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sweetarethediscords · 9 months ago

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The Maiden of The Barren Rime

Winter Wind blows through the valley, pushes us into our homes.

Pleading she knocks at our windows, scorned she continues to roam.

Chapter 1: The Brambled Beauty

Mina quieted at the sound of unfamiliar voices on the wind.

“Are you sure this is the right cabin?” It was a feminine voice, on the younger side, with a slight Tinian accent, most likely from the North Coast judging from the way they dragged the “er” in “sure.”

“Of course this is the right cabin! It’s the only cabin in this damned forest!” A masculine voice spat back. Staunchly Lanholdian, Mina could almost feel the thick tension in their tongue behind her own teeth. The gravel of age and annoyance ground up from the back of their throat.

Mina picked up her pace, leaping up into the treetops, crossing miles in minutes towards the voices with no more sound than the rustle of wind through pine needles.

She stilled. The branch beneath her feet barely creaked.

They were outside her cabin. A young woman with thick glasses and even thicker curly hair checked the compass in her hand as the short, sturdy man beside her impatiently tapped his foot and picked at the split ends of his long, braided beard.

Mina placed a hand on the hilt of her sword as she watched them through the canopy. The man’s leather armor bore a crest depicting a mountain top and three diamonds, with glinting, well-polished stripes on his pauldron pronouncing his rank. Seven; a general of lauded stature. Why he traveled with the young woman was unclear.

She was clearly not a noble. The slight roll forward of her shoulders, the patterned bandanna holding her hair out of her eyes too weathered or wrinkled for even a disguised royal to wear, and a decent soldier would never keep their guard down as much as hers was in an unfamiliar place. Perhaps she had hired the knight as security on her journey.

A journey Mina would take no part in.

She shifted to sit easily and silently, making sure not to catch the beaver skins hanging from her pack beneath her. A few more minutes and they would leave, then she could prep the skins and start to smoke the meat in her satchel as planned.

“Well,” the woman stuffed her compass into her jacket pocket. “At least it’s a nice day out to wait. Sun’s still warm enough to cut the edge off the autumn chill.”

Annoyingly, she made her way to the porch of Mina’s cabin and took a seat on its rough wooden steps. Mina ground her teeth slightly. Maybe a splinter or two would poke her through her patchwork skirt and urge her away.

The man huffed and kicked at a tuft of crabgrass. “You think this chill has an edge? Just wait until you’re on the Peaks.” The tuft came loose, sending dirt and now homeless pill bugs scattering. “If we ever get to the fucking Peaks.”

Dammit, Mina thought. They were here for an expedition.

“Ya know, we could always go with another alpinist,” the woman offered. “Beto Lamar’s homestead is about a day’s ride west from here.”

“A day’s ride but three weeks past our deadline,” the man said. “This girl can bring us back to Lanholde in under a month.” He stomped over and stood on the steps, too proud to sit, but not proud enough to not lean on the railing for support. “She will get us there in a month.”

“Even if she’s already off on an expedition?”

“She’s not,” the man gestured over his shoulder. “The windows are open. And this cabin is too well maintained for its owner to just head off for two months with the windows left open.”

Mina thudded her head against the tree trunk. Of course. An observant and stubborn knight.

She inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled, taking her frustration down a little, unclenching her jaw just a touch. She'd piss them off enough that they’d rather stand Lamar’s extra three weeks in the cold than put up with her, and if that didn’t work, ask for a ridiculous amount of gold to scare them off.

Three more weeks in the cold. Three more weeks to die. The unwilling thought made her teeth ache.

She climbed down from the pine she had perched in and moved soundlessly towards the drying rack staked beside her cabin. She removed one of the rungs filled with beaver skins from her pack. A loud and forceful snap echoed through the woods as she dropped it into place.

The trespassing pair jumped. The knight drew his sword as the woman bladed her feet into a wide stance, arms lifted, ready to perform some sort of cast.

So they were a magic wielder and a knight.

“Get off the porch,” Mina stated bluntly as she hung another rack.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the knight’s jaw fall agape while the woman’s disposition relaxed. She straightened up out of her fighting stance, and Mina caught the faint sound of a cork squeaking back into a bottle on the wind.

“My apologies, miss. We’re looking for the alpinist that lives here,” she said. “Would that be you?”

“No,” Mina lied. “I’m a hunter. The alpinist lives to the west.”

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked to the knight. He flared his nostrils, puffed out his chest, and stomped over towards her.

“I am Sir Murmir Gargic, general-rank knight of the Lanholde Royal Army, proud servant to King Fritz Reinhardt.”

“Never heard of him,” she lied again.

The knight sputtered, whatever bullshit speech he had prepared dying on his tongue. “You never—”

“Sir Gargic,” the woman whispered behind him, calling his attention and allowing him a moment to regain his composure.

Annoying.

“Well, he’s heard of you, and has specifically recommended that we seek you out to lead us up the Fallow Peaks. We’re in a bit of a time crunch, so if you don’t mind talking terms so we can start the expedition today—”

“If that’s the case, then I guess your king expects you both to die,” Mina droned, mono-toned and matter-of-factly. “I’m a hunter, not an alpinist.”

The knight’s breathing shallowed as her jab at his ruler crawled under his skin. He inhaled deeply, a tirade building, when the woman placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How much would it cost for you to be an alpinist?” she asked.

Mina drifted her dull gaze over towards the woman, finding her with a smirk on her lips and a knowing glint in her eye.

“Seven thousand gilt one way,” she answered. “The real alpinist to the west charges half that.”

“I’m sure.” The woman shrugged. “But the alpinist we’re looking for fits your description exactly. Female alpinist. Rough around the edges. Lives alone in a cabin deep in the Sandere Woods, five hundred paces off of the last bend in Woodgullet Road, heading northeast.” She rattled off the details as if she were reading them off a sheet of paper.

Mina blinked slowly, then repeated. “Seven thousand gilt one way.”

“Deal.”

Gods fucking dammit. An unfortunately familiar tug pulled at her spine.

Sir Gargic fished out a scroll from one of the pouches on his belt, while the woman brandished a quill and a bottle of ink. He scrawled something down on it, then turned the parchment in her direction: a contract of duty.

His thick, stubby finger pointed at the 7,000g written next to the terms of payment. “Seven-thousand gilt to be delivered direct from the Capitol’s treasury upon our safe arrival.” His finger traveled down the page to a long signature line. “All you need to do is sign here.”

She did, reluctantly. Her arm dragged by that damned tug.

“Mina,” the woman read her name aloud, standing on the tips of her toes to watch as she wrote it. “I’m Wera Alrust.”

Mina snapped the quill once she finished, dropped it to the ground, and headed into her cabin.

“Where are you going?” Sir Gargic barked behind her. “You’re under contract to—”

“Packing,” Mina answered. “Can’t climb a ten-thousand-foot cliff face with just a bow, a sword, and a can-do attitude.” She paused in the doorway. “Just two going up?”

“Five,” Wera answered. “Six if you count yourself.”

“I don’t.”

Last-minute trips up the Fallow Peaks were nothing new to Mina, as much as she loathed them. They were always inconvenient and pressing, which meant the travelers were stressed and distracted — which meant the death count was usually higher than the average one or two losses. Expeditions such as this were few and far between, at least. Most travelers knew to prepare well in advance for the perilous journey, contracting her months ahead of time instead of minutes.

She closed all the windows and locked the shutters, made sure her books and sheet music were lifted off the ground in case the fall rains caused the lake to flood, and tucked the more expensive of her instruments away as she filled the pack she kept by the door.

“Flint, whytewing leathers, tarp, rations, climbing axes…” she muttered to herself as she rifled through it — taking stock to make sure she had everything she needed — then picked up a fiddle and bow leaning against a hard wooden chair. She loosened up the strings a bit and unstrung the bow to keep the horse hairs from snapping, then shoved it in with the rest of her gear.

“Where are the other three?” she asked as she stepped back outside and locked the door.

“Back on the road, waiting with the wagon,” Wera replied.

“You can’t take a wagon up a mountain.”

“We don’t plan to.” She was, frustratingly, smiling at Mina when she turned around. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Sir Gargic headed off, impatience and frustration bringing out the ill-manner child in him. With such thin skin, it wouldn’t be long before he broke their contract, or he died. Rabbet’s Pass most likely, which would be convenient. She could leave his corpse in the caves there, and they wouldn’t have too far of a walk back to Sandere afterwards.

After only a few wrong turns through the thick wood, the seldom-used road emerged. A simple covered wagon pulled off to the side let the four horses that drove it graze lazily, while two more members of their party hung around it: an old woman with her hair up in a tight bun, sitting on the ground making daisy chains out of dandelions, and a young man with a sharp haircut and a well-coiffed mustache scrawling in a notebook as he sat in the driver’s seat.

Sir Gargic’s spine straightened and chest puffed out as he put on a bit of bravado. “We’ve returned!” he cried, waving grandly.

The old woman and mustached man looked up from their work. The woman abandoned her dandelions and stood to meet them, while the young man looked them over and flipped to another page in his book; quill taking off in a fury.

“Ah! Are you the young lady who will be guiding us?” The old woman smiled sweetly. “My name’s Tanir and the boy on the cart is Enoch.” She turned over her shoulder and hollered, “Wave hello, Enoch!”

Enoch raised his hand partially, too engrossed in whatever he was writing to look away.

“Mina.” Mina met Tanir’s gaze, and the old woman’s brow furrowed. She was looking for the appropriate response, a sign of expression to source Mina’s first impression of her. Mina watched her bottom lip shift subtly, a minuscule pucker as her teeth bit behind it uneased to find nothing.

Annoy the knight. Unnerve the old woman. Now she just had to find the others’ weaknesses.

“You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road. They’ll slow us down and will be hunted by the beasts of the Harrow.”

“Oh, uh—” Tanir swallowed. “That sounds like something you should discuss with Master Windenhofer. I’ll go get him for you.” She flashed another smile, this one fueled by nerves, and hurried off into the back of the wagon.

Enoch snapped his notebook shut and leaned over the side of the driver’s seat. He rested his chin on his hand dramatically, abandoning the fierce focus he held when writing to gaze at Mina with puppy dog eyes. “Did you know you are extremely beautiful for an alpinist?”

