fingered hands that could easily slip between the bars of the grate.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Little tephan girl! What’s your name?”

The girl cast me a dark, distrustful expression, but she finally intoned, “Tanza.”

Not bad, as far as tephan names went. I could pronounce this one. “Tanza,” I said, “Do you think you could reach it?”

The girl shifted her hand behind her back, her face becoming a hard mask. “What do you mean?”

I pointed to her, rambling in my excitement. “Your arms are thinner than mine. Just as long. You could probably reach...”

Her brow furrowed. “You want me to dig in a sewer?”

“Not a sewer,” I said. “A storm drain.”

“Still dirty.” She looked at the storm drain with narrowed eyes.“If I get it for you, will you go away?”

I wanted nothing more. “Immediately.”

"What'll you pay me for it?"

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. "What? Who said I'd pay you?"

The child pointed one long finger at the storm drain. “If I get dirty digging in there, it’ll be my tenth laundry demerit and I don’t get supper. I’m not doing it for nothing!”

The building behind her held one of the few signs I’d seen with Anglese translations beneath the tephan words: Alogath Charity Home for Unwanted Children. I could see why this child was unwanted.

“I don’t carry cash,” I told her.

“Do you have a credit stick?”

I put a protective arm over my purse. “It’ll be deactivated the moment you touch it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need the whole stick. Just buy me something with it.”

A truck—a noisy, clanking tephan thing that actually rolled on the ground—roared past us. The glimmer on the ring shifted closer to the drain pipe. If I didn’t act fast…

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“A lot of things.” Her eyes went blank as she stared at imaginings only she could see. Finally, she declared, “A meal at the High Palace.”

She really said that! As if it were a reasonable request! I don’t know how this urchin even knew about human restaurants, much less the finest of fine dining establishments.

“That’s ridiculous!”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I lose a meal, you buy me a replacement. That’s fair.”

“Do you know how much a High Palace meal costs?”

“A lot less than it’ll cost you to replace that ring.”

I growled in frustration. The child had me backed into a corner and she knew it. I shuddered at the thought of taking this…thing into the sparkling society of a High Palace dining room.

I pointed a fierce finger at the child. “Only if you give me the ring immediately. Understand? There’s not a place on the planet a creature like you could sell it without suspicion.”

“I don’t want your ring. I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. And you’ll live up to yours, or that ring’s staying where it is.”

Of course I couldn’t really take her to the High Palace, but one more street-rattling truck could take the ring forever out of anyone’s reach. I’d have agreed if she’d asked for a hovercar.

“Fine!” I shouted. “I’ll buy you the meal. Just save my ring!”

The child placed her book on a clean patch of sidewalk and returned to the edge of the street. I snatched up my purse and stepped aside while the girl laid face down in the gutter. She slid her arm through the grate, all the way up to the shoulder. I held my breath for an eternal moment and didn’t release it until the girl emerged with a ring of gold and amethyst in her hands.

The ring sparkled merrily at me, grimy but whole. I snatched it from Tanza's hands and tucked it into an inner pocket of my gray blazer. I wouldn’t wear it again without resizing it—and not until I was in a neighborhood where I didn’t have to worry about it being stolen from my finger.

The child picked up her book and looked at me expectantly. Demandingly.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted. She was a complete stranger. I’d made the promise under duress. Not a court in the universe would hold me to it. What right did a tephan child have to make such ridiculous demands of a woman of my stature?

“Thank you,” I said. “You did a very good thing.” Then I sped down the street.

The creature was right at my heels. “The High Palace is the other way.”

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I walked faster.

She yanked at my arm. “You promised me a meal!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t get you into the High Palace.”

“A human lady dressed like you? You could get me in if you wanted to.”

I yanked my arm away from her. “What a pity I don’t want to.”

She gave a feral yowl. I started sprinting—or as near as I could manage in the heels I was wearing. The girl kept pace with me. I was a foot taller than her; why couldn’t I outrun her? Could I lose her in her own streets when I was lost myself?

Just when I thought I’d never be able to escape, I rounded a corner and saw the green-and-silver uniform of a Coalition policeman. My heart soared as I raced toward him. Help, protection, guidance, all only a few steps away. Something wonderfully human in this alien world.

“Officer!” I shouted to his retreating back. “Please, I need help!”

The officer stopped and raised a hand. A four-fingered hand. When he turned around, his face had the skewed proportions of a tephan face.

I nearly screamed. I’d stumbled into a nightmare.

The officer said, with the crisp diction of a tephan overcompensating for an accent, “Have you a problem, morik—madam?”

I’d heard that a few tephans had been admitted into the police forces, but I’d never thought I’d meet one. This tephan was young. Wiry and blond. Almost insignificant-looking if it weren’t for the uniform and the stolen sense of authority. Would he help a human?

Tephan or not, he had an obligation to assist the public. “Officer,” I gasped. “I need directions to the nearest train station. I’m trying to get home and this child is harassing me.”

The girl stormed up to him and shrieked, “She’s a liar!”

She shouted a stream of gibberish, and it wasn’t until the officer responded with similar sounds that I realized they were speaking the tephan language. Flowing, musical vowels were interrupted by harsh consonants, like rocks in a river. The sounds sent chills down my spine that only grew fiercer as the officer’s expression grew darker.

When the girl finished, the officer looked at me, not like an innocent victim needing help, but like a criminal who needed hauling to one of their barbaric tephan jails. “You have wronged this girl.”

I lifted my chin. “She’s lying! I’ve done nothing to her!”

“She claims she rescued your ring in exchange for a meal at the High Palace, and you are attempting to break your word.”

“I owe her nothing!”

“Did you promise her a meal?”

I threw out my hands in frustration. “It’s not like we had a contract or anything!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your promise means nothing without a legal document?”

“She had no right to hold me to a promise. I was desperate!”

He put a brotherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And she was kind enough to help you.”

I scoffed. “For a heavy price.”

The child shouted, “It’s one meal!”

The officer examined my face carefully. “You are Priscilla Overton, are you not? The wife of the finance minister?”

My jaw dropped. I’m prominent enough in human circles, but I’d never dared to consider that my face was known among tephans. It terrified me, but I knew it could be my ticket out of this. “I am, and when my husband finds out about how I’ve been treated—”

“Your husband is not a popular man. Not among tephans.”

I had never cared about Roger's reputation among the tephans. These primitives didn’t know what was best for their planet. But that wasn’t something I could say when I was alone in a strange neighborhood with two of them.

The officer continued, “It will not help his reputation if his wife is known as a promise-breaker.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Are you threatening me?”

He leaned toward me and said in low tones, “I am helping you.” He gestured to the street around us. “Do you think I’m the only one who heard the girl’s story?”

I shuddered to see a handful of tephans staring at us from among the crumbling buildings.

The officer said, “The Coalition doesn’t care much for tephan opinion, but if there is enough outcry against one man, even a human representative can be released from his job.”

At first, the thought lifted my spirits. Sent home! To Earth! It was what I’d wanted from the moment we’d stepped foot on this planet. But sent home in disgrace? Roger would have no future in government after such a public failure. It would mean everything we suffered here would be for nothing.

I asked the officer, “You really think they’d protest? Just because I didn’t bow to a child’s ridiculous demands?”

“If a person can’t keep a promise made to a child, how can anything they say be trusted?” His tephan gaze raked over me, like he was dissecting my inner thoughts. “Your people may have different ideas, but tephans still value virtue.”

How dare he—this puffed-up primitive in a human position of power—accuse humanity of being inferior?

My opinion didn’t matter. These creatures thought it a matter of morality that I feed this ragged brat finer cuisine than their planet had ever produced, and nothing I could say would change their minds. Now it seems ridiculous to think that those tephans could ruin us, but in that moment, alone in those unfamiliar streets, seeing how these two strange aliens teamed up against me, I could believe their kind capable of anything.

I looked down at the child. Her big eyes. Her frizzy curls. Her long limbs clutching the book to her chest. The grimy, bog-green clothes that fell short of the wrists and ankles. The smug smirk of a spoiled child who knew she was about to get her way. I had never loathed anyone more in my life.

“Do you have a name?” I asked her. “I’ll need a full name for the restaurant register.”

“I told you,” she said, as though she’d expected me to remember. “It’s Tanza.”

“What’s the rest of your name?” Most tephans I’d met had at least three or four names and were obnoxiously eager to explain them.

The girl's face darkened like I’d offended her. “Just Tanza.”

The officer looked at her with new pity, and even I understood why. You know how important names are to tephans. One name was a badge of dishonor--forever marking her as a child who’d never been claimed by any family, who’d never been given anything beyond the minimum necessary label. Tanza would have felt the shame of that, and I wasn’t quite so surprised that she’d turned into such an irritating little brat.

But I had no room for pity. “Do you have anything better to wear?”

She tugged at the cuffs, trying to stretch them over her arms. “Just more green. And all in the wash. Laundry demerits."

The officer said, "It'll do." He knelt in front of the girl, then looked at me and held out a hand. "I'll bet a fine lady like you carries all kinds of cleaning tools."

I sighed and handed him the nanocleanser from my purse. I showed him the power button, then he waved the metal wand over the stains on Tanza’s clothes. After a few seconds, the stains evaporated and the dirt from the gutter fell away as dry sand.

“Good as new,” the officer said, while Tanza gaped at her freshly-cleaned clothes. These primitives were astounded by the simplest things.

The child brushed through her wild curls with her fingers, swept them back over her shoulders, then stood with her hands at her side and feet apart, as if presenting herself for inspection.

I sighed. “I guess it’s as good as we’ll get. Let’s get this over with.”

Tanza tucked her book beneath her arm and her eyes sparkled with victory.

I looked balefully at the tome. “The book’s coming with?”

“Well, I can’t leave it here.”

I considered insisting that she take it back to the home, but I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Bring the book.”

I was seriously planning on entering the dining room of the High Palace with an alien who thought the proper attire included a set of green work clothes and a giant book. I had gone insane.

The officer stepped aside and gestured for both of us to walk past him. “I’ll escort you there.”

And there went my last hope of escape.

The officer escorted us through winding streets, side alleys and dried up canals until we finally crossed a bridge into a civilized portion of the city with human-designed buildings. One sprawling building of white stone-print bore a black sign with elegant script that proclaimed it The High Palace.

As we approached the building, Tanza suddenly skittered across my path. I almost tripped over her feet.

I glared at her as she fell into step on my right side. “What are you doing?”

She glanced warily to the street corner. “Kids from school.”

I glanced back and saw a pre-teen human boy with short black hair and immaculate clothing. He leaned against the corner of a building while he spoke with a handful of human friends. Well-groomed, friendly, human—why couldn’t that child have rescued my ring? I’d have been glad to take him as a guest to the High Palace.

As I engaged in fruitless wishes, the human children disappeared, and I arrived with my tephan escorts at the entrance doors of the High Palace. Wide glass windows showed a sparkling three-dimensional display of Old Paris in springtime. Tanza studied the images of bakeries and floral shops and fluttering Earth songbirds, as if attempting to dissect the technology. The few people passing by looked askance at the tephan pair with me.

Tanza asked, “Are we going in?”

I looked back at the officer. He just smiled at me and waved us toward the door.

I took a deep breath, put a hand behind the girl’s shoulders and pushed her inside.

The interior was a vision of white and cream: pale artwork on the walls, a glass fountain trickling crystal-clear water, rugs in intricate shades of vanilla, beige and ivory upon white marble floors.

The street sounds disappeared when the door closed behind us. No foot traffic, no rumbling vehicles, no screeching of alien animals. Just the hush of quiet voices, the gentle strings of a European symphony and the trickle of the fountain. It was like we'd stepped into a different world. My world. Except for the alien next to me.

The host standing guard at the dining room entrance stared at Tanza, then looked at me with the horrified compassion of someone trying to tell you there’s a wasp on your shoulder. “Madam, are you aware…?”

The only way to get through this with any dignity was to brazen my way through it. “I’d like a table, please. Two seats. For Priscilla Overton and guest.”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “Your guest? You mean she—?”

“Is my guest. Is that a problem?”

He stared as if incredulous that I didn’t know the problem. I didn’t even blink.

Finally, he put a stylus to his datapad. “Does this guest have a name?”

The girl stood as straight and dignified as I did. “Tanza.”

He poised his stylus over the datapad. “Anythin—”

“Just Tanza.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he set his stylus aside. “Two seats for Priscilla Overton and…Tanza.”

The host led us into a blindingly beautiful dining room. A full wall of windows overlooked a river that glittered in the afternoon sun. The other walls were meshed with holonet that made the room look like a small nook in a formal European garden, with the tables and chairs surrounded by roses, tulips, lilies, and a thousand other flowers whose names I’d forgotten in my years away from Earth. Real potted plants scattered among the tables added to the reality of the image and the string quartet played some of the finest music from Earth's history. The room was a bastion of civilization in this barbaric world. A taste of home. It was more filling than any food could be.

The host led us to windowside tables with an excellent view of the river. My heart lifted. Prime seating—a sign of my place on this planet, which not even a tephan could take away. And it was flanked by two potted gardenia plants that would screen my guest from the handful of other diners.

I took the right-hand seat and motioned for Tanza to take the chair that sat closest to the shrub. Its branches brushed her as she sat down.

The host left us as a waiter handed us our menus. As Tanza sat down, she reached toward the branch above her head, plucked a single white gardenia blossom, shoved it in her mouth, and began to chew.

I froze in terror, then glanced at the waiter. Had he noticed?

If he had, he’d been well trained. He didn’t even stumble in his recitation of the day’s lunch specials.

“Would you like a few minutes to make a selection?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving him away before my guest could decide to take another nibble of the greenery.

He bowed and vanished toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, Tanza spit the flower into a gold-embroidered napkin and wiped her tongue on the far corner. While her mouth contorted in the most disturbing shape, those tephan eyes glared at me. “That’s not a spiceblossom bush.”

“No,” I said, my tone stretched with scorn. “It’s a gardenia. And the blossoms aren’t for eating.”

She wiped her tongue on another corner of the napkin. “Why do they put flowers by the table if you’re not supposed to eat them?”

“For decoration,” I hissed. “And if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, we’ll leave this restaurant, promise or no promise.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know all the fancy human rules of eating.”

Her sarcasm made my blood boil—until I saw her blush. She was prickly, yes, but unless I was very much mistaken, she was embarrassed. Now she was lost in an alien world, and I’d experienced that sensation too recently not to feel a little sorry for her.

But only a little. She had demanded this, after all, at great expense to me. Let her suffer the consequences.

“Rule one,” I said. “Don’t put anything in your mouth unless I tell you to.” I tugged her napkin out of her four-fingered hands before she could run it across her tongue again. “That includes napkins.”

With the napkin gone, Tanza's tongue was on full display in front of her chin as she kept the taste as far out of her mouth as possible. I don’t know if you know this, but tephan tongues can stretch further and thinner than human tongues, and this child made hers come almost to a point. I couldn’t look at that for the entire meal, but I couldn’t have the child destroying all the table linens either.

I waved over a waiter carrying a carafe of water, and I pointed him to our empty glasses. He leaned over our table and filled my glass almost to the brim. Then he turned and saw my guest—her pale skin, green clothes, those big eyes and that long, thin tephan tongue. He yelped, recoiled, dropped the carafe, and knocked over my glass. Water flooded the table and spilled onto my lap.

The child yelped, shouted something in her alien language and scrambled to pull her book out of the path of the water. An old man at the next table dropped his fork and stared at her. Fortunately, the few other diners in the room were too far away to see.

I hushed the child and found myself in the strange position of apologizing to the waiter while I was the one standing drenched. I didn’t know what reznat meant, but I was sure it wasn’t a nice thing for a tephan to say to her waiter.

“Could we...” I asked as I ran the nanocleanser over my clothes, “have another table?”

“C...certainly, madam,” he said, looking at Tanza as if waiting for her to pounce. I half-expected it myself, from the fierce way she curled around that book.

Once my clothes were dry, the waiter brought us to an empty table nearer the center of the room. No window view. No shielding plants. But it was further from the kitchen—where I was certain all the servers would be gossiping about us as soon as this klutz left us.

Once we were settled with new water glasses and dry menus, the server scurried away as if the girl were a poison frog. Tanza muttered alien words while she brushed water from the edges of her book, and gulped water until she got the taste of the flower out of her mouth. Then she glared at me and reverted back to Anglese. “He almost wrecked my book.”

After watching her lug that book around for an hour, my curiosity—and frustration—were mounting. “What’s that book about, anyway? And why are you willing to curse out waiters over it?”

“It’s a biography of Queen Marastel.” She set the book deliberately on the table, and looked around the room as if daring waiters to spill more water on it. “And it’s mine. I finally have a book of my own, and I don’t want it wrecked by an idiot with a water pitcher.”

The book was thick. What I’d seen of the print was small. It was not a children’s history book. I hadn’t expected this grimy alien child to be the biography type. Was there a developmental disorder that gave children irrational attachments to academic texts?

“Who is Queen Marastel?” I asked.

Tanza showed me the book’s cover. It had a picture of a young tephan woman—in her mid-twenties, to my human eyes—with a pale, narrow face, and deep eyes. The woman's dark hair was covered with an elaborate system of veils, and she wore a dress covered in so many white jewels and so much gray and white beadwork that I almost couldn’t see the ivory fabric underneath.

“Her,” Tanza said. “The last queen of Arateph.”

“Arateph had queens?” I asked in surprise. They hadn’t had queens when humanity had found them. It must have been part of their history.