Sir Gargic sputtered with embarrassment. Wera shot Enoch a disgusted look.

Mina stared at him blankly.

“I know,” she said after a moment.

Enoch choked on his spit at her response. Wera burst out into a fit of laughter, drawing Mina’s attention.

Laughter wasn’t a response she was used to receiving.

“Don’t forget to write that one down,” Wera wheezed through her giggles. “‘My attempts at flirtation failed tremendously as usual.’ A good archivist doesn’t leave out any details!”

“Enough of that, Enoch!” Sir Gargic snipped, hitting him on the arm. “She comes highly recommended by The Crown of Lanholde, and you will address her with the respect that such a recommendation warrants!”

“S-sorry, M-mina,” Enoch stammered, still caught off guard by her curtness as he leaned back away from her, rubbing his injured arm.

“I hear we have a new face joining our motley crew!” a warm, deep voice cheered from inside the wagon. The cart bounced as a tall, lean man, with a wide smile and a thick shag haircut, stepped out of it, Tanir following behind.

“Hello, I am Sebastian Windenhofer. It is wonderful to meet you!” the man extended his hand out in greeting.

A soft breeze blew between them as Mina considered his outstretched hand. His fingers were long, as to be expected of someone of his height, and his palms were oddly covered with an even layer of callous.

She did not shake it.

“Mina,” she said to the hand, in the same bland manner that she had introduced herself to everyone else.

Sebastian seemed unbothered by his spurned handshake, and instead clasped his hands together and nodded his head softly, “Mina.” There was a slight hum to the ‘M’ as he said it. “Tanir mentioned that you wished to speak to me about something regarding the horses?”

Mina’s distant stare met his attentive gaze. Sebastian didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“The woods are too thick for a wagon to fit through, and the mountains are too steep,” she answered. “The Harrowed Woods that border Sandere and the Peaks are filled with hungry monsters who will be lured by the thought of a four-course horse meal, too.”

“I see.” Sebastian brought his hand up and tapped his fingertips lightly against his lips as he thought. “Would it be better for the horses if we left the wagon and let them loose now as opposed to when we get closer?”

Mina paused, and tilted her head to the side, caught off guard by his question.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” his voice wavered.

“No, it’s just that I’ve never had someone ask to let the horses out early,” she replied, much more candidly than she intended. She straightened her head, collecting herself. “There’d be less chance of them being attacked. Not many monsters here in these woods.”

“That settles it, then.” Sebastian addressed his crew, “Gather your belongings, we will be continuing on foot from here. Wera and Sir Gargic, unhitch the horses and send them back down the road, please.”

“Ugh, my penmanship gets so poor when we’re walking,” Enoch groaned as he slid down from the driver’s seat.

“Guess you’ll have to save your sonnets for when we’re in Lanholde,” Wera remarked as she started unbuckling one of the horse’s bridles. “We’ve got nothing but walking ahead of us now.”

Sebastian returned his attention to Mina. “It should only take us a few minutes to get packed up. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?” He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a tea kettle and mug. Twirling the mug around his finger by its handle, he juggled the kettle with one hand and caught it by its base. Steam rose from its spout.

Not just a magic user. He was a wizard, capable enough to demonstrate his talents so casually.

Or cocky enough to make a big show over the few skills he did have.

“No,” Mina replied, tapping the canteen attached to her belt. “I have a canteen.”

She could have just left it at ‘no’.

“Of course.” He threw the tea set into the air as if he were throwing away a piece of paper over his shoulder and with a snap of his fingers they vanished.

Definitely a show-off.

“I have a few things to pack myself if you’ll excuse me,” he continued, smiling again, still wide as it shifted to a slightly different shape, then headed back into the covered wagon.

Mina watched him walk away.

If he wasn’t just a show-off, then maybe they’d make it a mile past Rabbet’s Pass.

🜁

“So, Mina, would you care to tell us a little about yourself?” Sebastian asked as they walked up the rest of the road. Considering how chatty they were while getting their shit together, Mina didn’t have any hope of a quiet walk to the Harrow’s beginning. “I’m sure there’s much more to you than living in these woods and leading expeditions through the Fallow Peaks.”

“That’s all there is to know,” she replied.

Sebastian chuckled, a rumble out from his chest that buzzed in Mina’s ears. “I’m sure that’s not true. What about ‘how you got started leading expeditions’? Doesn’t seem like a job someone just falls into.”

“It’s not.”

“Then how’d it happen for you?”

“Someone had to do it. So I did it.”

“And what did that entail?”

“Doing it.”

“Sebastian,” Tanir interjected, “perhaps it’d be best if we shared a little bit about ourselves first.” She smiled at Mina. Mina kept her gaze forward, praying that the treeline would take mercy on her and move closer on its own. “I’m the company medic, been working with Sebastian since he had a particularly rough encounter collecting basilisk venom a few summers back. Poor thing hobbled to my home half turned to stone, and insisted I travel with him on his adventures ever since.”

“You faced off against a basilisk?” Enoch piped up from the back of the pack. “When we rest for the evening, you’ll have to sit down with me and give me the full story. You too, Tanir. It should definitely be added to my records.”

“Are you volunteering to go next then, Enoch?” Sebastian asked.

“I— uh—” Enoch jogged up in front of them and turned to walk backwards as he spoke, “Well I met—”

“Don’t walk like that,” Mina interrupted. “If you fall and break something, we’ll have to leave you behind, or I’ll have to kill you.”

His steps slowed as his eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

“It’s quicker than the duskwolves tearing into your flesh and snapping your neck.” It was brutal imagery, but not entirely false.

“She’s kidding, Enoch,” Sebastian said.

Enoch’s voice hollowed. “H-how can you tell?”

“Because if you did break something, Tanir would gladly patch you up,” he reasoned.

“Though I’d give you a scolding while I did it for not listening to the expert,” Tanir added, drawing out the title expert to appease Mina’s non-existent good side. “So turn around and continue your story.”

“Right.” Enoch turned around quickly at her instruction, gathered his composure with a shudder of his shoulders, and turned his head slightly to the side to speak, “I met Sebastian on a truly fate-defining day. Wandering the Coast of Carvons, I was lost, looking for inspiration to strike.”

Wera groaned.

“And it did! As I sat on the beach, begging the great and powerful ocean to lend me some of its majesty, a geyser of sand erupted from underneath of me, sending me skyrocketing through the air. Whilst I fell from the heavens, I looked down at the ground below me. What once was a beach was now a golden temple! And upon the roof of this temple stood the great Sebastian Windenhofer, my new muse! Since that day, I have traveled alongside him, cataloging his adventures to tell the world of his greatness.”

“You know that the rest of us were on top of that temple too, right?” Wera chided before addressing Mina. “Please take his tales with a grain of salt. For an archivist, he seems to have a selective memory. I’m the cartographer. Sebastian was the first person to hire me out of school, and I’ve been traveling with him ever since.”

She looked back at Enoch and snickered, “See? Short, sweet, and to the point. Your turn, Sir Gargic.”

“Indeed.” Somehow, the knight puffed his swollen chest even bigger. “Unlike the rest of my compatriots, I am not under the employ of Master Windenhofer, but rather a liaison of The Crown of Lanholde. They’ve tasked the two of us with uncovering and collecting a few precious artifacts that The Crown has a vested interest in. We are on the last leg of this journey now.”

Everyone’s attention landed on Mina, heavy with expectation, a burdensome weight. They had offered their stories without her agreement. There was no need for her to respond. Responding would only embolden them to keep prying.

Sebastian broke the thick silence and turned to Tanir, “Did you really have to tell the basilisk story, Tani?”

“It’s one of my first and favorite memories of you,” she replied.

“You should’ve waited for winter,” Mina commented, against her better judgment. “Basilisks get sluggish and less alert in the cold. You can sneak up behind them and slice off their heads in one strike if your blade is sharp enough. Just make sure to cut about a foot below their jaw so that you don’t pierce the venom gland.”

Her unexpected advice, matter-of-fact and brutal, garnered shocked and confused expressions from everyone but the wizard. Maybe it was the right call, then. The more alien she seemed, the better off they all would be.

“Aha! You’re a hunter too!” Sebastian — frustratingly — cheered. “I knew there was more to you!”

If Mina could meaningfully scowl, she would have. The sight of his smile stabbed at the corner of her eye as she kept her gaze forward. Wizards were known to be fascinated by curiously temperamental creatures, of course it would be harder to break him.

“Now, do you have any other comments, questions, concerns for our happy little troop? Perhaps some tips on how to deal with those duskwolves you—”

“You’re all loud,” she stated. “It’ll draw things to us, and cause trouble on the Peaks.”

“Why’s that?” Tanir asked.

“Avalanches.”

“Wait,” Enoch said. “There’s going to be snow on these mountains?”

“What did you think we bought all those cold weather clothes for?” Wera scoffed.

“Lanholde has a cooler climate. I just thought winter wear was the fashion there.”

Wera sent a pleading look Sebastian’s way. “Did you really have to hire him, ‘Bastian? We could have just left him stranded on that beach.”

“True,” Sebastian shrugged, “but we need entertainment on this journey, and watching the two of you bicker could rival some of the best traveling shows.”

As those around Mina talked, and laughed, and teased each other, the surrounding trees grew in number. Their trunks twisted, more gnarled and oddly shaped, their canopy so thick it shifted the shade of the lower leaves lighter from the lack of sunlight. The group came to a halt as the road ended at a wall of forest: the start of the Harrowed Wood.

“Right. Which of you can fight?” Mina asked as she headed to the front of the pack.

All of them raised their hands.

Wera and Sir Gargic she understood but the others… “This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten this far if we couldn’t hold our own, lass,” Sir Gargic said. “Trust me, I was wary myself when I first met them, but even Enoch is worthwhile in a scrap.”

“Hey!” Enoch whined.

“Cartographer, you’re with me at the front,” she instructed before they wasted more time chatting. “Medic and Archivist in the center. Wizard and Knight in the back. Listen more than you talk. Keep an eye out for anything moving that shouldn’t be. If you see something, say something. And if something does attack us, no matter what happens, stay behind me.”

Mina didn’t wait for them to finish pairing off before weaving her way through the trees. She didn’t even acknowledge Wera as she hustled to fall in place beside her.

“So,” Wera drawled after a few minutes of silence between them, “why’d you pick me for the front?”

“You’re a mapmaker,” Mina replied. She didn’t look at Wera as she spoke, her stare focused on surveying the forest in front of them. “If you make a map of the Harrow and the Peaks and take down the trail I use, I may never have to lead people through here again.”

If she had to suffer through another expedition, at least she could make this one of use.

“You seem a little young to retire,” Wera remarked. “And you need income to upkeep that cabin of yours, right? Though with seven thousand gilt an expedition, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself something a little sturdier to live in.”

She could feel the pressure of Wera studying her face, looking for something she’d never find.

“There are other ways to make money that don’t involve being bothered.” She changed the subject, “People think that there are just wolves, bears, various small-time magical beasts here. The Harrow is untouched. Nature and magic are uncontrolled and unforgiving.”

“Probably because of the runoff from the Peaks or some past geological event. I’ll make a note to have Enoch look into it.” Wera took out a small notepad and jotted something down. “If that’s the case then I’d bet there are many ways to cross over into parts of Elphyne here too, probably a bunch of fae circles, areas where the veil is thin. Would you be able to point them out when we pass them?”

“Just write down the trail taken and there’s no need to worry about any of that.”

She heard Wera’s pen skip on the page and a heavy exhale out of her nose.

There it was. She hated being talked down to.

Wera abandoned the topic and turned to basic questions about the flora and landmarks, easy enough that Mina could answer with little thought as she tuned one ear to the forest as best she could through the whispers of those walking a little too far behind her.

“Would you look at that,” Sir Gargic remarked, voice slightly muffled and strained. He talked out of the corner of his mouth in a bad attempt to be quiet. “She’s actually talking to Wera.”

“People do often talk to each other,” Sebastian said coolly, not feeding the knight’s judgment.

“Yes, but she’s so—”

“Are we talking about the Brambled Beauty?” Enoch whispered.

“The what?” Sebastian deadpanned.

“You don’t like it, sir? I’m trying to figure out the perfect way to describe such a terrifying and alluring creature.”

“Alluring?” Sir Gargic guffawed, “She’s so cold!”

“Yes! She’s cold!” Tanir added, voice peaking with a burst of realization.

Mina ground her teeth to keep from chewing them out. It was better that they didn’t know how well she could hear, and she had bore much harsher digs than their rude observations anyways.

“Just because she’s different than us doesn’t make her less of a person,” Sebastian chided. “And Tanir it’s unlike you to make assumptions about someone you’ve just met.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just—”

A low gurgle deep within the ground, quiet and out of place in the harmony of forest sounds, environmental interrogation, and gossiping whispers, stilled Mina’s stride. She barred her arm across Wera’s chest, stopping the preoccupied cartographer, and held her other hand up to halt those behind them.

Their footfalls and chitchat ceased abruptly. Mina turned her head to the side, putting a finger to her lips to signal them to stay silent and wait.

She drew forth the sword that rested on her hip and crept forward, listening, eyes fixated on the forest floor. The gurgle reached her ears once more, louder and more guttural; hungry. Mina stopped, bladed her feet, and whistled a line of bird song.

“A meadowlark?” Sebastian whispered.

For a fleeting moment, she noted how keen his ear was, then a massive maw erupted out of the earth, lunging at her. Wind at her heels, Mina leaped at it, rocketing towards the toothy mouth at incredible speed, and drove her blade down through its top lip. The beast let out a terrible, gargling roar, shaking off the actual dirt and plants from its mimicking hide to reveal an ornery terramawg.

With the momentum of her jump and the leverage of her impaled sword, Mina vaulted over the bulbous amphibian’s earthen hide. She snapped her hips around, pivoting midair to face the beast’s back, and drew forth her bow in the same fluid motion.

The air stilled as Mina ran her fingers from the grip of her bow to its string. The water in the air collected, crystallized under the brush of her fingertips, forming an arrow of pure ice. She aimed for the creature’s third, slitted eye, a weak point that rested on the nape of its neck, and fired. A roaring gust of wind shook the trees, following in her arrow’s wake as it soared through the air, embedding itself deep into the terramawg’s brain.

Mina kept her focus on the beast as she descended, landing on a nearby tree bough without a glance back. The terramawg seized, the frost from her arrow glaciating its mind, and collapsed into a blubbery heap, returning to the mass of earth and withering foliage it disguised itself as.

Mina secured her bow on her back and slid down the tree’s trunk.

“Keep moving,” she said to the group as she retrieved her sword from the terramawg’s corpse.

It was as if they too had been immobilized by her ice. Sir Gargic’s hand rested on the hilt of his broadsword. Tanir had pulled out a handaxe from somewhere. Three thin daggers were laced between Enoch’s fingers like claws. A swirl of inky liquid hovered over Wera’s palm, while her other hand rested on her chest. Sebastian’s hands were coated in flame.

All of their mouths hung agape.

A dull pang pushed against Mina’s chest at the sight.

“Great Gods. Save some for the rest of us next time, will ya?” Sir Gargic shuddered.

“It was quicker if I handled it,” she stated. “Now come on. There’s more ground to cover before nightfall.” Mina turned on her heels and walked away, stepping across the terramawg’s body and taking care to drive her heels in a little harder as she did so.

“Hey, wait up!” Wera ran after her, manipulating the ink back in its vial and pulling out her notebook once again.“How were you able to tell where it was?”

Tanir pulled a stupefied Enoch along, “Come on. You should be jumping with joy. Action like that is sure to make your book even more exciting.”

“Well,” Sir Gargic remarked to Sebastian with a heavy exhale, “I guess we know why she’s so cold now.”

Sebastian hummed in acknowledgment, nothing more. Nothing until moments later, when under his breath a murmured thought slipped out.

“The wind even changed direction.”

The reverence in his tone, unheard by everyone else, bristled against the back of Mina’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of The Maiden of the Barren Rime! Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read it.

To show my appreciation, here's a 50% off discount code you can use when ordering The Maiden of the Barren Rime E-Book off of my website: MBRTUMBLR50

The code expires on May 31st at 11:59pm so make sure to use it or share it with a friend by then!

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discordantwords · 1 year ago

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fic recs - november & december 2023

As we close out the year, here are some of the (completed) fics that I've read and enjoyed over the last couple of months. I feel so incredibly lucky to be a part of this fandom. Look at all these fics! What an embarrassment of riches!

4 Times Sherlock Proposed, & One Time John Returned the Favour by PipMer

5 Times Rosie Gets Into Trouble & 1 Time She Doesn't by Jaye Harriet

A Case of You by Silvergirl

A Midnight Clear by Khorazir

A Poison Garden, a Prize-Winning Leek, & a Corpse in the Maris Pipers by mydogwatson

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As always, be sure check the tags before diving in. If you've read something fantastic over the last couple of months that I've missed here, please send me some recs. Happy reading! :)

#sherlock #fic recs #dw recs fic #dw makes rec lists

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

Text

The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Moodboard | Recommended Listening

Synopsis: Bradley keeps a close eye on the other students, nightly dinners become a regular occurrence. Malcolm feels further away than ever. A phone call in the middle of the night causes a swift change in plans.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity. 18+ minors dni

…

Bradley wakes up with the sun. All of those West Coast mornings and thin, green floral curtains in his grandmother’s house. The sun spilling through them and alerting him to the Chordettes playing downstairs on grainy vinyl. That meant his mother was cleaning. Lemon-scented disinfectant, her sitting on her knees polishing the hardwood with a rag. The effortless warmth of her voice drifting through the walls.

He exhales. Sunlight seeps through his eyelids but there’s no Chordettes album today. No lemon scent. Just a dusty room and one of his students sleeping six feet away. His eyelids flutter, blinking through the early morning light. A slow turn of his neck allows him to check the clock on the nightstand and doesn’t affront the stiffness that these cheap mattresses give him either.

It’s early. About four hours before Luke would naturally rise, anyway. Bradley hits the alarm and pushes himself upright with a soft sigh. He doesn’t have to be quiet when he’s getting out of bed, that kid could sleep through a hurricane.

They have a lot in common. Lots of similarities in the way they were raised. Bradley likes him beyond just being his professor. In different circumstances, they would be friends. But, Bradley has always kept that line in the sand clear. Until now. Until you had kissed him.

Showered and dressed, Bradley’s up before most of Verona. The soles of his shoes are quiet against the cobble. Italian leather from almost a decade ago. A gift from an old friend that have held up well. The only dress shoes he’s got.

It’s bright out. Bright enough that Bradley’s squinting through his Ray-Ban caravans already, but it’s not too hot just yet. There’s a wind that makes the loose white of his button-up billow against his tanned skin, fighting to work free from being neatly tucked into his belt.

Enzo’s out on the steps by the time Bradley gets there, which means he is late. Teaching hasn’t ever been Bradley’s passion, but it makes way for him to study and — in theory — he gets his summers off. It allows him to write.

“Good morning.” Enzo greets him with a smile. Bradley’s not much for the business side of things — he would have better luck at counting the shades of blue in the sky than he would at figuring out schmoozing. Enzo knows this, and Bradley knows that he knows this. “How’s the book coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Bradley answers with a broad shrug. He tucks the gold frames of his sunglasses into the part of his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by the end of summer.”

Olive-skinned and about fifteen years Bradley’s senior, Enzo looks the part of a sleazy salesman even if he’s just a curator when his lips twist up into a smile. “Something’s got you a little distracted, hm?”

The straight ahead stare, the deep, slow breaths and the unwavering tight line that his lips are pressed into; Bradley’s reaction is easily readable — and Enzo’s close enough to get hit if he keeps it up. He knows that. Towing the line is his specialty.

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

Three soft-sounding steps inside and Bradley’s back where he was this morning. Ten years old and laying on his back in the twin bed in the bedroom at the front of his grandmother’s house, smelling artificial lemon.

He turns his head just a little, his eyes lingering on the mop being pushed around the tile floor, as Enzo leads him further inside.

Being published is what professors dream of. Having someone decide that their little ramblings are interesting enough to publish. Bradley’s study focuses on two things that are inherently interesting to begin with — sex, and power.

His research may be tedious every now and again but the content is always rich. His morning spins by and before he knows it, it’s time to meet you again. You’re ready for him when he gets there, tugging open the door before he has knocked.