I’d never thought of this planet as having a history. If I’d considered it at all, I suppose I’d assumed that they’d been muddling along the way we’d found them for the last few centuries, waiting for us to show up and drag them into modern civilization.

Tanza said, “The planet was ruled by a monarchy until about forty years before the Coalition showed up.”

“The whole planet?”

Tanza sat straighter and her diction became crisper—she looked like a little lecturer at one of those cultural symposiums that Roger and I always had to make appearances at. “After Kepha joined the other eleven kingdoms, the entire planet was united under the monarchy for three hundred and fifty-eight years.”

Not just a monarchy, but a planet-spanning monarchy. Such a thing hadn’t happened in all of human civilization, and these people had accomplished it when they were still on their home planet, believing themselves alone in the universe. I hadn’t thought such an archaic form of government could rule an entire continent without overextending itself, yet it had ruled their world for centuries. For the first time, I found myself wanting to learn something from the tephan people. How had such a government come about? How had they managed it?

Why did the woman on the cover look so sad?

I didn’t ask any of these questions because just then, a waiter appeared—not the water-spilling one, thank goodness. (I didn’t trust my guest to look at that one without throwing something at him.) This one was older, with crisp lines in his clothes and face. He looked like he could have won a staring contest with a statue—perfect unshakable professionalism.

“Are you ready to order, Madam Overton?” He didn’t even look at my guest.

Tanza’s eyes brightened as she picked up the menu, flipping through the pages to examine the options.

I asked her, “What you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had human food.”

My jaw fell. “You wanted to come here and you didn’t even know what you wanted to eat?”

She gave me a withering stare, as though I was the stupid one. “I wanted to try it.” She closed the menu. “Besides, you said I can only eat what you tell me to eat. So what am I allowed to eat, Priscilla?”

I picked up the menu and realized with horror that I didn’t know the answer. What could tephans eat? Were there foods that were delicacies to us and poison to them?

I asked the waiter, “Do you have any suggestions?” I doubted these people served many tephans, but food was their area of expertise, and we were on Arateph.

The waiter looked at Tanza for the first time. “I’ve heard that people of her...race...are rather fond of the amphibian.” He pointed to an entry on my appetizer list. “The frog legs are popular. And a specialty of the chef.”

I hadn’t eaten frog in years. But if I could choke it down for Roger’s political dinners, I could manage it to satisfy a petulant tephan child. “We’ll have that.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else?”

I didn’t want to give Tanza any more chances to upset the wait staff. “No. Just get us our food as soon as possible.”

As the waiter walked away with our menus, an afternoon crowd filled the dining room; within a few minutes, we went from being nearly alone to being surrounded by other diners. I could tell by the sideways glances that most of them noticed my tephan guest. And I could tell that Tanza noticed them. She sat silently at first, growing more and more tense as we all tried to ignore each other, but when a bald man at the next table stared at her for several long moments, she finally snapped.

“Can you stop it?” she barked at him. “You’re giving me the shivers.” The man, red-faced, studied his menu as if his life depended on it.

Tanza turned back to the table, muttering, “You humans look so creepy when you stare.”

I was too stunned to scold her. I’d never considered that the distaste for the other race’s looks went both ways. If she’d lived her life in a mostly-tephan neighborhood, a human face would look just as slightly wrong to her as a tephan face did to me. It sounds strange, but the idea that she found us ugly made me like her more. It certainly made her more relatable.

But I couldn’t have her making a spectacle. “Please, don’t bother the other diners.”

She seemed ready to protest, but I spoke before she could argue. “That woman in your book. You said she was the last queen of Arateph. What happened?”

Her eyes lit up, rude diners forgotten, as she flipped open the book. “Revolution. The People’s House took over and had her and the king executed.”

I shivered. “So violent. And so young to die.”

Tanza gave me a confused look, then glanced at the cover and understood. “Oh, that’s from her first years as queen. She was almost seventy when she died.”

I pictured the woman on the cover with hair turned gray, but the same dark, sad eyes, facing an angry mob as they led her to the scaffold or the firing squad or however these people killed their leaders. It was brutal, but humanity had often been equally brutal, so I couldn’t dismiss it as their backward alien culture.

Tanza flipped through the pages. “They say she was weak and self-absorbed, but this book gives her more depth.” She looked at a page near the cover. “Verai’s a good scholar. Uses lots of primary sources. Very readable.”

Now that her interest was unleashed, Tanza talked on and on, taking me through an alien history, the tale of a queen beset by tragedy upon tragedy as she helped her husband rule a crumbling planet and struggled to produce an heir. All the scholars at those Coalition events were nowhere near as enthralling as this alien child sharing her favorite book.

As fascinating as the story was, I was even more entranced by the pictures—dozens were embedded through the text. Tanza condescended to turn the book around so I could see. It was grandeur like I’d never seen, buildings in alien colors and shapes and patterns, but bringing to mind the grandest palaces in human history, from Versailles to the Forbidden City to the red spires of the North Martian Emperor's summer home. The people in the pictures wore elaborate, brightly-colored clothes, and feasted upon vast tables full of unfamiliar food—including blossoms from the potted trees next to the tables. No primitive civilization could have created such a culture. No wonder this alien urchin was enthralled, and no wonder she’d seized the chance to attend the closest modern equivalent to such feasts that she knew of.

The return of the stone-faced waiter snapped me back to reality. He planted himself next to the table, passing blank-faced judgement by how thoroughly he didn’t look at the book or the way we bent over it. Face burning, I sat back in my chair and felt ashamed to be caught hanging upon an alien’s story like a dim-witted child.

Tanza swept the book under the table and sat primly as the waiters placed the food in front of us. First a gold charger, then the crystal plates bearing the food—ten frog legs, crisply fried in butter and lemon, dotted with parsley and surrounded by a handful of greens.

Half a dozen nearby heads surreptitiously craned in our direction.

The waiters set a similar platter in front of me, and after I’d arranged my napkin on my lap, I thanked the waiter, picked up the silverware, and began to cut the meat.

Tanza watched me carefully as the waiters left. She picked up her silverware, examined it closely—did tephans even have silverware?—and tried to imitate me, but when she touched the food, the prim little professor became the feral street child again. She still used the silverware, but that was her only concession to decency as she gobbled her foot, downing the frog legs almost whole. The butter sauce ringed her mouth and splattered on her clothing. She made the most inhuman snorting noises as she swallowed.

Now everyone was staring—the red-faced man at the next table, his three dining companions, the ten people sitting at the other nearby tables, the waiters who'd halted on their way to the kitchen. People murmured to their companions. Diners flagged down waiters and asked discreetly if there was something that could be done.

My face burned in embarrassment, but I couldn’t stop the girl. With all these eyes watching me—watching me, Priscilla Overton, entertaining an animal at the finest restaurant in Roshen—I couldn’t even speak. I wanted to sink into the carpet. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run from the restaurant, flee from this planet, and return to comfortable, civilized Earth. But mortification left me paralyzed. I just sat and did nothing as Tanza devoured her food and licked every last drop of sauce from the plate.

Finally, she dropped her plate back on the charger and leaned back with satisfaction. Her big tephan eyes were bright. “That was amazing.” She licked all eight of her fingers, so lost in the euphoria of her food that she was unaware of the horrified crowd surrounding us. She looked at my plate with confusion. “You’ve barely touched yours.”

I let my fork drop to the tablecloth. “I’m not very hungry.”

Her eyes brightened. “Can I have it?”

“No.”

She gave me a disapproving look. “You can’t waste food. At least try to eat it.”

After that display, I’d never be able to stomach another frog leg. “It doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Then I’ll eat it.” Before I could react, she leaned across the table, speared a frog leg with her fork, and was chewing it before she settled back in her chair.

I wanted to scream. I could have tried to correct her, but I had no idea where to begin, and by now, it was far too late.

The stone-faced waiter leaned over my shoulder. He was pale and his eyes were wide—apparently there were some things that could rattle him. “Madam, if you cannot eat your food here, we can send it home with you.”

He was offering me a doggy bag. The finest restaurant in the city, which usually recoiled in horror from such vulgar practices, was so desperate for me to leave that the staff were sending me home with leftovers. I was, in effect, being kicked out.

I didn’t even care. “Yes, thank you.”

In seconds, another waiter appeared, carrying a green box that had probably held some kind of produce in the kitchen, repurposed into this restaurant’s first take-home container. I sat in silence as they poured the frog legs into the container, then I handed them my credit stick, and when I examined the payment screen of their datapad, I added on a gratuity that cost twice as much as the food did. Perhaps with a tip like that, they’d let me show my face here again. At the moment, I doubted I’d ever want to.

I gathered my purse and stood. That creature gathered her ridiculous book and followed me, smiling, out of the dining room.

When we reached the lobby, I thrust the box into the child's hands. “Take it. I don’t want it.”

The girl's eyebrows rose. “You don’t? Are you sure? It’s really good.”

“I think it appeals more to tephan tastes.”

She thanked me as though I’d given her all the jewels that the queen on her book was wearing, then tucked the box under one arm and the book under the other.

I put a hand behind her shoulders and pushed her out the door. When we emerged onto the sunlit sidewalk, all my frustration exploded.

“There!” I snapped, giving her one last push beyond the awning of the restaurant. “You’ve had your meal. Take your food and go!”

She stumbled forward, then stared at me in bewilderment. “What set you off?”

My laugh was tinged with hysteria. “What set me off? Maybe I’m just a little peeved at being disgraced in front of some of the richest people in the city by a tephan who gobbles her food like an animal.”

She stood with her mouth open, struck speechless. Those big green eyes showed surprisingly human-looking hurt. “Was it that bad? I know I’m not fancy, but...”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice all those people staring.”

The creature turned red. She stammered, “I thought it was because I’m tephan. You told me not to bother them.”

I couldn’t bear to have that creature looking up at me with those big, sad eyes. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe in a few years they’ll let me dine there again.” I pushed her steadily but firmly away from the restaurant. “I have more than paid you in full. Thank you for saving my ring. Goodbye.”

Still looking baffled, the girl trudged away from the restaurant. I walked in the other direction.

My anger started fading the moment the child was out of my line of sight. Each step away from the restaurant felt like a step back into a normal world. There were humans around me. I could read the signs. I even knew how to find my way to the train station. I’d be back at the hotel within the hour and I could pretend that this whole horrible afternoon had been a bad dream.

Light footsteps skittered behind me. A green-clad tephan child with a book and a box appeared to my left.

I yelped and reeled back. “What are you—?”

Tanza fell into step beside me. “I’m really very sorry for embarrassing you. I need to make it up to you. Let me show you the way to the train station—”

My previous anger felt like a candle flame compared to the volcano that those words set off within me. “Leave me alone!” I towered over her in my fury. “I gave you your meal! I fulfilled the promise! Now leave!” I stormed away, but at the first sound of footsteps behind me, I whirled around. “I swear, if you take another step toward me, I will see you arrested!”

The child’s face hardened into the petulant mask that I recognized from my first sight of her from the gutter. “Sorry for helping.”

“Helping,” I mocked. “Your help comes at too high a price.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I see through your plan. You think you can trail after me demanding handouts all day. Well, I have had enough.” I secured my purse over my shoulder like I was holstering a weapon. “Get out of here!”

Face white and lips tight with anger, Tanza bowed her head and turned away. I strode away in triumph.

An old man looked at me sideways, shaking his head. I made it to the end of the block before the guilt hit me. The old man had reason to disapprove. Tanza had made an offer of help, and I’d responded by screaming at her in a public street. Perhaps she had felt remorse. As embarrassing as it had been to be seen with a girl who ate like an animal, how much worse would it feel to be the one who’d done it? I thought of those pictures in that book of hers. Would I have fared any better at a tephan feast?

I turned around. “Tanza, wait—“

“Hey, Tanza!”

The voice, coming from the other end of the block, was louder, harsher, and younger than mine. A crowd of boys stampeded down the sidewalk—all humans, about twelve years old, and led by a boy with slick black hair and gray and white clothes in the latest crisply-cut fashions. The children Tanza had noticed when we’d first arrived at the restaurant.

Tanza—standing near where I’d left her—tried to move away from them, but hesitated when she saw me standing at the other end of the block. In seconds, the boys had her surrounded.

The ringleader prodded her shoulder. “Escaped from your cage, Tanza? What are you doing among civilized people?”

His yellow-haired friend poked at the box of frog legs. “Looks like she’s looting houses.”

Tanza yanked the box away. “I’m not a thief!”

The ringleader tugged at the book under her other arm. “That’s a big book. Still playing at being smart, small-brain?”

Tanza pulled it back. “Don’t touch that!”

One boy pried up her arm while two others slid the book away from her. “Ooh, it’s a small-brain book!” the ringleader said in mock delight. He flipped through the pages with dirt-stained fingers. “It’s even written in their pretend letters.”

Tanza snarled, “Give that back!”

He slammed it shut and pulled it toward his chest. “Why? Scared it’s too complicated for me?”

“It’s mine!”

He looked at it thoughtfully. “Is it, though? I don’t think a charity case like you can afford a big book like this.”

“It’s mine!” she repeated, nearly shrieking now. “Teacher gave it to me!”

“Bet she stole it,” said a voice from the crowd. “She’s just a grubby little nameless charity house thief.”

Tanza, driven past the breaking point as the ringleader held the book just beyond her reach, shrieked in outrage and pounced. She tore at the book while the boys yanked it away from her. The individuals disappeared into a storm of arms and legs and paper. Five against one. I watched in terror for a few moments before thinking to call for help. I had my wristcomm. I could hit the emergency button….

It was over before I could lift my wrist. Tanza was sprawled across the sidewalk, surrounded by the shredded, dirty pages of her book. Her box had been torn open. Fleshy frog legs were scattered on the ground as though the animals had been thrown against the wall.

The boys, barely scuffed, loomed over her, mocking. They lifted the empty binding of the book like a trophy, cheering over it and slapping each other on the back. Then, satisfied with their destruction, they ran off the way they came, leaving their victim on the ground.

Numbly, I shuffled toward her, feeling lost in a different sort of nightmare--one where I was one of the monsters. Those boys had been waiting for her. If she’d had an ulterior motive for coming after me to apologize, she had been hoping for protection, not handouts. And I’d thrown her to the wolves.

Tanza pushed herself onto her knees and pulled the pages toward her, like a mother hen gathering up chicks. She looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her, eyes wide and glistening, her face slack with horror. Her emotionless mask was gone. She pressed an armload of shredded pages to her chest, curled into a fetal position, and cried.

Curled up like that, face and hands hidden, she didn’t look like a tephan. Not like the rude negotiator at the gutter. Not like the little professor or even the animal at the table. She was just a friendless little girl, surrounded by the wreckage of her most prized possession.

I thought of the last time I’d seen her lying in the street, arm threaded through a storm drain while she reached for my ring. The ring was in my pocket, safe and whole. How had I thanked her for her service? Tried to duck out of the promise, treated her like a savage, screamed at her in the streets, and left her at the mercy of bullies.

The ring I loved so much was one of dozens that I’d brought from Earth, and my day had been destroyed at the thought of losing it. This book was the only one she owned, and it was gone forever. I couldn’t imagine her distress.

How had I thought her the savage?

My stomach twisted with loathing, and for the first time all day, it was directed toward myself. I could fool myself no longer; I’d done nothing to be proud of today.

But that could change.

Approaching Tanza with soft, careful steps, I crouched next to her. “Tanza?” I brushed a finger across her shoulder.

The girl recoiled from my touch and turned away. She came up on her feet, but stayed scrunched into a ball, protecting her pages and hiding her red eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her voice was thick with tears. “Go away.”

I grabbed one of the pages. “I can help—“

She whirled her head toward me and snapped, “I said go away!”

I stumbled back, and for a moment I was ready to do as she wanted. This was not my problem and she didn’t want my help.

Then my good sense returned, and I barked, “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to leave a child in the street.” I started gathering pages. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

I looked around for help. The crowd had merely started taking a wider berth around us, but after a moment, I saw the green and silver flash of a Coalition policeman’s uniform—on a policeman with tephan hands.

I’d never thought I’d be glad to see that officer again. I waved toward him, shouting, “Officer! Please, can you help?”

My voice startled the officer, and his surprise turned to concern as he neared and saw the devastation. He crouched next to us and asked me, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I said. The twist in my stomach reminded me that those words weren’t the complete truth, so I amended, “I didn’t destroy the book. There was a group of boys...”

The officer had already turned his attention to Tanza, speaking low-toned words in their tephan language. When they finished, his demeanor toward me was less hostile but more disappointed.

“Now you want to help her?” he asked.

That now was an accusation that cut like a knife. I deserved it, but I met his gaze boldly. “Yes,” I said, daring him to deny me.

He spoke a few more words to Tanza, then told me, “Gather pages.”

He helped Tanza to her feet while I gathered what I could of the paper. Torn edges, smeared alien words, and pictures of long-dead royals who stared at me with accusing eyes. The queen providing food to the poor, shelter to the homeless, clothes to shivering orphans. She’d done all that and wound up executed; looking at Tanza and the tephan officer, I couldn’t help wondering how much worse they thought I deserved.

When I’d gathered all the pages I could into a crinkling, crunching mess, I followed in silence as the officer led us along the route we’d taken, every block seeming as long as a mile. When we reached the familiar yellow building where everything had started, I gave the pages to the officer, and he motioned for Tanza to go toward the stair of the building.

“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked Tanza, almost desperate.

Tanza just turned her head away.

“I think you’ve done enough,” the officer said. The words were soft, but I heard the condemnation in them.

I shouldered my purse more firmly, avoided Tanza’s eyes, then asked the officer, “Can you tell me where to find a train station?”

The officer pointed down the street in the opposite direction from where I’d originally approached the building. “The nearest one is just beyond the Killing Square.”

The words shocked me out of the numbness I’d been feeling. “The what?”

But the officer was already rattling off directions, and I was too busy memorizing the steps—left, then right, past the purple tower, turn two blocks after the bridge—to ask what exactly a Killing Square was. I didn’t think a uniformed police officer would purposely send me to my death, so I assumed something had been lost in the translation.

“Thank you, officer,” I said when he finished. Then I looked at the girl and added, “Thank you, Tanza.”

Tanza's green clothes—now scuffed from battle—hung loosely off her slumped shoulders. After a long moment, she raised her head and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. “Goodbye,” she said.

Her tone meant, “Good riddance.”

My pride flared at that. I thought I'd been rather compassionate--helping her gather the pages, hailing the officer, even trailing her all the way to her home to make sure that she arrived safely. Surely she could show a little gratitude.

But as I walked through the narrow, battered streets, it was my own rudeness that haunted me. Snatching the ring from her fingers as though afraid she'd contaminate it. Fleeing from her rather than fulfilling the promise. Leaving her to fight five against one when a moment's action on my part could have saved her. All day, I'd thought myself better than her because I was human, but my actions had been inhumane.

I tried to put it behind me. There was nothing else I could do. The book was gone, beyond repair. Tanza probably never wanted to see me again. It was best to move on and forget all about the tephan girl and the dark-eyed queen that so fascinated her.

Then I turned the corner and came face to face with Queen Marastel. A picture on the gray stone wall, larger than life, showed the woman whose face I’d seen a hundred times in Tanza’s book. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized. The image was a photo, more or less, but not like any photo or holo-image I’d ever seen from human technology. The colors were more muted than reality, while a strange vibrant shimmer added depth to the image, so it looked as though I could walk inside the pictured scene with a little effort.

The queen’s hair had gone completely gray, her jewels were gone, and her vividly colored gowns had been replaced by a white fabric sheath. What I noticed most were her eyes—they were striking in most of the book photos, but here, her gaze knocked the breath from me. Surely no human gaze could show that much sorrow.

How was she here? Would this queen haunt me wherever I went on this planet, reminding me of my sins against the child?

I noticed a small plaque next to the picture, with a tiny Anglese translation at the bottom, which explained that the image showed Queen Marastel in front of this very building, moments before she was led to death in the center of the square. “Oh,” I said aloud, turning slowly to examine the streets and buildings around me as understanding struck. “The Killing Square.”

This was the center of the revolution that had ended this planet’s monarchy. It was a hauntingly bland neighborhood; no sign of the violent destruction that Tanza had told me of, not after more than eighty years’ worth of repairs. But pictures and plaques decorated almost every building I saw, telling the story that time had erased. Seven brothers from Kepha stood scarred but proud before a jeering band of executioners. A red-haired older woman tried to cheer up three children as armed rebels escorted them all to prison. The king himself stood tall and white-haired, every line of his face showing his fierce love for his planet even as his people tried to kill him.

I could list examples all day, but I could never make you understand the feeling of being there, gazing at these people in the moments before their deaths. They were young and old, tall and short, had hair and skin in every imaginable shade. They came from regions I hadn’t known existed--desert wastes and mountain ranges and snow-covered tundras. These people had families they’d hated to lose, homes that were as familiar to them as the cottage by the Atlantic had once been to me. They’d made mistakes and suffered for it. They, too, had regrets.

Fear, anger, hatred, love, bravery, cowardice--every possible human emotion filled those alien faces, and it didn’t take long for me to stop seeing them as alien at all. They were people, who’d lived on this planet just as I did, who had loved it the way I’d loved Earth.

I’d never even wanted to know about this world before, but now I was desperate to understand every story these pictures presented. Without Tanza’s book providing context, would I even have paused to look at these pictures? Would I have cared about these people? I doubted I would have. Tanza's childish enthusiasm for a book had upended my world--as I’d upended hers.

With that thought, I found myself back before the picture of the queen. Her sorrowful eyes pinned me in place. It seemed, to my overworked imagination, that she was disappointed in me.

I glared at her. “What else do you want me to do?” I demanded. “What’s done is done. I can’t fix it. I don’t even know what book it was.”

In that hall of death, it seemed a pitiful excuse.

I tore my eyes away from the picture, and my gaze landed upon a door I’d wandered past in my history-induced daze. It was brown and wide, with a sign above proclaiming it the entrance to the Museum of the Alogath Execution Center. I wandered toward it, then froze in my tracks only a few steps away. Next to the entrance was a window—and through the window, I saw books.

This was a museum! Museums—even tephan ones—had gift shops! If there was one place in this world that sold books about Queen Marastel, it was likely the museum that displayed her face on a public street.

I raced into the building, almost giddy, and found the shop just beyond the main entrance. The tiny nook held pamphlets and trinkets, and at the front of the room, a big, silver BookVend machine printed and bound volumes with lightning speed.

I raced through the door. The tephan woman behind the counter dropped her book in surprise as I leaned, panting, against her counter.

The woman asked in smooth Anglese, “Can I help you?”

I stood up and tried to look less like a maniac. “Yes,” I said, in my best politician’s-wife voice. “I need you to help me find a book.”

The door to the charity home loomed large in front of me. I hesitated with my hand before the door. Was I doing something stupid? The freshly-printed book under my arm might not change the fact that the child would want nothing to do with me.

This wasn't about me. I had to try.

My knock was answered by a pale, knobby tephan woman with wisps of blond hair hanging around her face. She stared when she saw my face and clothes. “Madam?”

“Excuse me," I asked, "but does a girl named Tanza live here?”

The woman's eyes glazed over as she struggled to translate my Anglese.

I tried again, speaking more slowly. “Is Tanza here?”

“Tanza…” She trailed off in confusion before her eyes lit with understanding. “Oh!” Gently, she corrected, “It’s pronounced Tanza.”

It sounded exactly the same to me. I was starting to believe those people who said tephans could speak and hear sounds that humans couldn't.

The woman called into the building, and after a storm of voices and footsteps, a slight tephan girl in green clothes came to the door, her curls making a curtain over her still-puffy eyes.

Tanza scowled when she saw me. “What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For what happened. How I treated you. You saved my ring and I treated you like an animal. That was wrong.”

Tanza crossed her arms. “Glad you noticed.”

This child kept finding ways to irritate me, but I swallowed my words before I snapped back in response.

I pulled a book from under my arm. “I know this doesn’t erase what you went through, but I wanted to undo some of the harm that I’ve done today.” I handed her the book, which had the same cover as the book she’d brought to the restaurant. “This is for you.”

Warily, Tanza examined the queen on the cover. “It looks the same.” She flipped through the pages, and her eyes brightened. “It is the same!”

“I printed a new copy. There’s a BookVend down the street. You rescued my ring; it was only fair that I replace your book.”

"Yes, but I didn't think..." She examined the book in amazement before turning that astonished gaze upon me. "This is really mine? To keep?"

“Yes, of course,” I said.

Tanza clutched the book to her chest and smiled at me, positively radiant. That smile transformed her from a feral orphan into a polite little princess.

I couldn’t keep from smiling back.

“Thank you,” Tanza said. Then she saw the other book under my arm. “What’s that one?” she asked, as though hoping it was for her and not daring to ask.

I pulled it out and showed her the cover. It showed the same image of the queen, but this time above an Anglese title—The Queen of Sorrow. “The Anglese edition,” I explained. “This one’s for me.”

If I’d thought she was happy before, it was nothing compared to her radiance now. “You’re going to read it?”

I shrugged. "I couldn't resist. You made it sound so interesting."

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Wait until you get to Chapter Five. That’s when she first meets the king, and you would not believe the uproar it causes."

She set down her book, grabbed mine, and started flipping through the pages, desperate to show me the start of the story.

From down the hall, an adult voice barked, “Tanza! Don’t bother the woman. I’m sure she’s busy.”

Embarrassed, Tanza closed the book. She pushed it back into my hands. “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about it much.”

“I don’t mind. You’re an excellent instructor.”

Her eyes brightened with hesitant hope. “I could show you more. If you want.”

“I’d be grateful.”

Tanza called over her shoulder. “Garsa! Can I have a visitor in the study room?”

The tephan woman appeared in the entryway. She blinked, taken aback. “As long as she leaves before supper."

Tanza looked up at me. “Do you want to stay?”

No tephan had ever asked me that question before. In all my time here, I’d been an outsider. An invader. I’d never had the desire to be anything more. But those words, coming from Tanza, felt like a welcome.

I was glad to receive it.

I put a hand on Tanza’s shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to.”

#arateph #fairy tale retelling #sci-fi

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maulusque · 4 years ago

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WHAT IF MAUL KIDNAPPED ANAKIN RIGHT OFF OF TATOOINE

(I started writing this and then it got out of hand and now it’s 3:30 in the morning, rest of it’s under the break so i don’t monopolize your dash)

So for whatever combination of reasons, Maul spits out the kool-aid and gets really disenchanted with Sidious a lot earlier than in canon. He starts wondering things like “why is he not telling me his master plan if i’m so important to it?” and “why do i get nothing more than vague promises of power sometime in the future, when i should be guaranteed a position as his second-in-command, after all I’ve done for this guy?” and “why does he treat me like i’m disposable, and then constantly tell me i’m crucial for his plans?”

and he starts thinking things like “hey wait a minute, none of that childhood torture made me better at anything sith-related, it just gave me crippling trauma that actually impairs my capacity for self-control and incredible violence” and (possibly due to his experiences at Orsis Academy) “oh whack looks like kids learn a lot better and faster when they’re, like, having fun? Whatever ‘fun’ is?”

and anyway by the time he gets to tatooine with orders to “find that stoner jedi and kick his ass”, Maul is pretty annoyed at his master. And when he senses not one, not two, but THREE powerful force-presences on Tatooine, one of which vastly eclipses any other force presence he’s ever felt, and belongs to a nine-year-old slave boy, Maul gets an idea. You know, (he thinks), his master sure would love to get his hands on a force-baby like that. Master Sidious sure would be evilly thrilled to have an extremely powerful nine-year-old delivered directly to his doorstep on coruscant, with the jedi having to do all the heavy lifting of training the kid. Master Sidious would probably want nothing more than to have this kid be taken in by the Jedi, so he can start grooming a new apprentice.

And Maul, full of spite and an as-yet-undiscovered need to adopt every force-sensitive in sight, decides to deprive Sidious of a potential apprentice. He follows Anakin to Naboo (in this universe, Anakin still wins the podrace, still wins his own freedom), and, after the fighting is over, sees a prime window of opportunity, and kidnaps Anakin right out from under the Jedi’s nose.

(In this universe, Obi-Wan does not cut Darth Maul in half and dump him down the garbage chute- Maul, unwilling to do his master’s bidding any longer, doesn’t go full out against Qui-Gon, doesn’t kill him, and Obi-Wan doesn’t get that grief-and-rage filled boost that helped him dismember Maul last time. The fight ends, the Jedi are convinced that Maul is dead, and Naboo is freed).

Once Maul has the kid, since he’s a pragmatic guy, he also returns to Tatooine and takes the kid’s mom. Maul doesn’t know how to cook, do laundry, tie shoes, or any of that shit. He doesn’t want to have to PARENT the kid, he just wants to train him.

Maul has zero money, and also zero subtlety, so he stomps into Watto’s shop, grabs him by the neck, and says “The boy's mother is coming with me. You will disable her slave chip and let her leave unharmed, or I will squeeze your head off.” Watto complies. For Anakin, this is his first real impression of Maul- storming the junk shop and threatening his former master for the freedom of Anakin’s mother.

Maul is determined to do a better job training Anakin than Sidious did training Maul. Because FUCK Sidious. Maul can be a WAY better Sith than Sidious ever allowed him to be. And since Maul is slowly realizing how... unhelpful... the way he was raised was, he’s determined to figure out how to do it better.

So he reads. He reads training manuals, child psychology books, teaching books, studies on motivation and performance, anything he can get his nerdy little hands on. He learns that frightened children don’t perform well. He learns about “trauma”, and how “trauma” makes it hard to control your emotions sometimes. Well, you can’t have THAT in your ultimate sith apprentice. Okay, so no scaring Anakin and no traumatizing him. Maul quickly realizes that literally everything he does frightens Anakin or his mom, and frightening Anakin’s mom also frightens Anakin (cut him some slack, he’s literally never been in a positive relationship, Maul has no model for any behavior other than “evil abuser” and “subservient slave”).

Maul is not an idiot. He knows he’s not doing it right. He’s reluctant to start teaching Anakin ANYTHING until he knows he won’t accidentally damage his precious spite-apprentice. So he mostly ignores the kid while he reads and learns.

He also observes. Specifically, he observes Shmi Skywalker. Somehow, she seems to be able to interact with Anakin without scaring him. She can even tell him what to do without scaring him. She can teach and correct him without scaring him. And she never physically hurts him at all. Maul is kind of blown away- he didn’t even know it was possible to interact with people like that? HOW does she DO it???

So Maul watches and learns. He practices. Shmi helps, guides him, tells him when he messes up and tells him how to do it better. Maul gets a lot better at restraining his murderous urges. Turns out, if you immediately kill everyone who annoys you, it’s hard to ask them for advice after. The other person Maul gets pointers from is C3PO, the protocol droid the kid dragged along. Maul understands 3PO better than he understands Shmi and Anakin. 3PO is a droid. Maul was raised by a droid. Maul knows how to talk with 3PO, whereas talking with Shmi or Anakin feels like wandering around in a fog full of landmines.

So anyway, Maul and 3PO become unlikely friends, and, as Maul, determined to out-parent Sidious in every conceivable way, learns more and more social skills, emotional intelligence, and interpersonal skills, he truly comprehends how fucked up his own childhood was. There’s rage. There’s grief. There’s murderous desire for vengeance. But there’s also Anakin. Who would be scared if Maul smashed the ship or killed random people to vent his anger. Anakin, who needs something called a “positive role model”, who needs to be taught how to use the Force, and who needs the adults around him to have their shit together. There’s also Shmi, who makes him soup and hot chocolate when he’s feeling bad, and tells him off for breaking things, and who helps him get better at being a real person, and who doesn’t seem to want anything from him other than a general expectation of not hurting her or her son. So Maul deals. He grows. He heals, slowly. There’s setbacks, and gains. And somewhere in there, he starts teaching Anakin how to use the Force.

The problem is, Maul learned to access the Force first through fear and anger. Turns out, it’s really hard to teach someone fundamentals of force usage via fear and anger without first having to traumatize them. So right away, Maul hits a barrier. He doesn’t have any clue how to teach Anakin a different way though. He needs help.

But also, FUCK the jedi. NO WAY is Maul asking the Jedi for help, he hates the Jedi. Maul is still a Sith, he’s just a new, better kind of Sith, the kind that trains apprentices who are gonna kick WAY MORE ASS and be HEALTHY WELL-ADJUSTED PEOPLE while doing it (let him dream, ok?). So Maul starts hauling Shmi and Anakin around the galaxy, seeking out any non-Jedi Force-users they can, to learn Force techniques that the Sith didn’t teach Maul.

They spend time with the Guardians on Jedha, with those weird duck-people from that one episode with Jar-Jar’s girlfriend, with some wacky monks on a tiny island in the ass-end of nowhere, and even some time with a long-lost sith cult in a box system in the middle of the Unknown Regions. Maul learns. Anakin learns. Maul uses what he learns from the other force-users, combines it with what he knows, and teaches Anakin even more. The Jedi and the Sith are really the only two groups who really use the force for Big Impressive Things, like telekinesis and lightning and whatnot, so while the other force groups would have a lot to teach them both, they wouldn’t really be able to teach Anakin how to levitate something. And you can’t be the kick-assiest, bestest Sith Apprentice Ever if you can’t levitate shit. So Maul takes takes all these new techniques, like “being calm and chill when you meditate instead of super pissed off” and “using the Force while not being filled with incredible rage” and “mindfulness techniques” and “who knew you could do cool stuff like floating rocks without having to exhaust yourself by hating everything in existence, including yourself” and applies them to the skills and methods he already has. He and Anakin have to do a lot of fumbling and exploring and mistake-making, but they figure it out. And Anakin learns. And he kicks ass.

When Anakin is 11, Maul hauls him off to Ach-To to dig a crystal out of the roots of an ancient tree. He tells Anakin to hold it and meditate, to let his emotions rise around him, to feed them, to pull them through the crystal, let it resonate, let it take on the shape of his strongest feelings. After all, that is how Maul was trained to bleed his crystals. Maul’s pain and fear and anger yielded him red crystals.

Anakin comes out with yellow. Determination, fierce protectiveness, drive, hunger for justice, righteous fury. That is Anakin’s lightsaber.