But, you don’t look excited to see him.

Cheeks flushed, your body language suggests to him that you would have a decent future as an offensive lineman. His gaze flickers up, over your head and into your seemingly innocent hotel room. Powerless as he scans the room, you just hope he can’t figure out what it is that has you so rattled.

You had aimed to finish before he had arrived but time had gotten away from you.

“So what are we doing today?” You try.

“What are you writing?” His eyes are already on it. The open stack of lined papers, torn out of the notebook already, sitting on the vanity by the wall. Your perfume is next to it and you’ve got the stationary set that your mother got you laid out neatly next to it.

“Nothing.”

He looks down. First, at your face. Wide eyes and baited breath. Then, at your hands suddenly resting against his chest like they’ll hold him in place. His lips twitch.

“Nothing?” He repeats to you. Enjoyment seeps through his words, amusement tugs at his lips and he lifts his right foot to take one step forwards. “Mind if I take a look?”

Instantly, your fingers are curling into his shirt and you’re throwing your weight at him to keep him where he is. Bradley huffs out a sound of amusement, passing you in one swift stride as you claw at his button up to slow him down.

“Don’t, Bradley, it’s stupid — I was just messing around. I don’t want you to read it.”

His fingers brush the top page as you plead with him, tugging at his sleeve, trying to change his mind. He lifts it nonetheless and shoots you a grin, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dear Juliet,” He pronounces, turning his attention back to the page from you.

“Bradley, please don’t.” It’s not fun anymore. You’re quiet and resigned to him doing whatever he pleases. Embarrassment teems through you.

It’s a familiar kind of crushing feeling. It’s never just feeling small, it’s never that simple. It’s being made small. Every inch that you shrink, you’re squished down further until you’re nothing.

You can see it in his face, the exact moment that he reads his initials on the paper. It had seemed too personal to use his name. Back when this had seemed like a good idea at all.

He doesn’t read on. The paper sits still in his hand as he turns his head towards you. You stare back at him, preparing yourself. Tongue poised, ready to spit whatever venom he deserves after what he says next. Eyes wide, and sad.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets the paper back down as he had found it. It’s not his to discard, it wasn’t his to read. Bradley steps forwards and wraps his hands gently around both of your biceps.

“That wasn’t cool,” He tells you quietly. Bradley knows a couple of different languages, and he’s confident that he’s speaking English now, even if you’re staring at him like he isn’t. “I didn’t realize what it was. I was just trying to mess with you. I barely read any of it.”

Silent, you blink a few times. He’s still there with his big, heavy hands anchoring around your biceps. He’s waiting for you to say something back.

Slowly, your brows draw together. Your eyes flicker over every inch of his face, looking for some fault that will give up this little act.

Suddenly, your mind is made up. This is an act. He’s not sorry, men rarely are. You straighten your back and lift your chin, if you were a cat your claws would be out and ready. “You’re such an asshole.”

The clock beside your bed, the hands don’t move, and yet it feels like you can hear something ticking. Maybe your heartbeat. He’s staring back at you, not moving, but he’s going to have to soon — it’s his turn.

“I know, honey,” Bradley’s hands open and he releases your arms, only to open his and wrap you in them. Your face presses into his chest as he rubs a hand along the small of your back. “I didn’t mean to.”

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“I just wanted to put it on paper, get it out of my head,” You mumble into his shirt, inhaling the notes of wood and warm spice in his cologne. Your hand rests against his stomach now, unclenched. Your body is soft against his. You relax out of all of that tension and let him hold you. “Make some sense of it.”

His palm hugs the base of your skull, cradling you against his shoulder. His cheek rests against the top of your head. He gives you a slow nod.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

Within this city, within the walls of the first space that you have had to yourself in three weeks, in this brown hotel room — you have let yourself be his.

Tomorrow, you’ll move on to Venice. The decision is yours, to leave him and all of this insanity right here — forever between these four walls — or to let go.

Bradley’s thumb trails the nape of your neck. He can feel you deep in thought. Just once, he would like to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. “Could be our activity for today. Write it in Latin, think of it as a translation activity. I won’t check it.”

Lifting your head, you stare up at him, lips pursed in distaste. “If you don’t check it then what’s the point?”

“Confidence.” Bradley tells you. You feel his open palms trail your back until they hit your belt. Then, they skim around to rest safely on your waist. “The more you practice—“

“Yeah, yeah…” Both hands push against his chest as you wriggle out of his arms and turn. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

The eighth of June. The day you sat in a public garden opposite a fountain, laying on your front in the grass while Bradley sat in front of you, propped up against a tree. It turns out that when Bradley says he knows a place, it’s usually worth listening.

“What’s this place called?”

“Giusti Garden.” He tells you, working on something of his own in his lap.

“And what is it?” You ask him, trailing the end of your pencil through the dictionary. He looks up at you, his own pencil stilling for a second.

“A palace, originally.” Blinking through the lenses of his sunglasses, Bradley glances down at the page in front of him and back to your lips, pursed in concentration. “Pretty popular. Mozart, Gorthe, Ruskin— they’ve all visited this place.”

“Huh.” You hum.

This time when his gaze flickers up, you have moved. Your lips are parted, you tap the rubber at the end of your pencil against your bottom lip.

Mid-sentence and stuck, you turn your head towards him and he’s already looking at you. He read what was on that paper the first time. He reads hundreds of essays a year, he has mastered the art of clearing a page quickly.

Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten through the whole page, but he’d noticed that you had stopped halfway through a word at the bottom.

He read all about it. How confused you are. The new feelings and the difficult thoughts. Malcolm and how much he loves you. How guilty you are. How furious with yourself you are.

Selfishly, Bradley wonders if you’re writing the same thing now. All of those biting looks and harsh words — Bradley feels like he’s just starting to understand, and he likes the person behind it all.

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

It’s still bright out by the time that your letter is signed and sealed, tucked into your bag. You straighten up, brushing off your front as Bradley collects his things behind you.

“Here.”

Lifting your head, you almost miss it. He watches your eyes land on the folded piece of paper extended towards you. Your lips quirk softly as you reach out and take it from him.

Breeze catches your hair, you comb it off of your forehead with one hand as you open up the paper with the other. Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

The other two are just sketches. One of your face, turned to the side like it is in the drawing of you laying down. The last is of you looking at him, smiling. You don’t even remember what he had said. Neither does he. But he remembers that look.

“What’s this?”

Bradley just slips the pencil into the pocket of his jeans and starts walking, nudging his elbow into yours as he passes by. “You asked me to draw you, didn’t you?”

In truth, he assumes that it’s going to be a parting gift. Call him sentimental, but Bradley always leaves something to remember him by.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t remember his father’s face. He has seen it in pictures before, but never in memories. No, he remembers hugging his father’s legs, and sitting on his knee. He remembers the smell of tobacco.

The replacement dog tags. The gold chain. The shoes in the box in his mother’s wardrobe. The suit that Bradley never grew into — one day it was too big and the very next, he had already outgrown it. Those are what he has to piece together parts of his father.

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

You trail behind him, white tennis shoes in the trimmed green grass. A white polo shirt tucked into lemon yellow shorts, your sunglasses sweeping your hair back off of your forehead.

In another life, he’d reach back and you would wrap your palm around his index finger. He would smile at you and you would be all kinds of giddy about this date.

But this isn’t that — it doesn’t work like that this time around. Someone could see you. Bradley knows now how you’re feeling. He knows that your fiancé is on your mind. He chose once, took Natasha’s choice in her own future from her. He won’t do the same to you.

“The dinner thing,” You call out from behind him, watching your shoes travel from grass to stone pavers as you pass by an intricately carved fountain. He turns his head and peers at you over the top of his sunglasses, looking over his shoulder. “Is that really every night?”

Before you’re even done with your question Bradley’s looking ahead once again, and you’re left looking at the plain white of his cotton tee stretched pliantly over the swell of his shoulders. “Until you all start treating each other with a little respect, I guess so.”

“All of us? — Come on, Bradley, don’t act like you don’t know who the problem is.” An incredulous scoff, barely paying attention to your own words as your eyes wander around the flowered garden. “She’s just a slut, and—“

He stops and turns. Your gaze snaps from double early tulips and their puffed yellow petals to Bradley standing before you — the look in his eyes is scolding before his mouth has even moved.

“Do you listen to a single thing that I say? — Seriously?” He asks you, brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a frown. You simply blink at him.

“What?”

“She’s a slut because she has sex with her boyfriend?” He challenges you, shaking his head. The past week, Bradley has been spoon-feeding you content about the sexual culture through the history of Rome. You nod like you understand and yet, you come out with bullshit like that.

He’s the one who challenged you. You simply answer back.

“She’s a slut because he’s not her boyfriend. They’ll both tell you that.” You tell him, defiance coursing through your veins in lieu of anything that might have helped you make a stronger argument.

“What does that make me? — You listen to my stories with a smile on your face. It’s not dirty until it’s someone you don’t like, huh?” Bradley asks. He’s right, you know that much. Bradley has indubitably slept with far more people than Robin possibly could have.

Still, maybe it’s his tone that makes you need to bite back so quickly. Hands on your hips and a scowl on your face, you stand off against him before the fountain. “What does it matter to you if I think she’s a slut?”

“It matters —“ Bradley stops and takes a deep breath. He leans in by three inches and you’re met with that familiar woody smell that just makes you want him even closer. “Use your brain. Whatever your mommy and daddy taught you back home is bullshit — you’re the odd one out.”

With that, he turns and starts away from you. He won’t leave you to walk home alone, but he will walk six paces ahead so that you’re clear with the fact that you have once again stepped on his nerves.

“I’m the odd one out for respecting my body?” You call out to him.

“Respecting it, ignoring it… same difference, right? — It’s your call, honey,” Bradley walks slowly closer until the toe of his sneaker brushes yours. He lowers his voice, calm. “But choosing not to have sex doesn’t make you better than Robin.”

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

“Right,” Bradley nods at you. He lifts his arms and drops them back against his sides incredulously. “But here we are.”

It’s an eleven minute walk back to the hotel. You stroll behind him, sullen like a scolded child. The letter feels heavy in your bag. He might not have called you a slut, but you’ve been put in your place nonetheless. The words would never pass your lips — but he’s right. The comparison’s right there in front of you, all around you. You’re living it.