Anakin grows up, planet-hopping with his Mom and Uncle Maul in a beat-up freighter with under-the-hood enhancements out the ass (Maul ditched the Scimitar right after Tatooine so his master couldn’t instantly track him down, and Maul and Anakin are both huge mechanics nerds and bond over things like “but what if you put ANOTHER PLASMA CORE IN THE ENGINE”, so this ship is, uh, certainly some sort of thing). Anakin grows up learning a hundred different Force traditions- just about every major Force tradition in the Galaxy (except for Jedi), and more than a few obscure ones. He grows up, tinkering with his droid, learning Juyo from Maul and how to sew a button from his mom. He grows up, beholden to two destinies only: “Help me take down Sidious, because he’s an asshole and a shitty Sith Lord” and “do whatever the fuck you want, because you are a Sith and no one gets to tell you what to do” (”except me.” Shmi interrupts. “Sith Lords still have a bedtime.” “Sith Lords still have a bedtime,” Maul amends, having no desire to repeat what happened when he encouraged a ten-year-old Anakin to ignore all the rules on purpose).

And what Anakin wants to do is what he’s always wanted to do- go back to Tatooine and free the slaves. Maul thinks that a big project like that would be an excellent learning opportunity for Anakin. He also wants Anakin to succeed, so he sits him down and talks logistics. How do you free the slaves without hundreds of slave owners detonating their chips when they hear what is happening? How do you keep them free once you do that? How do you get them jobs, clothes, food, houses? What about the ones who want to leave Tatooine? What about the ones who want to stay? And what about the economic upheaval that will happen when you deprive a whole planet of its cheapest source of labor? When Anakin is fourteen, they start planning.

When Anakin is eighteen, they make their move. Anakin, coordinating with Shmi, who returned to Tatooine three years earlier to organize things on the ground (living with a woman named Beru Whitesun, who is a gateway to the Freedom Path network), activates several massive orbital EMP devices, frying every electrical device on the planet, including slave chips. (The EMPs came from a pirate friend of his mom’s, who seems to do whatever she wants as long as she makes him hot chocolate). All over the planet, lights go out, slave chips fry, and radios go silent. And Shmi’s agents get to work. Ordinary citizens all over tatooine grab their rifles and head out. They meet up with others in their settlement, and the teams sweep the area, following a plan devised by Skywalker and Whitesun. They systematically visit every house in every settlement, city, spaceport, and town that is known to house slaves, and tell the slaves to grab their families and most treasured possessions and follow them.

(Tatooine is a sparsely populated planet- you can count the major settlements on two hands. If it weren’t, this would never have worked.)

Not many slaveowners put up much of a resistance- fifty angry masked people pointing guns in your face tend to make you compliant. The only slaveowner who puts up more than a token resistance is Jabba the Hutt. His resistance, however, lasts about thirty seconds, before Anakin cuts off his head.

Maul meets Anakin at Jabba’s palace, where he’s rounding up the last of Jabba’s cronies.

“No trouble?” Maul asks.

“Nope,” Anakin replies. “You?”

“None.” Maul said. Turns out, it’s like, super easy to take down an entire criminal organization when you can turn up to a meeting of the Hutt family heads, kill them all, and waltz out past all their security forces without breaking a sweat. (Seriously, it’s kind of hilarious how Maul is literally just that good).

“The slaves here are freed?”

“Yep,” says Anakin. Then frowns. “Hold on...” He senses a presence. Big, hulking, simple, and starving. He can sense that, whatever it is, it hasn’t seen the sunlight or been able to move freely in years.

So anyway, that’s how Anakin turns up at Mos Espa at first sunrise, riding on the back of Jabba the Hutt’s pet rancor. “Who’s a good girl,” Anakin says, scratching behind her ear nubs. “You are!” And she is a good girl. Padme (”I just think it sounds like a nice name, you know?”) is very good at dispersing angry slaveowners who look like they might start rioting.

The slaves freed overnight have been gathered together at pre-designated safe zones-mostly warehouses or large buildings that Shmi has been buying up over the years for exactly this purpose.

(The slaves living in remote settlements, at moisture farms and homesteads, didn’t get a visit from the freedom teams. However, Shmi had a plan for them too. She has made overtures to the Tusken tribes. Once she managed to negotiate her way into speaking to one of the leaders without getting killed, she sold them a story, a dream. A revolution. Free the slaves. Transform Tatooine. She doesn’t promise the Tuskens to expel humans from the planet entirely. She promises them equal rights under the law (she also promises the existence of laws in the first place). She promises them the right to raise Banthas, the right to traverse their ancestral lands and the return of sacred sites taken from them, the right to trade, the right to control who passes over their lands. She promises them the right to water and shade. And, she promises them half the seats on the ruling council she plans to set up. And so, on the night the EMPs blow, Tusken raiders visit every homestead on Tatooine (again, there’s only a few hundred, a thousand at most), and kidnap the slaves. Perhaps not the most reassuring experience for enslaved peoples who have been taught their entire lives to fear the Tuskens, and not without reason, but, nevertheless, it is freedom).

As the new day dawns- Tatooine’s first dawn as a free planet- Anakin, Maul, and Shmi know that the easy part is over. Now, they have to house tens of thousands of people currently cooped up in warehouses with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They have to establish and keep iron-tight control over the planet and its settlements, and quash any violent reprisals before they gain momentum. They also have to completely rebuild an economy completely upended by the overnight emancipation.

However, Shmi’s not the only one who’s been busy for the past few years. While Shmi was on Tatooine, planning a revolution, Anakin and Maul were traversing the galaxy, gathering resources, using the Patented Maul Method (TM)- breaking into the headquarters of powerful organizations and threatening to kill everybody in charge unless they did what they said.

As the second sun rises, ships begin arriving in Tatooine’s orbit. Pop-up housing is dropped onto the outskirts of Tattooine’s settlements, the kind that mining companies use to set up new bases on mineral-rich asteroids. The accommodations are small and sparse, but each family has a kitchen, bathroom, beds, and private space. Huge generators are hooked up to cool the new housing. Anakin knows that the already-existing slave quarters, made of stone with no windows and mostly underground- are already built to keep the occupants cool, but he refuses to make the former slave population live in slave quarters. Some of the freed people are moved into Jabba’s old palace, some into buildings abandoned by rich business owners who fled the planet when they saw what was happening. Food, water, medicine, clothes, books, toys, tools, and shoes are deposited. (the Republic’s equivalent of the FBI had been utterly baffled when Galaxy’s three biggest criminal organizations started moving cargo that looked less like a drug trade and more like a disaster relief mission).

Anakin walks among the newly freed slaves, reassuring them- yes, you are free. Yes, you will be fed and housed and clothed as long as you need it. Yes, we will try to find your child/husband/wife/mother who was sold years ago. Yes, you can go home, you can do whatever you want.

He also asks for volunteers. And he gets them. Hardly anyone would say no to the chance to work with the Skywalker, who once was a slave like them, but freed himself and returned, who freed the slaves in one night of glory, and appeared at sunrise riding a rancor.

Anakin sends out messengers, all across the planet. “Tatooine is a free world,” they say. “All slaves are hereby freed, by order of the He who Walks in the Sky. Any slaveowners who, by their own free will, turn over their detonators will not be harmed. Any who resist, will be.” Not many resist.

At the end of that first day, as the suns are setting, once the freed peoples of Tatooine are fed, and given water, and sheltered, Maul comes to Anakin.

“I am proud of you.” He says. “You have come into your power, you have mastered yourself, and so have mastered the Force. You have the freedom and the power to do anything you choose. You are no longer my apprentice. Lord Skywalker, you are a true Sith Master.” Anakin pulls him into a hug. He maybe cries a little bit. Maul maybe cries a little bit. Maul maybe also feels mildly annoyed that Anakin is a full head taller than him now.

(Sidious would be truly, utterly offended at Maul’s criteria for Sith-Lord-ness. “THAT’S NOT SITH” he would have said. “THAT’S BARELY EVEN DARK SIDE ADJACENT, YOU ARE DILUTING OUR THOUSAND YEAR HERITAGE-” but Maul wouldn’t care about Sidious’ stupid opinions, anyway).

And Anakin and Shmi get to work. They employ the newly freed people of Tatooine, constructing permanent houses, tearing down slave markets, building critical infrastructure. Anakin pays them more than a living wage, thanks to the extremely deep pockets of Crimson Dawn. He brings in doctors and teachers, and guarantees healthcare and education for all who want it (whenever one of Crimson Dawn’s higher-ups says “wait, why are we dumping massive amounts of money into this one random-ass planet?” Darth Maul just casually sidles up behind them with his lightsaber until they remember that he can literally just show up anywhere, at anytime, and kill them unless they do what he says. If Maul’s busy, he sends 3PO instead- 3PO’s been outfitted with about ten times as much weaponry as is legal, and can be very convincing when he wants to be).

While Anakin works on infrastructure and supporting the freed peoples of Tatooine, and unfucking the economic trainwreck they caused, Shmi and Beru work on the government. They write down a few, very basic rules-Tatooine is to be ruled by a council of people, half of whom will come from the Tusken tribes, all of which shall be selected by fair and free election. All citizens of Tatooine shall have the right to vote in these elections, and the right to vote shall be guaranteed to all- except for those who have ever owned or sold a sentient being. (it was a huge debate in the Lars-Whitesun-Skywalker household, this matter of restricting voting rights. In the end, it was decided that slaveowners, and ONLY slaveowners, were to be the sole exception for universal suffrage). Every citizen of Tatooine is guaranteed access to food, medicine, and water, and has the right to have their grievances addressed by the council.

Shmi works quickly to gather her council- she knows she has to do it fast, to prove to the Tuskens that she is as good as her word. The first elections are chaotic, and perhaps not completely non-violent, but in the end, there is a council of twenty representatives, with Shmi Skywalker representing Mos Espa.

The Council proceeds to have raging- and occasionally violent- debates about the structure of their future government. What rights to guarantee citizens. Should they have a court system? What about a financial system? How are they to guarantee water, food, and medicine to everyone? What even are taxes?

The Rebuilding of Tatooine is long, and hard, and contentious. There are arguments and rage and fighting- the repatriation of traditional Tusken lands is especially fraught. But Shmi promised, and so she makes it happen (Anakin and Padme may have helped too). Maul, for his part, keeps training Anakin, and keeps managing the criminal underworld with a careful balance of death threats and actual death, but mostly stays out of the way of Anakin’s Senior Project.

Soon, Anakin is able to re-purpose the pop-up housing, since most people have moved into traditional Tatooine-built homes, suited to the environment. The newly restructured economy is tentatively taking its first steps, and Tatooine’s baby government is becoming less and less dependent on intergalactic criminal funding (partially thanks to Anakin confiscating the entirety of Jabba’s personal fortune). He spends a lot of time in Council meetings, trying not to scream at people while also trying to stop Padme from eating them. The Council debates what is next for Tatooine, and eventually, they vote to petition the Republic for membership. Tatooinians, as a people, including the Tuskens, are fiercely independant, but, as Shmi points out, joining the Republic would guarantee them to certain things like humanitarian aid, a voice in decisions affecting interplanetary trade routes and taxation, legal legitimacy and the right to call on the Republic for aid should their sovereignty ever be threatened. Most importantly, slavery is illegal on all Republic planets, which means that if any slave-owning organizations ever pushed in on Tatooine, there would be another (much better funded) organization to call on to help quash it.

The Republic requires that a petitioning planet’s head of state visit the Senate on Coruscant to ask the Senate for entry into the Republic. The Council, grumbling, re-jiggers their constitution to allow for a “chief councilor”, and promptly elect Anakin to the position (”Fuck me,”) Anakin says. Maul laughs at him, then sobers and tells him to be careful on Coruscant (”My former master lives there.” he says. “Mind your shields, and do not let him know your true nature. You are not yet ready to take him on, and you have your planet and your people to think of.” “Yes, Uncle Maul.” Anakin says. “I will be careful.”).

Anakin shows up in the Galactic Senate, sandy robes, uncombed hair, and half smirk on his face. “I am Anakin Skywalker, free person of Tatooine,” he says. He presents the case for Tatooine’s admittance to the Republic in a booming, confident voice, drawing on his inner strength- his righteous anger and determination to ensure his people’s future- to keep his voice from wavering.

There are grumbles. Muttering. No Senator wants to be the one to blatantly say “no”- it’s a sort of miracle story, Tatooine, the little planet that rose up and threw of the shackles of slavery and now wants to join the Republic- the exact sort of mythos that the Republic itself is built on. It’s bad PR to vote against that little planet. But at the same time, Tatooine is a sandy, useless dustball that’ll need fiscal support from the Senate, with nothing to offer in terms of economic value. Many Senators are debating with themselves, not whether or not to say “no”, but how to vote “no” without losing ten points in approval ratings.

Until the Senator from Naboo, a diminutive woman who somehow reminds Anakin of his rancor, stands up. She gives an impassioned, off-the-cuff speech, reminding the Senate of how her own planet had thrown off the shackles of oppression not ten years ago, how the Republic was founded by planets like Tatooine, and how, most importantly, they had no legal basis to deny them entry, and if the Senate voted no, Naboo’s lawyers would litigate the issue six ways from taungsday- which, due to a clause in the Senate’s constitution that forbade them from passing legislation while the issue of a planet’s admittance to the Republic was on the floor, would effectively paralyze the Senate until the courts made a ruling. And, as Padme made sure to emphasize, if the court’s decision was not favorable, she would appeal. She could feasibly stop the Senate from doing anything for years, if necessary.

Tatooine is admitted to the Republic.

“Two Senators,” Anakin demands. “In order for my people to be fairly represented, my planet requires two Senators.” When complaints are made, Jar-Jar Binks threatens to explain the complicated dynamics of a planet attempting to grapple with a colonial past. He doesn’t have to. Tatooine gets its two Senators.

Anakin meets with Senator Amidala in her office, to thank her.

“Of course,” she said. “I remember a little boy who helped free my planet- how could I not help you when you needed it?”

“Uhh, thanks, yeah, that’s, really nice of you. Like your hair. Which is nice. In an objective sort of way,” Anakin says, because there is no universe in which Anakin is not a complete idiot in front of Padme. “I named my rancor after you,” he blurts.

Before Anakin is scheduled to leave Coruscant, the Jedi send a knight to scope out the new planetary leader. Obi-Wan Kenobi shows up at Anakin’s hotel room, and goes “Oh. It’s.... you.”

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin grins. He only knew him for about two days when he was nine, but he still greets him like an old friend, like a brother. They fall into easy, teasing conversation. “I thought you were dead, I confess, after you disappeared from Naboo,” Obi-Wan admits. “I am truly sorry that I was unable to fulfill Qui-Gon’s promise to train you as a Jedi Knight.”

“That’s ok,” Anakin waves his hand dismissively. “I got trained as a Sith instead.” Then he freezes. Oops. He was not supposed to say that. Maul would be so disappointed in him.

“Beg pardon?” Obi-Wan says.

“I, uhh, got trained, as a, uh, sift...er? Instead? A sand sifter? I sift sand for a living?”

“You said Sith.”

“No I didn’t, I definitely said sift.”

“No, you said Sith.”

“I definitely did not.”

Anakin changes the subject, and Obi-Wan lets it drop. He’ll tell the Council, of course, but he honestly cannot fathom the concept of this kid being a Sith. He senses nothing Dark about him- well, at least no more dark than is present in any sentient. Besides, it’s not like there are any Sith Lords around anymore, ever since he killed Maul (luckily, Obi-Wan doesn’t see the picture in Anakin’s wallet, a candid shot 3PO took in the cockpit of their family’s ship. Fifteen-year-old Anakin, at the controls, hyperbrake still on with his hands on the hyperdrive lever, Maul, standing behind him, hands gripping Anakin’s seat and face distorted half-way through a panic-induced rant about flight safety, and Shmi, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, laughter on her face and knitting needles in her hands).

Anakin contacts his mother, tells her the good news. The Council, moving with alacrity, elects Tatooine’s first Senators. And four days later, one year after the Dawn of Freedom, Senator Shmi Skywalker and Senator Ooutrigh (a Tusken warrior) of Tatooine arrive on Coruscant and address the Senate for the first time.

Of course, while Anakin has been growing up, planning for Tatooine’s future, and annoying the shit out of Maul, Palpatine’s own plans have continued apace. Barely four months after Tatooine is admitted to the Republic, Obi-Wan finds himself in an arena on Geonosis. The battle goes much differently this time, partially due to the fact that Anakin has retrofitted the cargo bay of his family’s ship to house Padme (the rancor, not the Senator), and descends onto the Arena sands just as Yoda and the Clone Troops arrive, and deposits both Padme’s (the rancor, and the Senator) into the melee.

“Hi, Obi-Wan!” Anakin calls, whipping out his lightsaber to deflect the hail of blaster bolts (Maul would disapprove, but Maul isn’t here, he’s ten clicks away, chasing down the Jedi dropout Sidious replaced him with).

“Anakin, what the FUCK” Obi-Wan says, staring at Chief Councilor Anakin Skywalker of Tatooine, riding a rancor and swinging an honest-to-Force yellow lightsaber.

“Master Yoda, what the FUCK” Anakin says, later, after the battle is over, when he finally gets Yoda to answer his questions about the clone troopers. “You found out about an entire-ass army of slave child soldiers commissioned AND PAID FOR by one of your own council members, and your reaction is ‘oh thank goodness, now we have an army?’ What the FUCK is WRONG with you?!” Yoda tries to explain to Councilor Skywalker that the situation was dire, they’d had no choice, but Councilor Skywalker just keeps repeating “AN ARMY OF SLAVE CHILD SOLDIERS” at him. “No choice, we had,” Yoda says yet again.

“BULLSHIT, you had no choice!” Anakin yells. “You could have chosen to not use the entire army of slave child soldiers that you legally own!”

“Let Kenobi and the others die, you would have? Hmm?”

“PROBABLY, YEAH!” Anakin hollers (”Thanks,” mutters Obi-Wan). “Sometimes the choices you have all really suck, but you still have to make them! You can’t just pretend you didn’t have any options, you HAD OPTIONS, and you chose the one that involved using a SLAVE ARMY OF CHILD SOLDIERS.” He gestures behind him to the battlefield, where clone troopers and medics are moving amongst the bodies, white and red stark against the sand, tallying their dead brothers.

Yoda shakes his head. “emotional, you are, young Skywalker.” he said. “Cloud your judgement, your feelings do.”

“Yeah, I’m fucking emotional!” Anakin practically screams. “I have personal beef with slavery, so excuse me if I feel emotions about it. Your problem is that you’re able to use an ARMY OF SLAVE CHILD SOLDIERS and not feel bad about it! Your lack of emotions is clouding YOUR judgement!” He stomps off. Yoda shakes his head. Skywalker is young, and too close to the issue of slavery to really have perspective on it. He does not understand. It was a great loss to the Jedi Order when the Council rejected him, all those years ago- if he had been trained as a Jedi, he would have learned to put aside his emotions about slavery, and he would have understood why it was necessary now. If Anakin could have heard what Yoda was thinking, he would have turned right back around, picked Yoda up, and punted him like a limmie ball.

Anakin and Maul return to Tatooine. Maul offers to assassinate the entire Jedi Council, but Anakin says no. He’s still fuming about his conversation with Yoda. He knows he gets emotional. He knows that Yoda isn’t entirely wrong- he knows he lets his emotions cloud his judgement sometimes. It’s something he’s worked hard on, over the years, him and Maul. How to take a step back from the emotions howling in your head, and how to view the situation without them getting in the way. And what kinds of situations you should let your emotions guide you. Anakin thinks he’s damn well entitled to strong emotions about slavery.

Short of declaring war on the entire Jedi Order, Anakin doesn’t know what to do about the Republic’s slave army. The Tatooine Council releases a public condemnation of it, explicitly calling it slavery and calling for the clones to be freed. The Council seriously debates joining the Separatists, until Padme (the Senator, not the Rancor) and Shmi look in-depth at the Separatist Council, which is buried deep in the pockets of corporate interests. Shmi files a lawsuit, under the Republic’s anti-slavery legislation, suing for the freedom of the clones. It’s a battle of miserable inches, and meanwhile, the war rages.

With Dooku gone, Sidious’s only means of controlling the Separatists is through Grievous and Ventress, both of whom are loose cannons whose loyalty (and competence) he seriously doubts. It’s frustrating for him, and not necessarily better for the Jedi and their army (of slave child soldiers). Sidious needs to keep the war in careful balance, neither side gaining too much ground, to draw it out and grind the Jedi down and manipulate their public image until he can heap all the blame on them. Without Dooku to pass down his orders, he has no way of keeping a firm check on the Separatist Council, and the Seps are in serious danger of completely overrunning the Republic. The droid army is fifty times as many as the clones, and the Separatists have the Trade Federation, the Banking Clans, and all of the major military tech corporations on their side. Honestly, it’s a testament to the Jedi and the Clone Army that they haven’t lost the war in the first month.

Speaking of that first month, Anakin doesn’t spend long on uninvolved in the war. Scant weeks after Geonosis, the Separatist Army threatens to roll right over Tatooine on their way to gaining control of the Outer Rim Hyperlanes. Tatooine has no army, doesn’t even have a police force. It has no fleet, no orbital defenses, and the droid army headed their way has ten times more droids than there are guns on the planet. The Council faces a choice. Ask the Republic to send in the GAR to defend them- ask for an army of slaves to be sent to die on Tatooine, to stain the sand with enslaved blood so soon after Tatooine clawed her way to freedom, or do nothing, and almost certainly ensure the annihilation of Tatooine and her people. To die, or to live by the blood of slaves who died for you. It’s not a pretty choice.

In the end, the choice is taken away from them (and perhaps it’s a kindness, that they weren’t forced to choose, perhaps it’s the coward’s way out, but it is what it is). A GAR cruiser shows up in orbit, and the Council is hailed by a man identifying himself as Captain Rex, commanding officer of the 501st legion of the GAR.

“The Republic sent you here?” Anakin asks, incredulously.

“Well, not exactly.” Captain Rex hedges. “The 501st is due for leave on Kamino, but the hyperdrive was making funny noises, so we decided to stop off in the nearest Republic system to check it out.” Rex shrugs. “If a bunch of tinnies just so happen to show up, it’s not like we’ll just sit back and watch.”

“Why are you doing this?” Anakin asks the clone captain, once they’ve got him on planet and in the council room. He’s got a lump in his throat, and his eyes are stinging. The 501st has no Jedi on board, no natborn officers, and no orders to go to Tatooine. Rex and the 501st showed up here of their own free will. Because they wanted to. To defend Tatooine.

“Geonosis.” Rex says. “On Geonosis, you saved the lives of over two hundred of us. Including me. We couldn’t stand by and let your planet fall to the Separatists, Councilor Skywalker.”

After the battle, during the cleanup, when Tatooinians are passing through the rows of injured, giving out water- giving out life- Rex tells Anakin the other reason.

“We all know about Tatooine, sir.” He says, quietly. “A bunch of slaves who stood up and said “no,” and took their freedom.” He shrugs. “Stories like that, it gives us hope. For the future.” He fixes Anakin with a stare. “If we let that hope die, we die too. Tatooine cannot fall.”

That is the first time Anakin and Rex fight together. Somehow, when the 501st leaves Tatooine, Anakin goes with them- officially, as a consultant/observer, appointed at the request of Senator Skywalker to observe the GAR and monitor the health and wellbeing of the troopers. Unofficially, Anakin and Rex become a lethal team, making the 501st one of the most effective legions in the Galaxy. Anakin isn’t dumb. He knows he’s being a massive hypocrite, running around with an army of slave child soldiers. Rex, however, insists that it’s different.

“First of all, we asked you to come with us.” he says. “Second of all, it’s not like you staying behind would have made any difference in our situation. And besides, scrapping clankers isn’t the only reason I asked you to come with us.” Anakin raises an eyebrow.

And Rex introduces Anakin to his older brother, Cody, commander of the 212th (Anakin is happy to see Obi-Wan again, but appalled to meet Obi-Wan’s fourteen-year-old togruta padawan, because why would you put a CHILD in a warzone, in a COMMAND POSITION). And Cody brings Anakin in on The Plan. The clones will not remain slaves forever, and they will not wait for some elusive promise of gratitude after the war is over. They will take their freedom, and they will defend their own, and they’re asking Anakin, who freed the slaves of Tatooine, to help them do it.

“So basically, you want me on as a consultant.”

“Basically, yeah.” Cody says. “And also as a guy with a lightsaber who can leap fifty feet into the air and dodge blaster bolts. Those are always handy to have around.”

So Anakin and Rex and Cody, and Cody’s small circle of commanders, lay their plans. And in the meantime, there’s a war to fight. Shmi’s still on Tatooine, but Maul comes with Anakin and the 501st. He and Rex get along like a house on fire, but you wouldn’t know it from watching them- they do nothing but argue and needle each other. Rex sarcastically calls Maul “Commander Maul” because it pisses him off so much, and it catches on with the whole legion. Maul constantly mutters about murdering and/or poisoning Rex.

But after Ventress almost chokes Rex to death, and breaks into his mind to make him do her bidding, Maul doesn’t leave Rex alone for a week, and clutches his hand tightly in the medbay. Rex doesn’t mention it, so neither does Anakin.

Padme, on the other hand, makes no secret of how much she loves Rex (the Rancor, not the Senator, though she likes him too). Padme seems to have concluded that Rex is some sort of long-lost hatchling, and can be seen chasing Rex down the hangar bay, trying to corral him into the nest she’s constructed in the corner reserved for her. Rex gets used to surprise cuddles from a massive predator.

The Jedi Council are at their wit’s end with Skywalker, but their hands are full and honestly, he’s a benefit to the war effort, so they assign Obi-Wan to “supervise” the legion, and leave them to it. Obi-Wan and Anakin strike up a deep friendship, unfettered by the baggage that comes with being master and padawan. Obi-Wan finds himself having serious questions about the Jedi’s role in the war, since Anakin is not at all shy about challenging him on the whole “slave army of child soldiers” thing. Obi-Wan is also, quite frankly, too busy to effectively teach a padawan, and by this point, he knows that Anakin’s had some sort of Force training. He’s fought beside him enough to be confident in his skills, and often sends Ahsoka on extended missions with the 501st, and explicitly begs Anakin to help him fill in the gaps in her training. Anakin obliges enthusiastically.

Of course, Maul helps train her too. Obi-Wan shows up on the Resolute one day to pick her up, and asks how her training’s going.

“Great!” She says. “Skyguy’s weird uncle is teaching me jar’kai-”

“Anakin has an uncle?” Obi-Wan asks, surprised. “Who knows jar’kai?”

And so Obi-Wan and Maul meet once again. And Obi-Wan is just absolutely pole-axed.

“Darth Maul?” He splutters. “Is your uncle?”

“Not biologically,” Anakin shrugs. “He practically raised me, along with my mom. He taught me everything I know about lightsabers and the Force.”

“...”

“...you did say Sith, Anakin, you bastard, sand-sifting MY ASS-”

“Oh, it’s you.” Maul says. “I won’t kill you, but only because Anakin likes you.” Obi-Wan throws up his hands.

Somehow, Obi-Wan and Maul come to an understanding. Somehow, Obi-Wan doesn’t turn him over to the council.

At one point, a giant of a zabrak, easily eight feet tall, with skin a poisonous yellow, shows up, claiming that Maul is his brother, and that he’s here to bring him home to Dathomir. Maul takes one look at Savage and goes “Fuck that”. “I will train you in the ways of the Force,” he says. “I can show you power like you’ve never wielded before.” he says. “You shall be a great and feared Sith Lord,” he says. “Have some hot chocolate, you look cold,” he says. “Put on a sweater.” Savage, slightly bemused, comes to terms with the fact that he’s just been adopted.

It’s Maul who figures it out, of course. How could he not? He was raised by Sidious. He knows how devious he is, how his plans have layers upon layers, backups upon backups, contingencies stacked from here to the Outer Rim. Once Sidious moves, you can be sure that any reasonable outcome will be in his favor, because he has completely engineered the situation before you were even aware it existed.

The Sith caused the war and are playing both sides. The Sith caused the clones to be commissioned (these things are trivially easy to figure out, if you’re paying attention). The Sith want the Jedi dead.

“Contingencies,” Maul mutters. “It’s always a trap, and there’s always contingencies.”

When he finds the chip in Rex’s head, he shakes with rage and refuses to talk to anyone, fearing, for the first time in years, that he will lose control and hurt someone he loves. It is Rex who talks him down, who manages to get close to him, who embraces him and lets him cry on his shoulder, then scream and rage and punch the walls. When Maul is able to explain, Rex has to choke back his own terrified, horrified sobs. He holds them back, and calmly looks at Maul and says “What are you going to do about it?”

The surgery, they discover, is simple enough. An astromech can do it in two minutes (C2PO can do it in seventy seconds, and Artoo can’t stand it). When Anakin is told, he goes quiet for a minute, and when he looks back up, it is not Anakin, Rex’s friend, Maul’s kid, who is sitting at the table in the briefing room. It is He Who Walks in the Sky, Huttslayer, Breaker of Chains, who looks back at them. Anakin Skywalker has always wanted nothing more than to free all the slaves. And Anakin Skywalker’s destiny has always been to do what he wanted.

They tell Cody. They modify their plans. They quietly contact medics throughout the GAR, and Artoo quietly sends the details to every military astromech he trusts. When the army is safe from Sidious’ control, Anakin, Rex, and Maul conspire to lure him off of Coruscant. Maul takes over Mandalore, exiling the duchess and announcing a New Sith Empire. Sidious shows up, declaring that Maul has become a rival, disowning his former apprentice and attacking him, with intent to kill. Savage loses an arm. Maul almost loses his life. But as he lies on the ground at Sidious’s feet, arms trembling with the effort of holding the parry keeping Sidious’ saber from his throat, he hears “We’ve got the face shot! Go, go go!” in his earpiece. Gunfire, real slugthrowers, difficult to block with a saber, erupts around him. C3PO and his arsenal, along with Fives, Jesse, and Echo, the 501st’s best ARC troopers, open fire on Sidious. The Sith is forced to back away, raising a hand to stop the bullets in midair. Maul leaps to his feet, and Anakin joins him, lightsaber drawn.

The fight is quick, but brutal. Maul’s hands threaten to tremble with terror, facing down the horror of his childhood, the monster whose treatment of him is woven fundamentally into his psyche, whose shadow has haunted Maul all his life, and still invades his dreams. But he reaches out to his family, to Rex, beside him, steady, full of faith in him, to Anakin, a blazing sun of love and anger, a shield of raw power, and to Shmi, all the way in her Senate offices on Coruscant, cool and calm and soothing like a desert spring as ever-present as the stars. His hands do not tremble. He raises his lightsaber against his master, beside the blade of his son. Together, they beat the Sith Lord back. Anakin binds the Sith’s blade, knees him in the ribs, and while Sidious is thus occupied, Maul cuts his head off.

“You were a terrible parent,” he pants, and spits on the corpse. Then, he collapses, and Rex is there to catch him, and Maul clings to him and shakes, and cries. Anakin reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, and Rex pulls him in with a look, and together, they surround Maul, a bulwark against the rest of the world, a safe circle for him to fall apart for a little bit. At some point, one of them unstraps the small camera that Maul had been wearing on his chest. Ahsoka has, at that point, already sent the footage to every major news office on Coruscant.

That evening, plastered all over the galactic news, is a video of the Chancellor himself, showing up on a neutral world and attacking its sovereign leader, wielding red lightsabers of all things. And it’s obviously the Chancellor; there’s a clear shot of his face when he knocks Mandalore’s ruler to the ground and the camera gets a good view right up into his hood.

It’s a massive scandal. One tabloid shows the footage with a little counter in the corner, counting up every treaty and galactic law that Palpatine violates onscreen. The only thing that saves Palpatine from impeachment and arrest is the fact that he’s already dead. Inquiries are launched, investigators are sanctioned, documents and hard drives and testimony are subpoena’ed. Padme (the Senator, not the Rancor), spearheads the investigative committee, and within a month, they’ve uncovered decades worth of bribes, backroom deals, contracts with droid manufacturers, clear evidence of Palpatine authorizing Republic funds for weaponry that went straight to the Separatists, and even communication records between the Chancellor and the two military leaders of the Separatists. Grievous and Ventress go into hiding (the Tales of Grievous and Ventress, unlikely buddies forced on an intergalactic road trip on the run from the cops, is a story for a different absurdly long post at 3am). The Separatists break down in chaos, and the war grinds to a halt. In the middle of all the political hurricane, Cody enacts his plan, and the entire GAR simultaneously deserts, and fucks directly off to Tatooine. This ignites another scandal, with Senators calling for Tatooine’s expulsion from the Republic. Shmi stands in her Senate Pod, hands tucked into her roughspun sleeves, listening attentively while Senator Burtoni of Kamino accuses her of theft.

“If Tatooine does not return the stolen military assets, the Senate may sanction the use of force!” the Senator from Ryloth threatens.

“Pardon me,” Shmi says, “May I ask what army the Senate is planning sending to invade Tatooine? I was under the impression that the only Republic army was already there.” There’s a bit of an awkward silence.

In the middle of the shitstorm, before Shmi is arrested and Anakin declared an enemy of the state, Shmi’s lawsuit finally receives a ruling. And just like that, the clones are legally free. And the judge orders the Senate to pay reparations. Anakin cackles with glee when he hears.

Rex and Cody, with the full support of the people of Tatooine, begin the long, hard, work of resettling their brothers and building a life for the vod’e. Shmi files a lawsuit against the Zygerrian Empire. Savage receives a new arm, courtesy of Anakin, who may or may not have added a few extra utilities to it. Ahsoka is knighted, and controversially invites Anakin to be present at the ceremony, along with Obi-Wan. Maul admits, very quietly and where only Rex can hear, that he doesn’t actually want to poison him. “I know,” Rex says, smiling at him. Anakin, meanwhile, finally marries Padme, the love of his life (the Senator, not the Rancor).

And in Mos Eisly, there is a stone slab, pulled from a crumbled wall and stuck upright in the ground in the middle of the square. No one knows who put it there, but someone carved fifty-seven names into the stone. The fifty-seven names of the clone troopers who died defending Tatooine from the Separatist army, at the beginning of the war. The last slaves to spill their blood on the sands of Tatooine.

#maul adopts anakin #and invents a new kind of sith #which is almost nothing like the old kind of sith #just co-opts the name really #rex/maul #kinda? it wasn't on purpose it just happened #my writing #maulusque's writing #might slap this up on ao3 later #we'll see

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

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Prologue (CHAN) - |Breathe, and Live|

And so we begin the fluff :) Enjoy single dad chan!

Pairing: Chan x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, slice of life, single parent!au

Triggers: allusions to sex

Word Count: 1.7k

Chan is lost, so lost, and sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in. But he’ll make it, he knows. He has to, for the two little boys cradled in his arms who he loves more than anything he has in the world.

SKZ Masterlist | Breathe, and Live | Touching Stars (TBZ teacher!au)

She tells him at precisely five fourteen in the afternoon, voice dead but panicked, on a crowded bus full of people, words crackling over the phone.

“Chan, I’m pregnant.”