She can’t be a slut for sleeping with one boy if you’re not for whatever you’ve got going on with Bradley.

You would hold it against her, crushing like a weight, if she told your story back to you. If she was the one with a fiancé at home and a professor who spent afternoons in her hotel room.

Still, your face is hot and you’re not ready to speak to him. Halfway across the herati patterned rug that covers most of the reception area, Bradley turns and looks at you as he tucks the arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his t-shirt.

Chin high and shoulders squared, your clear path is to walk right by him. Just as you always have when a man in your life has embarrassed you.

One step ahead, Bradley catches your wrist loosely, stopping you mid-stride. “Dinner’s in five. Remember?”

“I’m not going to dinner with you.” Your answer is simple and biting. Childish. He wouldn’t be surprised if you crossed your arms and stomped your foot.

“It’s not up for discussion. Everyone’s going.” Bradley explains. Right on time, he lifts his gaze and spots Pasquale headed towards the two of you from across the lobby. It’s not like he won’t have seen the two of you argue before.

He reaches you with a smile and stands at Bradley’s side. His bald head has caught the sun, reddened slightly with head. The smile lines beside his eyes always crease when he beams at Bradley. He stands almost an entire foot shorter. Looking up at him and grinning like a kid, even though he’s older than Bradley.

“Hi, guys!” He pats Bradley’s arm jovially and turns that wide, cheesy grin to you. “How is the revision going?”

Your eyes land on the professor and suddenly there’s something dark about them that has simply nothing to do with eye colour, and everything to do with the mood he put you in.

Pasquale lives in ignorant bliss for the two seconds that it takes you to settle your hands into the shallow pockets of your lemon shorts and narrow your eyes at the professor. “Bradley’s a self-righteous asshole.”

“But what else is new!” Pasquale tries. The laugh is forced out of him and nerves shake through it. He shoots Bradley an apologetic look. Bradley’s looking at you anyway.

“She got a C minus yesterday. Still trying to figure out if it was a fluke.” Bradley bites. Your eyes widen.

Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms as he told you how hard you had worked — how proud he was. His hand trailing your spine. His mouth soft against yours. Butterflies tearing through your stomach.

“I think I got too much sun today. I’m going to lie down. Enjoy dinner.” Fuck mandatory. Fuck every single student on this trip. Fuck this class, and fuck him in particular. Pasquale swallows softly as you turn on your heel and head for the stairs.

Bradley turns his chin towards the ceiling. He wants to like you, he wants you to like him. In the moments that you do, everything feels so easy. Like the breeze in early June. But when you’re hell bent on arguing with him — those are like those scorching hot summers back in California. Surrounding and heavy. Pressing in on him until he bites.

“A C… that’s not so bad. Right?” Pasquale asks quietly. Bradley turns his head and looks at him, there isn’t really an answer to give. A B is the average in his class, so no — a C really isn’t bad.

The thing about old Italian hotels is that they tend to be marketed towards guests looking to lead quiet lives — romantic getaways and such. Not young women fuelled by anger. The door slams and teaches you a quick lesson in cause and effect. The painting hung on the wall to the right of the bed wobbles in complaint, then bumps to the floor. The glass frame promptly shatters across the floor.

There’s an almost calm silence that follows. A few slow blinks, and the glass is still there. The frame is still shattered. There are pieces all across the floor. Bradley still said what he said.

The soles of your tennis shoes are thin and pliant, excellent for movement but not designed to fend off glass shards. Crossing the floor at that exact moment seems like far too much of a challenge. So, you press your back to the door and slide down it. Cupping your hands tight over your mouth, you clamp your eyes tightly shut and let it go.

The scream is muffled by your palms, but probably still enough to alarm other guests.

Your bag clatters haphazardly to the floor and you lift your face from your hands just long enough to examine the mess once again. Huffing out a sadder sound than you had intended, you push weakly to your feet once again.

Until today, Verona had been your favourite stop so far. Even with that spoiled, at least you have an en-suite here. You’re more careful with that door. You tug it closed and lock it behind you, toeing off each of your shoes as you go.

These old hotels have old water heaters too. You lean across to turn the shower on first and wriggle out of your shorts, dropping your polo onto the ground with them. Facing straight ahead, you stare into the little round mirror above the sink. It’s got molding all around it that was supposed to look gold once, but the peeling paint reveals brass underneath.

Your reflection stares back at you, sullen. It’s a portrait, just your head, shoulders and chest. Swallowing doesn’t make the thickness in your throat fade. You just blink at your reflection in the mirror. The cotton t-shirt bra hugged to your chest is modest and does it’s job — nothing more.

You’ve seen lingerie — you own lingerie. You have a white teddy with matching panties reserved especially for your wedding night. Bradley has most definitely seen lingerie.

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

The memory is so distinct, standing in a mall with your mother at the ripe age of twelve, watching her soured expression as she searched through the rack.

“Lace, lace, lace.” She had tutted. Back then, you had been more concerned about someone you knew seeing you here, shopping for your first bra. You hadn’t understood.

“Mom, just grab one. I want to go home. I don’t care what I wear.” You had whined, fidgeting on your feet and brushing awkwardly at the pleats of your dress. You’ll always remember the way that she had rounded on you, eyes wide like you had asked her to buy you a thong.

“Well you should, young lady!” Her voice always sounded scarier when you were younger, even though it had always been hushed and poised.

You have been a grown up for a while now. Lived outside of her home. Had your own bank account, car, clothes — and that voice still circles in your head.

The nightdress she had gotten you last Christmas is hanging on the back of the door. Malcolm hates it. He says it reminds him of his grandmother.

You look down at the thread scissors from your sewing kit resting on the shelf beside the sink. Anger has often led you to some of your best DIYs.

“So, we all have to be here… except not actually all of us.” Robin points out, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her striped t-shirt. Elbow resting on the table, Bradley turns his head to look at her.

“She’s sick, Robin, leave her alone.” Abigail mutters from beside her, pushing her fork around the plate of roasted vegetables.

“No, but I heard Bradley say mandatory. So, mandatory for everyone except—“

“Robin.” Bradley sighs, sitting back in his seat and frowning at her. The restaurant is dimly lit, almost ten of them are cramped around a table in the corner, and after your argument today, Bradley just doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

This is what Bradley hates most about education. Half of the time a punishment for his students is more of a punishment for himself, which this dinner just so happens to be. He wants them to like you. He doesn’t want to hear the bitter comments and the arguing.

Everyone’s eager to get it wrapped up and over with. It’s still early by the time that he heads back to the hotel — everyone else decides to go out for drinks again, without you. Making the entire thing pointless.

The knock at your door startles you. You wince as the pin slips into the tip of your finger, inhaling sharply. Abandoning the project on the bed, you push yourself to your feet and walk over to the door. You already know who it is.

Bradley’s gaze flickers down at the sweat shorts and T-shirt you’re wearing first, then back up to your face.

“How was dinner?” You’re already turning away from him again, stepping onto the bed and tiptoeing back across the sheets. Bradley glances behind him, then steps inside and closes the door.

“Are you done sulking?” He rests his hands on the leather belt wrapped around his hips. Sewing needle in hand, you lift your head and stare, silent. “I’m allowed to disagree—“

“Fuck you,” This time, you don’t give him a chance to finish. You turn your head and continue to thread the new hem. “What you said was cruel and you know it, this isn’t about a disagreement.”

His gaze turns towards the ceiling, hands still sitting atop his belt.

“It was. I’m sorry.” He mutters with an exhale and a shake of his head. Bradley looks back at you finally. His brows draw together and he takes a step into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

Briefly, Bradley presses his tongue into his cheek and considers just saying goodnight. Then, he notices exactly what it is that you’re working on.

“Did you cut that in half?” He’s already crossing the room and craning his neck to get a better look. Unluckily for him, you’re finished. He watches you look up at him through your lashes and lift the nightdress, then stand up from the bed. “Oh, you’re ignoring me now?”

The door to the bathroom swings shut behind you, the thin wood does nothing to muffle your voice. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Bradley’s attention has already waned. He’s looking at the paper on your nightstand. His drawing from earlier is uncurled and illuminated in the light of the lamp, below that is your address book — opened to a page with Malcolm’s name. Dotted around are little pink hearts, his number neatly written along the line.

“Are you snooping?”

Bradley flinches, turning back towards you with a swift inhale. He remains silent, lips parted as you march from the bathroom to the wood-framed mirror about three feet from where he’s standing.

Aware of his eyes on you, you study the new garment. It sits a few inches above your knee, just above mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline keeps it sweet. Bradley’s eyes flicker briefly downwards in the reflection. With the window open, he can’t help but notice your nipples peaked against the light cotton blend.

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

He lifts his gaze to your face, just in time for you to turn and face him. Half an hour ago, you were talking to your fiancé — and yet, you’ve got no shame in searching for Bradley’s approval like this. Maybe you aren’t as pure as you had once thought, or as your mother would like you to be. But for now, standing in front of him, you aren’t ashamed.

Malcolm had called you today from his office. He was eating a sub that one of the interns had grabbed from him and he was telling you about his week. Numbers and figures.

You had thought of everything you could tell him. Juliet and the views of the city, sitting under the tree in that garden this afternoon. Bradley.

“I’m sorry that I said what I said.” Bradley tells you. Maybe it’s just because he’s desperate to get the conversation off of the light fabric you’re wearing, but something tells you that he means it. “It was childish, and you’re right, I was being cruel.

Barefoot, you take four short steps forwards until you’re standing right in front of him.

“I’m not saying you’re right — but I shouldn’t have called Robin a slut.” The admission comes with a small, lip-twitching smile. Bradley’s hands reach forwards and curl around your hips.

“She is annoying. I’ll give you that much.” Bradley concedes. Your mouth twists into an eager grin as you press closer and shift up onto your tiptoes. Bradley steadies your hips and follows you in until your mouth is on his. Slowly, sweetly. His hands skim along the yellow fabric experimentally. He hums as he pulls away from you. “So, what’s with this?”

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Fuck. Bradley stares at you for just a split-second too long. He wrestles with the realisation of what he has just done to himself. Sure, you listened to him for once and it was a decent lesson to learn — but his summer just got considerably harder.

“Do you like it?”

He trails his fingers lightly along the fabric, careful not to touch too hard and press it against your skin. Quietly, he hums. “Sure. It’s cute.”

Bradley’s mind is swimming as he is walking back to his room. Fine, he resolved the issue that he went up there to resolve. Now, he has presented himself with a much bigger one.

His hands press into the pockets of his jeans as he starts to contextualize how deep he actually is into this mess. He hasn’t ever thought about fucking a student before — not once. He detests the men he knows that fantasize of it. And yet, here he is, picturing his fingers bunching up that stupid nightdress.

“Hey, Bradley.” Luke grins, sprawled out across his bed in the dark, reading a magazine with a flashlight. Bradley flinches. The door shuts behind him and they’re in there together. “Natasha called from Turin! She told you that she’s going to be in Venice this weekend too, she asked you to call her back.”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #the odyssey #bradley bradshaw x reader

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wtfsteveharrington · 9 months ago

Note

can we please have something soft and domestic with sydney! we need more content with her

a/n: this is just a lil blurb while i continue working on my actual syd fic <3

contents: mentions of kissing and intimacy but this is just soft and fluffy and delicate is the best way i can describe it.

Sydney and Carmen have a system - She takes Monday off and he takes Tuesday off. That way there’s always at least one of them there in case of any major issues. It works well for them. Gives some sort of work/life balance… Even if they still spend part of their days off concerned for the restaurant. At least they aren’t physically there.

So, in turn, every Monday night is date night for you and Sydney.

Sometimes you two spend the whole day in bed. Getting food delivered from the never ending bucket list of restaurants around the city you both wanted to try followed by a grocery delivery to make dessert at home. It was an indulgent day to say the least.

Other days, like tonight, the two of you took the time to get dressed up. She always stood next to you by your shared vanity to help make sure your eyeliner was even, a mess of giggles each time one eye got away from the other. "Sisters not twins, right? I think it looks good either way. 'Sides, helps me if you go in public lookin' a little crazy. Keeps people away from hitting on you."

Sydney always liked to wonder around the house while you finished getting ready. Sure, she knew your closet. Knew the general idea of what you'd end up wearing. But there was something about the surprise of your final look coming together that always took her breath away. She grabs a hold of your hand, gently spinning you around to get a full look. "Damn! Maybe we should have kept your eyeliner looking wack because this is - You look gorgeous."

And the two of you have to be careful because compliments lead to kissing which leads to you to being late for reservations you certainly cannot be late for.

She's got an Uber pulling up to take the two of you down to the Gold Coast - Maple & Ash. You bounce between cheerful small talk with your driver and watching the shops on Rush street go by in a blur. Making a mental note that someone at your job had mentioned there being a bakery right around here and that you needed to check the hours to see if you could take Sydney tonight.

You know it's a cliche, but there's something about Sydney ordering for you that makes your heart flutter. She knows your palette, knows everything you love and what you hate. Some of the ingredients on the menu are lost on you so her taking control is so welcomed.

The two of you always share your plates. Sharing what you both consider to be the best bite of each meal, wanting the other to have that experience. Sometimes Sydney quizzes you to see what flavors you're picking up and she's getting a little too proud watching your taste buds grow the way they have since you got together.

No matter what, the nights always end the same. Sydney holds your hand tight during the car ride back to your apartment, her thumb trailing along your skin. Mindlessly and comfortingly. Even if you're wearing the most simple of shoes she always makes a show of taking them off for you. Letting her hands slide up once they're taken off and message your calves. Sometimes her touch doesn't stop, hands sliding all the way up and taking care of you in the ways only she knows how.

But tonight you're both tired and the relationship is settling into more of this cheesy domestic bliss all your friends tease the two of you about.

So Sydney takes off your shoes and helps you get undressed while you grab pieces for the both of you to wear. The two of you stand shoulder to shoulder in the bathroom while you clean your faces and apple skincare. You found this face mask last week you'd been waiting until tonight to try with her and Sydney realizes she forgot to get more floss and asks you to add it to the group grocery list note you guys keep together on your phone.

She sits between your legs on the couch, curled up on your chest as your fingers run a circuit along her arms, her sides, her hips and her thighs. Any inch of skin you can get a hold of. There's a movie playing in the background as you both stay embraced. And maybe the two of you miss the second act because you're too busy kissing. Maybe the major plot twist is getting spoiled in the background while you're whispering 'I love you' to one another.

Neither of you mind.

#s.a. blurbs #sydney adamu x you #sydney adamu x reader #sydney adamu #the bear #the bear fic

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queen--kenobi · 2 months ago

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Wheel of Fortune: Magician (Reversed)

Story summary: Elayna Reyne often imagines herself being someone and making a name for herself but only in the way young girls do. Unfortunately, when Elayna makes her way to King's Landing as one of Cerelle Lannister's ladies-in-waiting, Elayna finds dreams come with a price.

Chapter summary: Almost at King's Landing, Elayna finds her circumstances changing. Anxiety and pride mix, causing her to make deals she may regret.

Masterlist

Prologue

Elayna pauses when she steps out of her tent.

The air here tastes different; she isn't sure if she likes it or not. At first, the smell of fresh river water delights her sense. It makes her think of home. Now, as they approach King's Landing and the coast, the water seems less like home.

They still have several more days to King's Landing. Their camp sits on the edge of Blackwater Rush. Gold Road crosses it twice on their way towards the Red Keep, and although it strays from the water, it never strays too far. Elayna wishes it would. She doesn't like the smell or feel of this river. No. She much prefers mountain water to this.

Elayna lifts her upper lip in disgust when the wind blows her way. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Cerelle emerge from her own tent. Cerelle makes a face not too dissimilar from her own.

Their eyes meet.

The space between them stretches for miles. Cerelle stands only yards away yet Elayna imagines an ocean's worth of distance in the empty space. Elayna swallows. Cerelle purses her lips. She looks away first towards the campfires. Even though Elayna can't truly see how she looks, melancholy rolls off Cerelle in waves.

Elayna's feet move without her permission. She makes her way towards Cerelle, consequences be damned. She may speak to Cerelle if she wishes.

Besides, she has been meaning to ask Cerelle if she might ride with her father today. Alon specifically asked last night for her to check.

“Lady Cerelle. May I ask something?”

Cerelle turns to face Elayna fully. Dark circles highlight her lack of restful sleep. While her hair is intricately braided and done, wisps of blonde hair appear everywhere. Her pale skin almost seems to emphasize her condition, making her look almost sickly. She stares at Elayna for a second before slowly nodding.

“Of course.”

“Would it... would it be alright if I rode with my father today? I would like to spend some time with him.”

“I don't see a problem with this.” Cerelle nods her acquiescence. Elayna smiles at her.

“Thank you.” Elayna doesn't move yet. She wants to say something, to address the awkwardness between them. She takes a single step forward. “I- I have something else I want to speak with you about.”

“Don't.” The sudden sternness in Cerelle's tone makes Elayna flinch. Cerelle clears her throat before looking away from her. One of her hands finds the hem of her sleeve. She toys with it for a second before speaking. “I have spoken with mother. She's informed me of the decisions that have been made.”

Cerelle lifts her head and looks at Elayna over her shoulder. One perfectly curled strand of blonde hair falls over it and down her back. Cerelle's rueful expression snaps Elayna immediately back to the present.

“I was told to pursue other, more fruitful, ventures.”

Ah.

Despite the sadness in Cerelle's tone, a quiet weight lifts off Elayna’s chest. It helps, oddly enough. The thought of no longer being miserable alone but Cerelle sharing in her misery helps her. Elayna hates Cerelle feels that way, but at least she knows now she didn't sit in misery and silence by herself.

Elayna shifts from foot to foot. She tries to think of what to say, to tell Cerelle. She wants to tell the truth, but she would risk incriminate herself in the process.

“Would it help if I-”

“Cerelle! Elayna!”

Both Elayna and Cerelle turn to face the newcomer. Elayna bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from scowling. Alia Oakheart makes her way over to the two of them, a pleasant smile on her face. Two thoughts cross Elayna’s mind: either the smile on Alia's face is fake, or the other girl just finished making babies cry for fun. The third thought that makes its way into the forefront of Elayna’s mind, and the one most likely the truth, is Alia has been charged with making sure she and Cerelle don't spend anytime alone.

Elayna hates her all the more for it.

Elayna never quite understood why Cerelle never did anything to have Alia sent back home. Sure, it would most likely cause issues, but those would be worth it to not have Alia hovering around them. She can't put a finger on the point she started to dislike Alia; all she knows is everything Alia does grates her nerves. Even Alia sneezing sets Elayna’s teeth on edge.

Maybe it's because Alia thinks she's as smart, if not smarter, than Elayna. Maybe it's because she always feels an air of judgment from Alia, as if Alia knows about her and Cerelle and is waiting to expose them. Maybe it's because Alia is just a bitch. Whatever quality Alia possesses that Elayna hates, Alia has in a massive quantity.

Alia stops when she reaches the two of them. She smiles at them.

“What are the two of you doing down here? We're about to break camp.”

“Elayna was asking if she might ride with her father today.” Cerelle stands up slowly. She shifts into her usual self, but her heart clearly isn't in it. Elayna nods.

“I was. Cerelle has been gracious enough to allow me to do so.” Elayna knows her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Despite the surface level pleasantness of the interaction, the undercurrent of awkward tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Alia doesn't prod or push, but she clearly seems to think something more is going on, based on the slightly suspicious look on her face. Cerelle, for her part, isn't helping. She looks anywhere but Elayna, her gaze eventually settling on a tent in the distance.

A squeal of absolutely delighted laughter makes both Cerelle and Elayna turn. The sound comes from down closer to the river.

“Ryman! Stooop, ‘tis not funny.” Despite Tyshara's words, she grins. She blushes, her cheeks a light shade of pink. Ryman sits beside her. The situation doesn't look indecent; Tyshara's two closest confidants and Ryman's two friends all sit clustered together so the pair aren't alone. Still, Ryman leans in a little closer than socially appropriate. He whispers to Tyshara. His words cause her entire face to go pink.

Elayna looks to Cerelle out of instinct. Much to her surprise, Cerelle glances back at her. One of her eyebrows raises. Elayna snorts.

“Elayna, I think your brother might have designs on Tyshara.” Alia Oakheart's voice comes out almost sing-song. Her eyes glitter with genuine delight. Elayna shakes her head with a small smile.