The walls are silent. His laptop, too, since he paused the track to pick up the call. He can’t speak, can’t breathe. It deafens him. It squeezes at his head, pounds against his temples, fills his ears with static buzzing.

His vision blurs. Something rises in his throat.

Chan thinks he might throw up.

How? his mind screams. He’s always been careful, always used a condom. She takes birth control, takes the pill every morning after. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fucking make sense.

But you can never be sure, the rational part of his brain unhelpfully supplies.

The droning voice of his old sex-ed teacher back in Australia fills his mind. “The only way to be sure is to practice abstinence.”

Back then, he’d snorted quietly in the back with his friends, elbowed them and smirked and didn’t bother paying attention to the rest of the lecture. What was the point, anyway? Chan may not be as cautious as his parents – the impulse decision to stay in Korea for university, even after his family moved back, is proof of that – but he’s tried to be careful with this. Cautious, respectful, caring.

That kind of thing would never happen to him.

Somewhere, somehow, he hears her saying his name. Between the noise in the background and the ringing in his ears, it’s muffled. Disjointed.

“Okay,” he manages to choke out. “Okay.”

What else can he say?

Her voice sounds hoarse now, even over the tinny phone speakers. She’s crying, or on the verge of it – Chan’s known her long enough recognize the catch in her words that signals the lump in her throat. “I – Chan, I don’t –” She gasps. “I don’t think I want to keep it.”

It takes a moment to understand. But the minute he does, there’s only horror. Sharp, clear, precise. It pierces his chest, breaking through the foggy cloud of his brain.

He wants to scream, yell at her, how could she think of that? How could she not want to keep the child that’s depending on her?

But his sister’s voice cuts through his swirling thoughts. “No uterus, no opinion.” Hannah’s dark eyes, quiet but challenging, flash across the restaurant table, voice cutting through the debate going on across from her. “You don’t own anyone’s body but your own.”

He’d agreed then. He still agrees now.

So he takes a deep breath and tries to understand. They’re young. Stupid. He’s in his last year of university, she’s on a gap year. They’re barely old enough to function in society on their own. It’s understandable. And more importantly, it’s her body. Her choice.

Another deep breath, a bit shakier this time. He settles his mind. “Come home first,” he says quietly, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “Come home first. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”

There’s a sniff on the other end. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”

The call ends. Chan sits still for a moment, staring at some random section of the wall, thinking but not really seeing. The paint is peeling. The lights are glaring. The university studio, the place he thinks of essentially as a second home, suddenly feels cloistering. Unwelcoming. It feels like some disgusting, warped metaphor for his life.

He buries his head in his hands and tries to breathe.

. . .

Chan can barely face her parents. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He really wants to tell things upfront, give them his apologies and promise that he’ll do anything to help them out, but they just look at him with smoldering, narrowed eyes. There’s no endearment in her mother’s expression anymore, no quiet pride in her father’s, as though he was another son. There’s only hatred. Disgust. Disappointment.

With a thick tongue and embarrassment coloring his face, he swears up and down that they used protection. She doesn’t say anything, just looks down with a sort of hopeless expression on her face and occasionally nods or shakes her head in accordance with what he’s saying.

They blame him. That much is certain. Privately, Chan thinks that’s a little unfair, but given that the woman bears the brunt of the pregnancy much more than the man, he lets it go. It’s understandable. After all, he blames himself a lot, too.

His parents act a little better. They’ve known him for all twenty-one years of his life, known how he always tries to treat people with respect, with care. Chan can still hear the disappointment and worry in their hushed voices over the phone, but it’s okay. It’s better than hatred.

She doesn’t want the child, she makes that clear. Her parents don’t want it either. They want to adopt it out.

On the other hand, Chan, well… it’s fucking hard. He’s barely finished with university, barely gotten started with his life. And he’s in the damn music industry. Unless he makes it big, there won’t be a lot of opportunities to sort out his life.

But he wants the child. Even though it’s going to be difficult taking care of her through the pregnancy, then making a path with the baby in tow, he wants it. He doesn’t want to give this up.

So they settle. She’ll have the baby. Once it’s born, she’ll take care of some of the bills if she can. Otherwise, Chan is the guardian.

It isn’t so bad, not at first. There’s the morning sickness to contend with, but they live together. It isn’t too hard for Chan to take some time to take care of her. They make the doctor’s trips together, and seven weeks into the pregnancy, they find out they’re having twins.

(Well, Chan is having twins. Her face screws up just the slightest amount, not in disgust but not in something nice either. Chan elects to ignore it and focuses on his own happiness.)

He works like a madman, sending off tracks to companies, submitting others for homework. He performs when he can, picking up any possible extra paychecks. She works, too, so money isn’t an issue yet. Chan also thanks all the higher beings above that she’s on a gap year, so he’s the only one adding homework to the equation.

The storm starts brewing in the fifth or sixth month, maybe. They’re having two boys, and they like to remind her that they’re there. She doesn’t feel well a lot of the time and has the crankiness to prove it. Still, she helps when she doesn’t have cramps, though she does complain about the weight gain.

But the number of nights where they’re up at odd hours only increases. The boys like to kick. Their mother wants to scream. Chan doesn’t even think he has a brain at this point – any cells up in his head have just been pounded to mush.

On one bad night, when she’s almost crying of exhaustion and the babies won’t stop fucking moving, Chan brings out his laptop. His fingers fly over the keyboard, tweaking soft beats, changing notes, composing a short little melody.

It’s rough, nothing substantial, something completely opposite from the polished tracks he makes for class. No lyrics. There’s just a simple piano melody backed by some guitar chords and it’s probably not going to do anything to help but Chan’s this close to just ripping out his hair and screaming for the entire city of Seoul to hear. He has to try something.

He almost deletes the track by mistake and has a mini heart attack, but he saves it with shaking fingers and brings the laptop over to the bed. She’s lying there, hair a mess, eyes red, but there’s some relief in her gaze as he puts the device on the sheets next to her and hits play.

It works. It fucking works. The babies slowly stop kicking, and she eventually falls asleep.

For just a moment, Chan sits on the edge of the bed and takes in the calm, soaks in the silence broken only by the track playing softly in the background. He rubs his eyes once, twice, clears the fog that obscured his vision.

Maybe he can do this. Maybe he can raise these two kids, even if he’s the only parent they have. Maybe there’s the tiniest fucking chance in the world that he can really be a good father, someone for his children to look up to and love. Maybe there’s a chance that he can really have this family.

Four months later, she gives birth to two healthy baby boys. Jisung is born first at 11:58 p.m. on September 14, while Yongbok comes next at 12:11 a.m. on September 15.

Chan holds them close as soon as he’s able, in awe of their tiny faces, their tiny limbs and tiny eyes.

How did he manage to create such life?

“Give them English names,” she says tiredly, her voice barely a whisper. She looks at them too, a bit sadly, with some care, but distantly. “They’re yours.”

A tinge of bitterness spikes in his chest, but it dissolves as he looks back into the faces of his two boys. She’s right. They are his. So he decides on Peter for the baby beginning to wake on his left arm, and Felix for the boy still sleeping soundly on his right.

She’s up and out of the hospital in a matter of days. A week later, she moves back into her parents’ home, leaving Chan standing in the doorway of their apartment, two babies in his arms.

“We’ll make it together,” he whispers, watching her car disappear down the street. “Together.”

Jisung makes a little gurgling sound. Felix scrunches his nose.

The tiniest of smiles slides across Chan’s face. Yes. They’ll make it together.

He takes a breath, then heads back inside.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for Chan, he’s going to need it :/)

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goodlucktai · 4 years ago

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the ship sways but the heart is steady

chapter one: the ship sways

the untamed pairing: jiang cheng & wei ying, lan zhan/wei ying word count: 2549 summary: Wei Ying’s friends are at rock-bottom, and Wei Ying puts his life on hold to help them put theirs back together. To absolutely no one’s surprise except Wei Ying’s, his family goes with him. read on ao3

During family dinner, Wei Ying’s phone rings, cutting mother off mid-sentence.

Jiang Cheng cringes inwardly and his brother’s face goes two shades paler. They have guests over, so mother doesn’t do more than glare hatefully in Wei Ying’s direction.

She won’t make a scene in front of Yanli’s husband, or even Wei Ying’s fiancé—Jin Zixuan is everything Yu Ziyuan wants in a match for her daughter, and Lan Zhan’s family is one of the richest on the East Coast.

Lan Zhan is also willing to give as good as he gets. His eyes are already narrowing in mother’s direction, the tentative ceasefire of family dinner wobbling precariously beneath their feet as he perceives the great and unforgivable offense of insult to Wei Ying. A-Li resolutely tries to pick the conversation back up from where it lulled, with all the steely resolve of someone throwing herself into the path of a rampaging bull. Jin Zixuan has graduated from grimacing into his wineglass to gazing hopefully at the clock every three minutes.

Always willing to fall on the grenade, Wei Ying ducks his head meekly.

“Sorry, I thought I silenced it,” he says, the shape of a laugh in his voice even if he can’t manage to drag it all the way out. He’s rummaging his cellphone out of his pocket, presumably to turn it off as a gesture of good faith. “I’ll just…”

But his eyes catch on the screen, and something happens to his expression that Jiang Cheng has never seen before.

Wei Ying stands up, so abruptly his chair sails back with an awful screech, and excuses himself. Lan Zhan follows him out of the dining room without a single word or a backwards glance. That’s all it takes for mother to pick up a scathing tirade against Jiang Cheng’s good-for-nothing, ungrateful, waste-of-space brother.

He joins Jin Zixuan in watching the clock. Worry swims in the back of his mind like a school of startled fish.

Wei Ying’s apartment is really actually Lan Zhan’s apartment, but the two of them have been inseparable since they were fourteen, and it naturally followed that where one of them would live, so would the other. The place is ridiculous, modern and minimalist, and it would look like something out of a magazine if not for Wei Ying’s inevitable clutter. But even the stacks of books and magazines, and haphazard easels, and little jars of paints and loose brushes everywhere manage to make the place seem charming and lived-in instead of the horrible disaster tornado it rightly should be.

Jiang Cheng asked him once what the monthly rent was but Wei Ying looked so haunted by the question that Jiang Cheng decided he didn’t actually want to know.

They’re all crammed into the conversation pit, recovering from family dinner in the usual fashion. Jin Zixuan is much more likable when his tie is loose and he’s nursing a lukewarm beer.

A-Li is clinging to Jiang Cheng’s hand so hard he’s beginning to lose circulation but he’d sooner agree to amputate than he would shake her off.

“You’re on speaker, A-Qing,” Wei Ying says with mock-severity. “Keep it PG for the children in the room, please.”

“So Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan are there?” Wen Qing asks rhetorically.

Jin Zixuan sighs but doesn’t rise to it. Jiang Cheng snaps, “Listen, assholes,” partly out of half-hearted irritation, and partly to hear Wen Qing sigh the way she does when she doesn’t want to reward someone with a real laugh.

“Yanli and Lan Zhan are here, too,” Wei Ying says cheerfully. His tone doesn’t match how worried his eyes are. “This is a family-only meeting. So tell us what those texts were about.”

Jiang Cheng realizes right away why Wei Ying bailed on dinner.

There was an apartment fire. The Wens lost everything. Wen Ning is in the hospital with smoke inhalation and second-degree burns because he ran in to make sure their neighbors got out safely. All of their savings are wrapped up in putting Wen Qing through medical school. She’s adrift now in a way that Jiang Cheng has never been.

“There’s... we have an old house, somewhere out in the country. It was sold to my grandparents cheap, but they never got around to renovating it. It’s not even livable, just bare bones.”

A-Li starts crying the second Wen Qing does.

“It’s too much,” Wen Qing forces out. “I can’t do this on my own.”

Wei Ying, to his credit, actually does hesitate. A whole five seconds. And then he says, “I thought you were supposed to be my smart friend. Who said you were doing this on your own?”

He says it as easily as if it was an absolute given that he would turn his whole life around and upside down for her. All she had to do was call.

There is a minor disagreement between Jiang Cheng’s siblings.

“A-Li,” Wei Ying says, holding both of her hands in both of his own and looking deeply, imploringly, into her eyes. “You’re way too pregnant to fly.”

Her face crinkles alarmingly, eyes already red and puffy from recent tears. Jiang Cheng, Jin Zixuan and Lan Zhan tense in exactly the same way, at the same time.

“I won’t have you going all the way to California by yourself,” Yanli says in her most eldest-sibling tone of voice. “I won’t have it, A-Ying.”

“I am a grown-up,” Wei Ying points out gently, with all the wisdom of his twenty-four years. “I pay bills and have a job I hate and everything. And I won’t be by myself, I’ll have A-Qing and A-Ning.”

“And me, obviously,” Jiang Cheng grumbles. Wei Ying whips around to stare at him.

“Oh,” Yanli says, a blanket of relief rolling across her face. “Oh, of course.”

“You can’t,” Wei Ying hisses at him, looking more panicked now than he has all night. “Your mother—”

“Okay, first of all, don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Jiang Cheng bites back, prickly with worry for the Wens and worry for his idiot brother. “Secondly, you, going by yourself, is not an option. It’s off the table. It was never on the table. Stupid,” he adds, on principle.

Lan Zhan doesn’t contribute much to the conversation at this point but Jiang Cheng learned a long time ago that that doesn’t mean shit. Lan Zhan has more opinions than any three people combined, whether or not he chooses to voice them. There is no fucking way he doesn’t have thoughts about his fiance picking up and moving nearly three thousand miles away.

Maybe there’s some strange alternate timeline out there where he would be content to stay behind and let Wei Ying go off without him, but Jiang Cheng would bet his entire trust fund that that’s simply not happening here.

If ever there was a world where Wei Ying would be backed into a corner and forced to help the Wens alone, this world isn’t it.

There’s a minor disagreement between his siblings, and there’s a whole fucking nuclear fallout at home.

“I forbid it,” mother snaps. She’s livid, but she’s livid so much of the time that it started losing its edge a few years ago. “Absolutely not. I refuse to allow this family to lose face because you want to gallivant across the country for some charity case.”

Jiang Cheng sees it when Wei Ying’s posture changes. The dreamy raincloud gray of Wei Ying’s eyes hardens into heavy steel, and his spine stiffens, and his shoulders go back; the absolute opposite of his downcast self at dinner earlier. He’s willing to fight any impossible battle as long as it’s for someone else.

Jiang Cheng grew up looking up to him. He spent all of his formative years as Wei Ying’s little brother. That’s why he’s willing, too.

“The Wens aren’t a charity case,” he says. Not very loud, but he says it. It’s a lot more than he could have done when he was a kid.

“You don’t even know them! They’re just some random people on the Internet. They’re probably scamming you, and you’re both idiot enough to fall for it!”

That’s so untrue and unfair that Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to argue for a moment. They’ve never met the Wens in person, but Wei Ying has been friends with them since he was ten. They mail each other presents for Christmas and birthdays. Jiang Cheng distinctly remembers calling Wen Qing for help with biochem homework, multiple times. Wen Ning always Skyped with Yanli when he was stuck on a recipe, the two of them cooking together from three time zones apart. They’re all tangled up in each other’s lives, comfortably, irrevocably.

Of course we know them, Jiang Cheng thinks, bewildered.

Out loud, he says, “They’re not scamming us. And we already told them we’re coming.”

Mother screeches and storms around the house and throws things, but she hasn’t actually hit either of them since they grew taller than her. She hasn’t been a source of real fear since Jiang Cheng started looking down at her instead of looking up. It’s mostly just miserable to be around her now.

He remembers that fear, though. It sticks to his body like a half-healed scar. It reminds him to flinch.

It’s early enough in the morning that it might as well still be nighttime when Jiang Cheng and his suitcases finally show up at Wei Ying’s building. He leaves his luggage in the lobby under the watchful gaze of the concierge and takes the private elevator up, keying in the code to his brother’s apartment.

The doors roll open to the living room. Lan Zhan is holding a tiny animal carrier in his hands, gazing at Wei Ying in an extremely gross and smitten way while Wei Ying discusses the upcoming trip with their pets. Pidan and Bao are not being particularly attentive, snuffling at his chin and chewing on a piece of his hair respectively.

“Diedie has decided to be stubborn and not listen to good sense,” Wei Ying is telling the rabbits seriously, “so you’re coming with me and ruining your life instead of being safe and comfortable here at home.”

“Baba is being dramatic,” Lan Zhan informs them in turn. “And also foolish, if he doesn’t realize that our home is wherever he goes.”

“This is the weirdest domestic scene I’ve ever walked into,” Jiang Cheng says loudly, since apparently the telltale ding of the elevator wasn’t enough to announce his presence. He has to interrupt before they do something horrible, like make out in front of him. It’s a constant fucking risk with these two. “Are we leaving or what?”

So the rabbits go into their crate with a frankly absurd amount of fanfare and Jiang Cheng helps wrestle the luggage downstairs. By then, the shuttle that Lan Zhan ordered is waiting for them at the curb.

He knows it isn’t going to be a vacation. Wei Ying’s friends are at rock-bottom, and Wei Ying has essentially put his life on hold to help them put theirs back together. It’s going to be hard work. It’s probably going to be painful, and a little bit scary.

Jiang Cheng is only involved because he chose to be, but it never occurs to him to choose anything else.

If this is where his brother is going, it’s probably the right place to go. And if it’s not, if the whole thing turns out to be a horrible mistake and he regrets all of it, then at least he’ll be in good company.