“I doubt that. He plays too much.”

“This looks like some very serious playing.” Alia nudges Elayna with her shoulder. Elayna instinctively pushes back against her.

“It shan't happen.” Both Elayna and Alia turn to look at Cerelle. Cerelle stares forward. She watches the meandering river. “Marriages cannot be even exchanges. Tyshara won't marry a Reyne.”

An awkwardness pervades the air for a second. Alia breaks it.

“No one said anything of marriage. Designs don't guarantee outcomes.” She almost titters. Cerelle tears her gaze away from the river to look at the pair. She catches Elayna’s eye. Elayna cocks her head ever so slightly to the side and shrugs, lifting her eyebrows as she does so. Elayna keeps her gaze trained on Cerelle to make sure she catches her quick eye roll.

For a second, Alia's expression falls. Her eyes flick between Elayna and Cerelle of them. She truly looks crestfallen. A twinge of guilt makes itself known. Elayna averts her gaze. She clears her throat.

“Shall we go break our fast?” Elayna offers. Normally, Cerelle smoothes over any minor slights when it comes to the three of them. She manages their small group. Elayna knows how, but Alia makes it difficult. She never seems to believe Elayna, no matter how earnest she actually is.

“That sounds perfect!” Alia beams. “Cerelle, don't tell us you're not hungry.”

Cerelle stares at Alia. The dark circles around her eyes makes her expression seem sunken. After a moment, she nods.

“Yes. That... that sounds good.”

“Excellent!” Alia smiles. She moves forward and grabs Cerelle's wrist. Elayna swallows down a sudden wave of rage. Alia shouldn't touch Cerelle. She doesn't deserve to touch Cerelle. Elayna's hands flex and curl into fists, but she closes her eyes and breathes in slowly. It keeps her from swinging on Alia. She forces a smile.

The three of them make their way down to where everyone else is. Elayna notes her father and Johanna sitting at the head of the group, clearly deep in discussion. Johanna’s eyes briefly leave Alon. Even from this distance, the intensity of Johanna’s gaze nearly makes Elayna stop. She regards Elayna coolly. After a moment, she turns her attention back to Alon.

Elayna purses her lips. A sense of unease creeps over her. She turns her attention back to Cerelle and Alia in an attempt to ignore her discomfort. Still, it nags at her, prickling in the back of her mind. Elayna follows the other two women to the fires. The smell of food causes Elayna's stomach to rumble. She blushes, embarrassment coursing through her. For a second, she swears she hears Alia giggle. Her suspicions are confirmed when Alia nudges Cerelle with her elbow.

Her heart soars when Cerelle gives Alia a dirty look. Elayna doesn't even bother to hide her smirk.

Their meal consists of bread and some cheese. Their journey demands they eat, especially since setting up in the middle of the day just to eat makes no sense. They can close the distance within two or three nights. Extra breaks mean a longer journey, and everyone wants to reach their destination. Even Elayna finds herself irritated with people; she has no place to hide when she tires of everyone else.

The group sits by the river. Elayna nibbles on her bread. Cerelle barely touches her. Alia seems to be the only one enjoying her food. After several long minutes of silence, Cerelle stands. She moves to her feet rather quickly. Both Alia and Elayna look at her.

“I wish to speak my brother. I shan't be but a moment.”

This time, Alia and Elayna exchange confused expressions. Cerelle and Tymon have grown closer on the trip, so her words aren't unexpected. It's more the delivery and suddenness with which she stands.

“Are you su-” Alia begins, but Cerelle quickly interrupts.

“I must speak with him alone.” Cerelle pauses. “I really shan't be but a moment.”

Elayna nods. While she is just as curious as Alia, Cerelle's tone and expression make Elayna think better of asking what is going on. Besides, if it is important, Cerelle will tell her in time. She thinks. Despite her best efforts, Elayna's faith in Cerelle isn't as strong as it once was. Elayna tries to dismiss it, but it bothers her more than she wants to admit.

“If you need us, we'll be here.” Alia practically chirps. Cerelle nods before making her way towards Tymon and his friend. Elayna watches her march determinedly across the grass towards them.

“So.” Alia clears her throat and looks at Elayna. Her eyes sparkle with barely contained mischief and a deviousness that worries Elayna. “You may be betrothed to Tymon?”

“Mayhaps.”

Alia grins. “And what is your plan to get out if it?”

It takes every ounce of Elayna’s self-control to not recoil. Her upper lip twitches.

“Pardon me?”

“You always have to have a plan. I want to know what it is.” Alia leans in close to Elayna. “So tell me. What is it?”

“You make it sound as if I'm constantly scheming.”

Alia raises an eyebrow. “Are you not?”

“I don't scheme! Planning for the future is not scheming.”

“No, that isn't. What you do is.” Alia laughs at Elayna’s expression. It's almost vicious, and Elayna nearly bares her teeth at her. “Don't tell me that you don't realize that's what you do.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Elayna bites her bread a little more viciously than needed.

“Ohohoho, I finally know something the great Elayna Reyne doesn't.” Alia almost sneers.

“Considering I know what a plan is versus a scheme...”

“Planning means you have a general plan. However, since all of your plans end up with you not only surviving, but you coming out on top? You don't plan. You scheme.”

Elayna huffs. Irritation courses through her and takes over her mouth before she can stop it.

“You shouldn't speak of things you have no knowledge of. It makes you look even more ignorant.”

A brief flash of hurt crosses Alia's face. Were Elayna not so upset, she might apologize. However, given Alia is in the wrong, she has nothing to be sorry for. Alia never knows what she is talking about. Alia presses her lips together.

“I bet you can't do it.”

“Can't do what?” Elayna raises an eyebrow.

“I bet you can't get out of this betrothal.”

“Again. You shouldn't speak on things you know nothing about.”

“Do it then.” Alia tilts her head. “You won't. You can't.”

Elayna sets her piece of bread down in her lap. She stares Alia down.

“Not only will I prove you wrong, but I'll do one even better. I shall get out of this betrothal by getting into a better one.” Elayna lifts her head. Her nostrils flare. She keeps her eyes trained on Alia's, jutting out her chin. She dares Alia to challenge her.

Alia doesn't back down. Instead, she grins. It's a sly grin, one Elayna should heed as a warning. Elayna's lip twitches.

“Prove me wrong then." Alia actually smirks at her. Elayna's fingers twitch. She glares venom at Alia, visions of strangling her or bashing her head into the table dancing through her head.

“Oh, I shall.”

*********************************************

The carriage creaks as it goes down the road. Elayna sits across from her father, an embroidery hoop in her hand. Focusing on her stitchwork not only helps the time pass but also eases her anxiety. It gives her fingers and hands an alternative to picking at stray fibers or her nails.

“I spoke with Lady Johanna.”

Elayna blinks and looks at her father. Alon keeps his hands on the handle of his cane. At first, seeing her father with a cane nearly sent her into a spiral. He could not be so old and feeble as to need a cane to keep himself upright. She wouldn't allow it. Her fears ease as she sees him use it infrequently. She only really sees him use it after a particularly brutal day of travel.

It concerns her he uses it more and more often. The use of carriage instead of horseback also bothers her; she tries to attribute it to his age. Surely it must get uncomfortable riding when one reaches his age. She clings to the explanation.

“Did you?” Elayna tries to keep her tone neutral. Hope creeps in despite itself. Maybe her father talked some sense into Lady Johanna. If anyone could, it would be him. She knows this, is certain of this fact. When all else fails, Elayna can count on her father to not only have her back but find a graceful way out of the situation.

Some might call what faith she has in him blind faith, but it's not. Blind faith implies he could let her down yet she takes the risk in trusting him. No. This isn't blind faith. Elayna knows he has her. He has never once fractured her trust; it stands as steady as the rocks beneath their feet. He has never once let her down. He will never do so.

“It was a productive conversation.”

Patience has never been one of Elayna’s strong suits. Having a potential answer to her problems but not knowing the specific details drives her more than a little mad. She cannot solve her issue if a piece is being purposefully withheld from her. Elayna looks at her father expectantly.

“How so?”

Alon leans back some. He presses his lips together slightly, clearly considering his words carefully. Elayna fights to keep still.

“We may have reached a compromise.” Alon states. His tone carries an odd sense of finality to it, one that sets Elayna on edge.

“May I ask for details?”

“You may. You won't get them, but you may ask.”

Elayna's expression must betray her because Alon shakes his head. A soft hiccup of a laugh betrays the fondness in the gesture. Elayna huffs and leans back. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the window. This time, Alon's laughter is unmistakable. Elayna glowers at the trees lining the road. She knows how ridiculous she must look, pouting because she isn't given the information she wants, and Alon's laughter only further makes her feel silly. She gets why he's laughing; it doesn't mean she appreciates it.

“I'm not keeping information from you on purpose.” Alon breaks the silence first. His tone shifts from amused to soothing. He shifts in his seat, the sound carrying a little in the carriage. “Things are not solidified as of yet. When I know more, I shall tell you.”

Elayna nods. Despite herself, her shoulders drop away from her ears and ease down her back. She closes her eyes and inhales slowly. She needs to trust, trust her father and his plans.

“I know.” Elayna winces at how her voice comes out a petulant whine. She huffs a quick breath to try and pull herself together. “I know you will. I just... I do not do well with uncertainty.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed. You should tell me these things.”

His words earn him the nastiest glare Elayna can muster. Alon isn't bothered by it; he merely leans back in his seat and looks out the window. Both hands sit on the pommel of his cane, one resting on the other. The grin on his face is infuriating. Elayna isn't the only one who thinks so. Everyone knows Alon's sword skills were only as good as they were because they had to match his wit.

They sit in silence for a long moment. Elayna listens to the carriage roll along, turning her attention back out the window. She frowns at the passing trees. Despite her best efforts, her teeth dig into and pick at the inside of her cheek and lip. She fidgets. Elayna glances down to her hands and then out the carriage window. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other and then back. She sighs. One of her hands comes up to play with some of the stray curls not captured in her braids. She sighs again. Eventually, Elayna clears her throat and turns to face her father.