Wen Ning is out of the hospital by the time their plane lands, and he’s waiting with Wen Qing at the airport. Wei Ying, who by all accounts should feel as foggy and queasy as Jiang Cheng definitely does, drops his bags and sprints across the terminal towards them.

Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan follow at a more reasonable human pace, possibly in part to give the friends a few moments together. The busy airport traffic moves around them like a river flowing around a rock.

Wen Ning is sobbing, almost a full head taller than Wei Ying but buried against him like the little brother he is. Wen Qing is leaning quietly against the two of them with her eyes closed, as if filling her reserves and shoring up her strength.

She’s the type of person who would be able to cow his mother with a single glance, Jiang Cheng thinks admiringly, and more efficiently than Lan Zhan ever could. She must have a spine built out of steel to be able to stand there without crumbling under the weight of what she’s lost.

And Wei Ying stands there holding them up, tireless and steady. He’s talking too quietly for Jiang Cheng to hear, saying something that makes Wen Ning nod against his shoulder. He’ll hold them up until the ground falls out from under his feet if he has to. Thankfully it’s more like three minutes.

Introductions aren’t necessary. They all just trade exhausted looks and move as a cohesive unit towards the doors.

Wen Ning starts to help with the bags, bandaged hands and all. Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng both snap at him before he can so much as touch a suitcase, and then he just waffles in place anxiously, like he doesn’t know how to person if he isn’t actively being helpful.

“Hold the kids,” Wei Ying says in the spirit of compromise, taking the pet crate from Lan Zhan and holding it out to Wen Ning instead.

Somehow, they shuffle everything out of the airport and into a rental car. Lan Zhan’s phone starts to blow up as soon as he turns airplane mode off, so he turns airplane mode back on and returns the phone to his pocket.

“My uncle has checked the credit card statement,” Lan Zhan says calmly. “My brother is handling it.”

“Poor Lan Huan,” Wei Ying murmurs.

“We have to call A-Li,” Jiang Cheng remembers with a jolt. He digs his own phone out. “She wanted us to call as soon as we landed.”

Everyone clusters in close for the FaceTime call with Yanli, who is tearful and hormonal and indignant about being left behind. Jiang Cheng begs her not to get into a fight with their mother over this. Yanli raises her chin and says, “We’ll see.”

It’s a very long drive to the estate. Wei Ying’s head sinks against Lan Zhan’s shoulder in an inevitable, unstoppable act of gravity. He falls asleep within minutes.

“You have to help me thank him,” Wen Qing says quietly, tapping anxious fingers against the steering wheel. “Help me figure out how to thank him.”

Jiang Cheng snorts, not unkindly. “What makes you think I know how?”

An entire childhood spent raising each other, protecting each other, annoying the shit out of each other, and there are still some things Jiang Cheng has no idea how to say to his brother in a way that he’ll understand. Like I’m sorry, and thank you.

Lan Zhan turns his head to the side, so that his cheek is pillowed against Wei Ying’s hair. Outside, the sprawling California countryside sprints past the windows, wild and golden under a relentless summer sun.

#mo dao zu shi #the untamed #mdzs #wangxian #yunmeng shuangjie #jiang cheng #wei ying #lan zhan #wen ning #wen qing #jiang yanli #my writing #mdzs fic #it was only a matter of time fellas #the ship sways

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something-fanfiction-ie · 5 years ago

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Tips and Tricks

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Spencer scares you for a second. And your mom is disappointed.

A/N: I know I have so many things going at once but I couldn’t help myself with this! I’m sorry. Forgive me. Like, comment, reblog, send me asks and shit. I love you! Enjoy!

___

A true book enthusiast knows that the most beautiful smell in the world can be found in the middle of a book. Whether it’s old and it’s pages are yellowed with age, or its so new that the text wipes off onto your hands when you open the cover, the smell is like a drug that gets your engine running the way no actual drug ever could.

It’s that thought that makes your pull your car into the nearly deserted parking lot of the bookstore as the rain crashes around you. You’ve seen enough ID Channel to know that waiting for the storm to pass while parked on the side of the road is about as dangerous as walking into a serial killer club meeting with a sign around your neck that reads, ‘kill me, I look like every person who has ever wronged you in life.’

Pulling your bag up over your head, you dash inside as fast as you can. The bell rings through the empty store, the smell of books hitting your senses and putting you at ease.

Even with your bag over your head, your hair is drenched and your clothes stick to your body in the most uncomfortable way possible. The store is manned by one forlorn looking teenage girl with short black hair, you can hear the gum she’s smacking behind the desk from four feet away.

Classical music filters down from the speakers, nestling among the thousands of books that take up every available space in the room. While some books fill the floor to ceiling bookshelves, the rest have been stacked on the floor like a maze of knowledge. Some stacks go up so high that even if you stand on your toes and stretch your arm as high as you could, you would still be a good ten five-hundred paged books from the top.

Every turn into the book maze reveals another secret of the store, like the collection of vinyls tucked into a corner beneath a record player that is older than your grandmother. Down a narrow path of towering novels, is a small reading nook with two red armchairs that have seen their fair share of readers.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon the house of an immortal book-lover, the rugs that stretch across the floor feeling just as ancient as the words around you. But it’s peaceful, relaxing. You find yourself humming along to Chopin’s Nocturnes, Op. 9: No. 2, the spines of books bumping under your finger. Unsure how the books are organized, or even if they are, you’ve decided to look at the book your finger is on once the song is over.

When the last notes fade into a brief quietness, you stop on a book written by a ‘David Rossi.’ You can’t help the breathy laugh that comes from your chest in surprise that the first book you look at is a true crime novel.

Ever since you were a little girl, stealing your mom’s police badge to play ‘cops and robbers,’ and sneaking into her office to read case files you weren’t supposed to, you’d been in love with the puzzle-solving of the investigative world. You’ve always had a mind for finding clues no one thought to look for, it was the only reason you didn’t get in trouble when you left sticky notes full of observations and theories in your mother’s case files.

It was this background that made everyone around you so sure you would become a detective just like your mom. It was this same background that surprised everyone when you became an author instead. To say your mother was disappointed was an understatement, she’d been the most shocked when you showed her a four hundred page manuscript instead of an application for the police academy.

“Who gets a master’s in criminology only to write books?!”

Even still, she was the dedication in every book you published. So far, that was two, you’d been in the midst of your third book for four months now. Something about the story didn’t feel right, and no matter how many times you rewrote every page, it still didn’t click together the way the first two books had.

You don’t let the thought bug you as you flip open the hardcover, the pages falling to the side as you read the synopsis printed to the inside flap. The ringing of the bell barely registers in your mind, falling somewhere behind the book in your hands, the sound of the rain beating at the roof, and Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. After reading the first page, you decide to give the book a chance and you tuck it beneath your arm for safe keeping.

This time, you turn your eyes up to the tops of the shelves, scanning for something that might be interesting. Each binding tells a story of its own, with spines creased from frequent readings or smooth spines begging to be cracked open. There are titles in gold and black, silver and red, the backgrounds varying in more colors than the words.

By the time you’ve wandered back to the reading nook with armchairs strategically placed to face each other at a diagonal, Beethoven is coming to a close. The notes vibrate for just a moment, and you choose the book tucked into the end with a dark purple cover and gold lettering. You can’t quite see the title but something tells you that this is something you want to read, that this books is going to be a good one.

Call it a reader’s instinct.

It’s just that, there are no step ladders to get to the top shelf and you aren’t exactly tall enough to reach it. Climbing the shelf just sounds dangerous, and you aren’t too eager to die at the hands of hundreds of books and a large bookcase. You contemplate moving one of the armchairs to assist you, but ultimately decide against it when you imagine that teenage girl coming to the back with a disappointed look on her face at the sight of you.

Instead you stretch like your life depends on it, your toes cramping a little as you push up on them as high as you can go. The tips of your fingers bump the spine when you curve your hand around the lip of the shelf. The wood digs into your wrist but maybe if you keep pushing and pulling at what you can grab, it will wiggle itself free.

That’s your plan until a warm body unintentionally brushes against you, an arm longer than yours coming up beside you and taking the book from its place up high with ease. Falling back to your feet, you’re quick to turn around and come face to face with a man you’ve never met before.

His expression is kind and gentle, crinkling his eyes and dimpling his cheeks when he offers you a shy smile and the book he grabbed for you. He’s definitely in the department of tall, tilting his head down a little to meet your gaze with eyes that you can’t quite describe as brown but you can’t quite describe as hazel either. Everything about him makes your heart stutter in your chest, from the color and shape of his lips, to the sharp cut of his jawline.

He’s curls himself down a little, his empty hand palm up and open as if he is trying to seem less threatening. It’s such a stark contrast to most of the men you meet, who invade your personal space and eyeball your breasts like they’re human bra size detectors.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring until he clear his throat, a dusty pink color rising to his cheekbones as he shuffles nervously in his spot. Blinking away the cloud of initial shock from the angelic being before you, you grab the book and mumble a ‘thank you.’

“Are you a big fan of David Rossi?” He says, shoving his hands deep into the recesses of his pockets.

“Who?” Internally, your facepalm yourself at the absolute stupidity that must be radiating off of you in waves strong enough to affect the whole population of Virginia.

“You’re holding two of his books.” Sure enough, not only is the book tucked under your arm David Rossi, but so is the book in your hands. The laugh that sputters out of you is even more surprised than the first laugh, the sheer coincidence of grabbing two random books by the same author in this whole building pulling the laughter from the pits of your stomach.

His lips flicker into a confused smile. It makes him that much more adorable.

“I was choosing books my eyes or finger landed on when the song ended. I couldn’t really figure out how everything is arranged so I thought I’d let the music decide for me.” He looks around now, his male-lead, love-interest eyes flying across the room to confirm that there really was no form of originization, his brows furrowing in thought. His bottom lips is sucked between his teeth and the vividness of the lewd fantasies that come from the small action are enough to push you back a step.

Only, you’re already pretty close to the bookcase, and when you step back to get some distance your back bumps into the wood and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head to keep it from hitting the corner. You’re not even sure how he knew to react so fast, those eyes coming back to meet yours.

“Careful there, your head almost hit the shelf behind you.” Putting just a little pressure on the back of your neck to guide you out of harms way, he doesn’t let go until his back is to the case and you’re standing in his old spot. The new smile he gives you is lopsided, causing your heart to trip over itself. What you wouldn’t give in that moment to capture that smile on camera or canvas, to hold onto it forever.

You don’t even know this man, what are you thinking?!

Pulling the books to your chest like a shield for your heart, which has digressed to the same emotional maturity you had as a thirteen year old girl when you were in love with every member of New Kids On the Block, you tighten your grip around the covers to the point that your knuckles turn white.

“I’m (Y/N).” Somehow his smile brightens even more.

“I’m Spencer.”

“Are you hiding from the rain too, Spencer?” Everything about you hates small talk, you always wanted to jump straight into the nitty gritty of getting to know someone. You wanted to know what made them tick, what made them who they were. But you were willing to do the normal thing and lure him into an actual conversation, if only to keep him talking.

“Actually, I came to this bookshop with a specific purpose.” Spencer schools his features, suddenly all business. The brown blazer with elbow patches and the lavender button up certainly help to make him appear serious. You still imagine reaching for the dark purple tie around his neck and pulling his lips to yours, the severity of his expression only adding to his sexiness.

“I work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I came here because I’m in the middle of an investigation that led me here,” You blink in surprise, all kinds of questions popping into your mind. “You see, I got a tip that I may find it here. I wasn’t sure, but after some looking around it appears they were right.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, thinking of all the local cases you’ve heard about in the last week or so. Nothing that would involve the FBI comes to mind, especially not the BAU.

Between the end of his sentence and the opening of your mouth, Spencer has time to reach out to the side of your head, his fingers brushing against a few strands of hair.

“I only want to know two things; how you got ahold of my favorite pen, and why you thought you could get away with it?” Balanced in his thumb and index finger is a black pen, the writing tip pointed toward the ceiling. He holds it between you, a silly grin stretched across his face as you reach up to touch your ear.

Of course you’ve seen the old ‘coin behind the ear’ trick before, never with a pen but it’s the same concept. It’s just so funny and out-there that you cant help being a little amazed.

“Is this how you flirt with women, Agent?”

“Actually it’s Doctor. Doctor Reid,” he smugly goes about tucking the pen back into the breast pocket of his blazer, you can briefly recall it being there before he distracted you by switching places just seconds ago, “I do work with the BAU, that wasn’t a ruse. I have my credentials if you want me to prove it.”

He isn’t boastful, he’s just trying to distract you from the answer to your question. The answer was yes, this is how he flirts with women. It was the only way he knew how to flirt with women that worked, having stuck to the method since Atlanta, Georgia. You wouldn’t be the first woman who thought it was cute, you were the first woman to call him on it though.

“As long as you don’t try to arrest me for the kidnapping of your pen, I’ll be inclined to believe you without proof.” He chuckles, the first time you’ve heard it since the both of you started talking, and you didn’t realize he could get better. The sound warmed every part of you so much that you felt like you were glowing from inside.

“I knew you were framed. I’ve had my suspicions on the girl running the store.” You nod your head, trying to keep the smile from pulling on your lips as you tuck a piece of your still wet hair behind your ear.

“I knew something hinky was happening with her.”

“My best law enforcement advice is to always trust your gut when it comes to crime, ma’am.”

With the ice broken thanks to the magical Dr. Reid, the conversation flows naturally between you. You both gravitate toward each other like opposite ends of magnets, unaware how close you are to touching until you absentmindedly kick your foot out and hit the tip of his shoe with your own. In an attempt to keep yourself rooted, you sit in the armchairs.

Anyone, FBI profiler or not, would have been able to tell what was going on when they found you both leaned against the arms of your seats, heads together as Reid explained how the serious looking man in the back of your book is actually one of his team members. He names all of his team members, affectionately describing them to you as if they were characters in a new book you were reading.

Normally he would keep all of this information reserved, but something about you made him feel so at ease.

You too, reveal more information than you normally would to a stranger you’d just met. You tell him about your books and your mother, you tell him how you aren’t sure why your newest book isn’t working and ask his advice on it all. He takes each question into careful consideration before answering.

It isn’t until you’ve been there for two hours, talking about anything that you could think of, that Spencer’s phone starts to ring. It’s a case. You want to ask, the young girl from your childhood coming out at the mention of a case you could help on, but you don’t.

“I’m really sorry, (Y/N), but I have to go.” He fluidly rises from his seat, all at once the carefree air falls around him to reveal the intelligent, elegant, crime-fighting, doctor underneath the nerdy, magic-loving young man you’d spent the last couple of hours getting to know.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” You offer, hoping to figure out a way to cheekily ask for his number before you make it there. His answering smile is infectious, reaching out and tugging your own cheeks into a smile that hurts. The books hit the wood of the desk with a thunk, Spencer standing just beside you as the girl, her name tag reads ‘RAveN,’ rings up your purchase.

“Watch out for your pens.” Spencer teases, that boy-like amusement coming out. You’ve noticed that when he tries to make a joke, he looks so nervous that you won’t get it in the seconds immediately following it. It isn’t until you laugh or crack a smile that he visibly relaxes, glad to have someone that understands his humor.

Earlier, he’d told you the joke about the existentialists and the light bulb and had been absolutely elated when you doubled over in laughter. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but he’d been making you laugh for so long that your ribs had started to hurt.

“That’ll be $12.78.” You slide your card across the desk, pulling your eyes away from Reid longer than you wanted to. When you look back, there’s a look on his face that takes you a minute to recognize. It’s just on the tip of your tongue when the smack of pen and receipt paper hit the counter.

Quickly, you sign your name on the stores copy of your receipt. You flip your copy of the receipt to the back, using the pen to scribble out your phone number.

“Call me if you ever learn any new magic tricks you want to show off.” The bell dings when you lean back against the door, your books in a bag that dangle from your left hand while your right hand comes up in a wave.

Spencer still stands at the counter, the one in a hurry being the one who still isn’t out the door. The lopsided smile is back, that look crossing his face again as you let the after-storm sun shine on your face.

“Sir, can you take your longing elsewhere? I’d like to close early. I have a thing to get to.” He pats his hand on the countertop, ignoring the buzzing of texts coming through his phone as he makes his way to the car in a bit of a daze.

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #criminal mind imagine #criminal minds

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tragidean · 3 years ago

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if you were to wake up [1.3k] (ao3)

Hunting involves an abundance of sound, from the noise of the road to the cracking of branches, to haggard, heavy breaths. Dean knows it intimately, how to differentiate between the engine tapping because it’s overheated or because the oil is low; how to locate a werewolf hiding behind a tree a few dozen feet away, purely from the pattern of their breathing; how to tell if someone is asleep or faking it. Downshifting big rigs, thunder from sudden storms, rain that keeps him stuck on the side of the road—he knows it all, has lived through every noise imaginable.

Except silence.

Gentle, the breeze blows through the open windows, bringing with it a shiver that seeps through Dean’s jeans and his T-shirt. Sunlight begins to paint the sky, transforming from abysmal blue to reds and oranges as the minutes pass. On his chest, someone sniffles and slings their arm around him. A hand clasps his shoulder; Dean blinks against the morning light and lets out a breath, long since held and trapped in his lungs.

Mornings like this, he can still feel the ache in his spine and the knot of flesh that Castiel couldn't heal, not this time. But he still tries when they’re close by pressing his hand to the mark, disguising it as a consoling touch. Dean knows what it means, and thanks him for the effort. By the time Castiel clawed his way free, the damage was done and healed, with only a scar to remember it by.

He doesn't like to think about it. Neither of them do, but the past is the past, and neither of them can change it, no matter how much they might want to.

But from of the pain comes this—mornings where Dean wakes to Castiel’s sleeping face, his eyes calm and his expression lax. tenderly, Dean brushes the hair out of his eyes and watches him sleep, his head resting atop Dean’s chest and a hand reaching out for him. Wherever Castiel touches him, the cold can’t reach; wherever Castiel touches him, Dean wants more. A knee between his thighs, a body nearly draped over his, soft breath against his chest—all of it warms Dean’s heart to the core and heals the chasm in his heart that’s been there for so long.

Slow and soft, Castiel breathes, in and out, a rhythm Dean matches, their hearts beating as one. Somewhere down the road, there’s a motel with a vacancy they could’ve filled. Somewhere down the road is a house that they’ve begun to call their home, with all of their things and a bed they spend most of their nights in, save for nights like these. Where the noise becomes too much to bear, and the Impala becomes their sanctuary.

The sun rises as it always does, in complete silence along the side of a barren stretch of road. Dean watches the colors bathe the ceiling of the Impala, and Castiel’s cheeks, tan skin glowing in the waning dark. For a while, Dean pets through his hair and holds him, an arm around his waist, hand settled atop his coat. All these years, and Castiel still refuses to hang it up, claiming that it’s become a part of him, like his wings. Dean thinks of it more as a security blanket, but he’s grown fond of it as well, from the way the fabric feels against his fingertips to the warmth it provides when Castiel drapes it over his shoulders when the weather grows cold.

Fall is well on its way. Dean shivers and draws Castiel closer, sneaking a kiss into his hair. Castiel snuffles, his fingers flexing where he holds onto Dean’s shoulder, and blinks, the blue of his eyes barely visible. Dean strokes his cheek, earning his full attention. “I can’t feel my leg.”

continue reading on ao3

#my writings #destiel #deancas anniversary #destiel anniversary #destiel fic #deancas fic #deancas #hello all it's anniversary time!!#have some fluffy fluff it's good stuff!!

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littlefreya · 5 years ago

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Nice day for a White Wedding

Summary: Even on your wedding day, there is no getting away from August. His grip over you has no boundaries.

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (you)

Word count: 3.3K

Warning: Explicit smutty smut, MaleDom/FemSub, stripping, spanking (rather hardcore this time), slight fingering, bondage, rough sex. Wheeeeee

A/N: So my amazing @agniavateira who is also my editor(!) challenged me to a request a while ago and it turned out Ummm more explicit than I thought. So I hope you guys don’t unfollow me after this but not blaming you if you will. Also the name, yes, I am a Billy Idol fan.

Title: Nice Day for a white wedding

White suits you well, a delicate contrast against the shade of your skin. That dress was, without doubt, a marvellous choice. Your mother complained about it being too simple, wanting you to pick something more extravagant. But you knew from the moment you saw it that this dress you wanted to get married in.

The sheer fabric with the little floral details, the way the tulle flows from your hips and falls down your feet makes you feel like a fairytale princess. You can’t help but pose at the mirror in your living room; chin atop the arch of your shoulder, tilting your head and letting your hair sway down your forearm.

All that’s missing is a little golden tiara and a bouquet of pale pink roses and you’ll be ready for the big day.

You nudge your thumb against the diamond ring, and then collect the tulle of the dress in both arms, lifting it and letting it fall calmly onto the floor.

“Looks good on you, princess.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You don’t even need to turn, that deep thunderous voice is already distinguished.

Your little fairytale has taken a dark twist. You glance at the reflection, watching how he appears from the umbra of light.

A monstrosity so beautiful it makes your heart feel sunken.

You keep quiet, letting his footsteps dominate the atmosphere in the room, making it thick and heavy with fear. He moves from the darkness, letting the light shower his face. He looks the same as the day you left him. His face still appears as if it was cut from marble by some artist; that moustache still adorns his face, giving him that dangerous-looking edge.

Without even noticing you hold your hands together, trying to cover that striking diamond ring. But August notices, his eyes trailing over your reflection, drinking in every detail.

“When is the wedding?”

You swallow hard and narrow your eyes, not wanting to dignify him with an answer. He has no right to be here, to taint the new life you created for yourself.

Because that’s what hurricane Walker does, he leaves you bleeding, a wreck of a woman.

August lowers his head, looking at his shoes. Knowing him well, it only means that he is harbouring his anger right now. Hell, he has been harbouring it for the last three years.

“This weekend.”

Talking to him feels as if you broke some spell or summoned a demon by mistake, making him real and not just a figment of your imagination.

He answers with a bitter smile, his eyes touched by a storm.

“You really thought you can just leave and then marry someone else? You really thought I’d never find you?”

“I never thought you’d care enough to bother.” you dare, assuming you’re right. But you remember what happens when you err with August. The payment is painful.

The storm inside him begins to rage. His eyes blaze, even from where you’re standing you can see the small wrinkles that form at each corner.

“Turn around.”

Slowly and carefully, as if to not awaken any sleeping dragons, you turn. Refusing to meet his glare, you stare at the floor, hands laying loose at the tulle of your dress.

“Take off that fucking dress.”

He commands in a voice so calm and rich it wouldn’t have sounded like order if it was heard by another person.

Stunned by his demand, you finally gain the courage to look into his eyes. The sight of those blue crystals is the cage that draws you in.

A prison of delights, made of diamonds. Beautiful, but still sharp.

He smirks, knowing he just won. One look and you are his, you’d fight it every time but the conclusion would always be the same: you’d be sore and sorry. Numerous times you told him it was over, yet you always took him back.

“Did I stutter? Do as you’re told!”

Much to his delight, your chest heaves, making your breasts rise and fall in the v-shaped cleavage of your dress.. You reach a hand behind your back, pulling the zipper down which immediately makes the dress loosen from your body.

Staring down at nothing but your shattered dignity, you reach for the strap hooked around your shoulder and begin slipping it down.

“Slowly, and keep your eyes on me.” August demands, forcing you to pause with the strap in the middle of your forearm. Your eyes dart up to meet his stare, trying to read whatever is in that dark mind.

Perhaps, it’s best you’d never find out.

The strap slides down your forearm before you tend to the other, letting your fingers strip it down while trying to think of some sensual song in your head. That’s what August wants: debauchery and eroticism.

Your eyes remain on the beautiful blues obediently, trying to show no fear, but the quiver in your lower lip gives it away. August remains composed, caging you in his gaze, there is a faint grin in it.

The fancy dress finally slips from your body, the fabric swirling around you for a swift moment like tender petals falling from a rose. It piles at your ankles and you hurry to cover your breasts as if he hasn’t seen them a thousand times before.

He gives a huff, taking one step closer while shaking his head.

“Aww, is my little princess getting shy? Lay down your arms.”

You obey, exposing your breasts to him.

The outlines of his cock begin to show as he hardens against his trousers. The thought of it makes you damp in your underwear. It’s been three years, you can’t help but wonder how many broken mouths he had around him since you left.

You’ve only been with one man and he is hardly the man August is. Yes, he satisfies you, but August destroyed you.

His hand reaches to adjust his erection before inching toward you. The soft thud of his footsteps makes your heartbeat pace abnormally. The closer he gets, the bigger he looks. You wonder for a slight moment if he was this muscular back then when you still dated.

Finally, he towers over you, his face tilted down as he looks at you, offering a slanted smirk full of dark desires. You remain stoic, unsure how you’re supposed to react but then he leans in, pressing his lips ever so gently on your forehead.

Everything you felt three years ago hits you like an axe at the back of your head. You breathe, nearly shocked by the circus of emotions that flood your chest. All that love and lust, all that fury and sorrow.

Falling for August is worse than any sad love song ever written. The problem is, you’re sinking into an abyss.

His lips hover over your mouth, his nose gently bumping against yours. Still, he remains there. Only his hands move as they work the seam of your plain cotton panties, rolling them down your thighs.

He takes your hand, raising it and slightly pulling away so it will be at the level of his face. He looks at your ring finger with harsh disapproval. Opening his mouth, he takes your finger in, making you flinch as the hot wetness of his saliva surrounds your delicate finger. He suckles on it for a mere second. Your finger comes out bare and he spits the ring on the floor with utmost contempt.

With your wrist locked in his large hand, you never dream of protesting. On the contrary, you want to beg him for more, forgetting that you once had dignity. You can’t help but pout at his mouth, your eyes seeking that little freckle on his lower lip.

“Did you dream of the moment I’d find you?” August asks, letting his finger trace the shape of your mouth.

“Sometimes, it was a nightmare.” you declare, parting your lips against his touch.

August hisses through his nose, his touch turning from gentle to crude in an instant. He grips your nape and conquers your mouth, exploiting your flimsy gasp to slip his tongue in. He kisses you for your betrayal, for all the years he had to suffer others, for the days he needed you and you weren’t there. His lips suck onto yours, changing angles to onslaught you from every direction. His tongue is fickle as it overpowers yours, and you hear that deep hum of his voice that makes you flutter against him.

Your lips are swollen and red when he ends the kiss. If not for the hand that holds your nape and hair, you’d be down on the ground by now.

“Get on your knees.”

Still breathless you stare at him stunned as if his words are suddenly too complicated. Sighing with a wisp of frustration he shoves you down, forcing you to kneel in front of him.

You are now facing his very hardened bulge, your eyes stare at his groin and then travel up to look at him submissively. August is in his favourite position, on top, staring down with his chest puffed with arrogance. His hands reach to unbuckle his belt and you can’t help but press your hands to massage that aching desire of his, longing to have him in your mouth.

But he has other plans, forcing your chin away with a pinch of his fingers. “No, I want you on four and I want to see you crawl.”

His hand leaves your chin, his head gestures at the direction of the bedroom. Where you and your-soon-to-be husband spend the night.

“Do as you’re told.” he commands, hardly even needing to raise his voice. “And do it slowly, I want to look at your cunt, I want to see how much you drip for me, understood?”

“Yes, August.” You turn on your knees and begin crawling on four, trying to be as sensual as possible. You arch your back and sway up your ass for the man you’ve abandoned for so many good reasons, yet right now you can’t even think of one.

You can hear the rustle of clothes behind you, the thud of his shoes being thrown somewhere and eventually the sound of the leather of his belt as it slips from around his waist. There is a small smacking sound and you realize he’s still holding the belt and slapping it against his palm.

Your knees nearly give in at the thought of what awaits you in this bedroom. But you still crawl on, swallowing your pride.

August kicks the door closed when the two of you are finally inside. It’s just the two of you in the house, you find it odd but then you realize it means to heighten your fear, to make you feel hopeless and owned.

He reaches for your elbow, pulling you to stand up, letting you glimpse his god-like form only for a moment before throwing you facedown on the bed. You are pleased to see you were right, he has grown bigger in the last three years, gaining more muscle.

You feel the bed shift as he places one knee on the mattress, and with one strong hand, he collects you to stand on four again while he kneels right behind you. You know what’s coming next but you are still surprised, hissing in as his large hand slaps your ass and then squeezes your flesh possessively.

“Did you miss this, princess?” his hand squeezes even harder, his middle finger slightly teasing your slit.

You bite your lips, leading forward and squirming with anticipation for the next one. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” he asks and grants you another slap, this time making sure not to miss your swollen lips. You gasp, fingers wrapping around the floral linen of the bed.

“Yes sir.”

You turn your head, seeing him stare at your mound with sick hunger while the bulge in his trousers appears agonisingly enormous. This is what always scared you about August, how much he was willing to endure to torture others.

“Look away,” he warns you as he notices your stare. You realize the belt is still in his hand and you shiver, uncertain if you want to find out what August planned as your sweet punishment for running away.

“You thought you can just come into my life and leave?” he asks you, one hand sliding up the curve of your ass. You mean to answer but then you feel movement behind you, and then make the mistake of turning your head to gander at him.

The first smack takes away your breath. The leather stings against your skin, so harsh that for a moment there you are sure the flesh came off from your behind. You try to be brave, fighting away that cry that begs to escape from your throat.

You deserve this, after all.

You hear him breathing heavily behind you, prolonging the time of the next smack. You won’t foresee it or get used to the pain too quickly, so the excitement will get you wetter. You try to adjust your breath, your back arching upward and downward when you receive the second smack.

“Uh!” the whimper you fought to keep leaves your lips, your hand pulls on the bedsheet. The worst part is that you’re throbbing, and not just from the pain. Your petals are swollen red, needy for more and August sees it all, enjoying every second of how pathetic you are.

August unleashes another punishment on your ass and this time you cry is a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your entire body squirms back and forth as if daring him to give you more.

The time in which you receive the fourth, fifth, and sixth smacks are nearly immediate. As you hiss and mewl you can hear August chuckling behind you, his free hand massaging your red aching ass, his fingers sliding up and down between your folds almost clinically to feel the soaking thick wetness that awaits him there.

“You’re so wet, does this boy of yours make you wet as I do?”

“No, sir!” your voice cracks into a cry, certain you will receive another smack but instead his hand strokes your body with tenderness that is a complete contrast to what you’ve just gotten used to. August always loved to play hard, he wanted you to feel him, not just his body but the raging storm of emotions inside him.

But when he is gentle, and he would be occasionally after breaking you apart, it would be the certain touch that’ll make you die out of love.

His strong digits brush down your sensitive muscles, soothing you, tracing and admiring every curve he missed and yearned for.

You moan, enjoying his caress, eyes closing dream-like while the mattress shifts again. You sense August as he moves closer, his arm reaching to grab at your torso, pulling you to stand on your weak knees. He keeps you pressed against his chest whispering in your ear how much he missed you while brushing your hair aside. His kisses are amorous, prolonged and wet on your neck, trailing up and down, leaving tingling sensations on your body.

“August…”

You hum in delight, you missed having his name on your tongue even though you’ve been doing that many times while pleasing yourself, ashamed of how even when you ran away, this man still had you captive.

“Take me, princess,” he demands against your ear in a raspy voice. Somehow you manage to ignore the snake-like sensation of the harness that wraps around your neck. When you realize what he is doing, you’re already leashed and thrown back on your elbows while August kneels behind you, holding one hand around your waist while the other is clasped around the leather strap.

“August!”

He hushes you sweetly and tugs the strap to warn you, making you grind backwards at his demand.

“Be my good girl,” he asks darkly and pushes himself all the way inside you, as deep as he can possibly reach. His fist tightly holds the strap, pulling you to him to meet his thrust and slide you on his cock.

Your groans are synced in a delightful unison, both of you overwhelmed by how much you missed each other’s bodies.

August makes you feel whole, not just by his generous length and girth, but because it’s him. Even though he made you cry way too many times that you can count, the ache of not being with him was far, far worse.

He pulls away from you in an achingly slow rhythm, one hand squeezing your pained cheek while the other slightly loosens on the leash. You already protest at his departure, needing him back inside when his fist clenches again, tugging you back to meet his punishing thrust.

“You feel... so... good, princess.” his voice is as broken as your heart as he sheaths himself inside you, groaning loudly to let you know how great and tight you are around his cock. “Take it, take it all.”

You’re a whimpering, feeble thing, completely submissive to his urge. Throwing your head back with your hair falling against your spine, you let him slam into you again. August harnesses you like a bitch, having complete control over you while your heart flutters at both the sensation of his cock splitting you apart and those deep grunts that escape his mouth. You’ve missed everything about him, the scent of his body, the bass of his voice, his ravenous gaze and even his stupid moustache.

You’re in a haze, existence becoming nothing but beating emotions, your united throbbing organs and the friction that continues to tighten and grow. Suddenly, August’s entire weight is sinking onto you. He moves to cover you, one hand pressing on the mattress while the other reaches out to your neck. His fingers lace underneath the leash while he begins to pump into you violently.

There is wetness on your cheeks, rolling and dripping down your chin beyond your control. August sighs, looking at you and kissing the salty tears away.

“You know, you look really pretty when you cry.”

Little spasms spiral from your core, right where you are connected, where August is claiming you as his. He grinds you into oblivion, ignoring the resistance of your walls and whispering dirty things in your ear. One by one, the tendrils of pleasure begin to snap and your walls shudder and dance urgently around his cock.

“Did you really think you could just break my heart, princess?!”

It was all it took to destroy you. You collapse forward, your orgasm is so intense, you crouch down beneath the large man and scream your pleasure into the pillow. Your ass bucks back against him, taking his swollen cock all the way inside and forcing him to lose control and erupt into your body with a shudder and a prolonged grunt.

You feel the warmth of his seed seeping inside you. He likes to grind himself in while filling you with his cum, giving you all he has before pulling out and watching how it trickles down from your battered entrance with some twisted pride.

With his hands around your ribs, he takes you down with him, lying you on your back while he hovers onto you, sweaty and panting. Now begins the part when he takes care of you, soothing kisses and claiming strokes on the wetness of your body.

“Call off the wedding,” he makes one last demand, his lips pressing to your abdomen, trailing down lower in apology for every painful bruise that surely will be there tomorrow.

You comb the mess of curls on his head between your fingers, watching him with a clenched heart while he lifts your legs and kisses all the way from your curled up knee to your inner thighs.

“You are coming home with me, and that’s the end of it.”

Closing your eyes, you flex on the mattress with muscles aching from his touch. Your lips part slightly as you whisper your answer into the dark. _______________________________

#Henry Cavill #August Walker #August Walker x You #August Walker x Reader #Henry Cavill x You #henry cavill x reader #august walker fanfiction

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