“I truly don't like knowing.” Elayna confesses. “I know you shall do right by me. I...” she sighs, “I don't want to marry Tymon. I understand the advantages and what it would do for us, but I cannot. I could never love him. And I know that isn't required for marriage but I have to be able to at least stand my husband, but I could never ever stand him.”

Tears begin to form in her eyes unbidden. She swallows hard. The outpouring of emotion startles even her. She stares at Alon, lip wobbling.

“I don't want to.” She knows she sounds like a child, but it sums up how she feels perfectly.

Alon watches her. The look on his face isn't cold or impassive, far from it. While his face is perfectly schooled, she can see sorrow in his eyes. He sighs.

“The current plan is to find you a better match.” Alon speaks carefully, each word specifically chosen. His reluctance to tell her sits heavy in the air yet Elayna's heart swells. She knows the signs of victory when she sees them. “I won't tell you who. But that is the plan.”

Elayna nods and swallows. Gratefulness and relief creep into her in equal measure. She smiles at Alon, and she watches some of the sadness in his eyes leave.

“Thank you.” She murmurs. Elayna can't find any other words. Alon leans back once more and settles himself in his seat. Curiosity burns through her. It tries to pry her mouth open, but Elayna keeps it shut. Alon clearly sees the conversation as finished; he closes his eyes. Elayna swallows hard. A million and one worries dance through her head. She breathes in slowly.

“Elayna. I would not do anything to bring you harm.” Alon keeps his eyes closed. Elayna nods and turns her head.

“I know.” She presses meaning into the simple phrase. Having been at Casterly Rock for so long, trust seems as unfamiliar as a friend who she long lost contact with due to being oceans apart. The danger present in such emotion makes her skin itch. Still, Elayna places her trust in him.

“You shall be fine. I promise you this.”

Elayna picks up her needlework once more. She moves slowly and far less viciously.

“Did I tell you.” Alon interrupts the silence. He still keeps his eyes closed, but his tone makes Elayna look up from her work. “I heard the most interesting rumor about James Crakehall the other day.”

“Oh?” Elayna tilts her head to the side. She finds Lord Crakehall repulsive for many different reasons, a fact she expresses to Alon whenever his name comes up. She distinctly remembers the old man leering at her when she was but two and ten. Neither her nor Alon will ever forgive the offense. “And what did he do now?”

“To my knowledge, there are two new Hills. Unofficially of Crakehall. Of course.”

“And? We know there to be at least 5 Hills a year born there.” Elayna scoffs. “More if rumors are to be believed.”

“None who's mother is newly six and ten.” Alon raises an eye. Elayna drops her needlework in her lap.

“Tell me you jest. Where did you even find out this information?”

“We aren't the only ones who dislike him.” Alon shrugs. “While I have never heard of him officially trying anything untoward, Dustin Plumm seems to have the same gripes as us.”

“Six and ten?”

“Aye. Six and ten.”

“And to think my opinion of the man could have been no lower.” Elayna scoffs. “If it were any lower, it would be in the Seven Hells themselves.”

Alon laughs. The laughter turns into a cough, one seemingly rattling Alon's very bones. Elayna sits up with alarm, needlework clattering to the floor of the carriage. Alon grunts. He waves her away.

“I'm fine.”

Despite him forcing each word through his breathlessness, Alon's tone is sharp, sharper than normal. Elayna hesitates, but Alon opens one eye to level her with a look. She holds up her hands in surrendered before sitting back down. After a moment, she bend forward and picks up her work.

“And how do you know Lord Plumm has the same complaints as us?”

“I have my sources.”

Elayna resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she looks back out the window. The distance between her and her fate closes with each turn of the carriage wheels. She purses her lips together. Gossiping about other people's misfortune would keep her mind off of her own impending doom.

“And what of Lord Crakehall? What does he say to the accusations?”

#oc: elayna reyne #oc: alia oakheart #Tyland Lannister x OC #Tyland Lannister x OFC #fic: wheel of Fortune #oc: Alon Reyne #hotd oc #hotd ocs #persephone writes

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conniesministallion · 8 months ago

Text

☆☆𝓘𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉𝟣☆☆

Warnings: Violence! (Rafe/Ward)(Rafe/JJ) Angst!

Pairing: Rafe x Black reader

This is y/n's POV for now

Summary: Waking up in the hot tropical sun, y/n makes her way to enjoy the rest of her summer. Rafe is keeping it together but struggles on his own. This is just the beginning and I like detail so bare with me lol.

A/N: So sorry it's late I scheduled the post and somehow someway it didn't save :((

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

" I really could get used to staying here." I manage to croak out of my wine dried mouth. These past few months have been absolute paradise. Trying to convince myself that this isn't better than Kildare is ridiculous. I wish I could stay here for a bit longer but school was starting and I knew I would have to get back to the hot Carolina heat.

Slowly turning on to my side to the ivory colored night stand and grabbing my phone. Finally deciding to check snapchat, the first one is JJ's. I'm not surprised to see his bloody nose but hold on, why the fuck am I tagged.

" Your bestie is a psycho but I'll get my lick back @y/nkitty"

What the fuck? So, your bold enough to tag me but not the one that clearly beat your ass?

First of all, I'm not even there. Second I am not that mans owner, the fuck is he tagging me for! Wait, mkay so back to the fighting shit again? Rafe really ugh.

MayJ: Tag the one you beefing with if you bold mf not his bsf.

I quickly switched to messages and tried to hold myself back from raging on Rafe. He knows damn well I don't do fighting unless it's necessary and knowing him. The fight was obviously over something small.

Rafeybby: Dude are you serious? Got mfs tagging me cuz you don't know how to keep your damn anger in check? 7:42 a.m. Rafeybby: Seriously what was it over? Are you okay? I can't patch you up this time but we can call if you're free. 7:43 a.m.

Being so fed up with his antics combined with him not responding, I swing my feet over the plush mattress making my way towards the white bathroom doors. Washing my face with some coconut facial scrub, brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower. I make out of the restroom when I hear my cousin's high pitch scream from downstairs.

" Y/n your mom made breakfast and we're heading out towards the island to shop in the village hurry!"

"I'm getting dressed be down soon!" I yelled back.

I hurry and get dressed as I grab my phone of the dresser. Realizing that Rafe has yet to respond to me.

Grabbing my purse and making my way downstairs I briefly glance at the polaroid of Rafe and myself sitting on the beach.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

" Is it possible that you have this in gold and silver as a pair?"

Already into the village, I decided to get a piece of the island for me and Rafe to share. Not knowing when either of us would be able to come back together. Summer in Kildare meant more parties, more clients for rafe to sell, and more drama around my friend group. Speaking of, I need to call Ki and Jade to catch them up with my summer. Plus....I wanna know the messy tea that been popping off while I was gone. I turned my attention back to the lady realizing that I spaced out.

" Of course love, give me one second to wrap them for you."

I haven't been to the village since I was a child and standing here at the booth makes me a lil anxious. Much more people here than back a figure 8.

The sun is illuminating over the sand filled roads with taverns covering the coast. Merchants on every end of this small corner of the village. People of all ages gathering and talking amongst one another and even though the heat is suffocating everyone seems pleased.

The scarf around my locs is loose on my head, the thin fabric of my skirt makes the heat feel cooler as the breeze hits my skin. I settled for a tube top my granny made me as a plus. It reminds me of the summers we spend together while fishing for dinner.

" You're all good to go dear! These are the perfect gift for a lover if you have one in mind." She expressed to me. Reaching out her small hand and placing the glitter wrapped bracelets on the counter.

I smile at the old lady who looks at me with beaming eyes.

" I have no lover but I do have a best friend. I'm sure they'll be happy to have a thoughtful gift." I softly spoke. As I grab the bag off of the wooden counter. I thank her as I make my way to find the rest of my family.

" We're heading to Seaside Oasis. Did you get everything you needed?" My mom says as she checks her phone for the reservations.

"I got some gifts and tons of clothes hopefully they'll fit in my suitcase." I giggled back.

Heading to lunch while my dad constantly talks his head off does not sound so pleasant but drinking does.

As we made out way towards the seating area and settle down. I ordered first while my family followed. Of course as soon as the food comes my father starts to talk about his collogues. Choosing to ignore him while sipping on a margarita. I start to think about Rafe, which is what I've been doing constantly while away. I miss him of course but, the constant fights and selling is what makes me worry.

On top of his reputation of sleeping with anything that walks, unless it's a pogue doesn't make it any better. This man spoils me constantly, he doesn't need to but he does. Not with just money either but affection....which I wouldn't be surprised he does with the rest of the girls he whatever I'm getting pissed just thinking about it.

.｡ping ping.｡ Rafeybby: Nice to hear from you too mama. I'm all good how's your trip? Rafeybby: That mf tagged you but has be blocked is crazy. Why do you have him on snap anyway. Thought I told you to block him before you left. 10:30 a.m.

Me: Just call me when you can and don't worry I'm having fun. Just wanted to make sure you were good. Rafeybby: You just gonna skip over what I said? Rafeybby: Don't worry mama we'll talk about it later. Going to Barry's, call when I can.

Umm.....who the hell, does this mf thinks he is? My Daddy???

I stared at the phone with my head tilted sideways. I'm not even gonna respond to his ass. Constantly thinking that I'm going to listen to him is gonna get his ass cursed out. Especially since he knows that it won't work. But for now instead of thinking of what kind of timing Rafe is on, im gonna sit back, sip my drink, and

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

Enjoy my summer <3

#rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x black!reader #x black reader #outer banks x reader #outer banks smut #outer banks x y/n #black writers

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ladylooch · 2 years ago

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hi babe!!!! could you possibly do one where the readers being really towards nico? maybe while they’re out with friends or in public or something? she’s just trying to love on him 🥹 or nicos being clingy towards her!!! 🥹💗 thank you sooo much!!! your fics are the most adorable things ever

A/N: Okay, I went back and read your request after I wrote this and was like… TBH, I read this a little different than you wrote. Mostly just the publicness of it. But I think it’s sweet and fluffy and hits the notes you were going for. Thank you for the request!

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: smut if you squint LOL. I actually think I wrote something without swearing. WHERE IS MY GOLD STAR!?

It’s late when you return to Newark from your Devils girl’s trip out to the West Coast. You were supposed to be back, in Nico’s arms, hours ago. You can’t help but feel grumpy about that while saying goodbye to the pack of WAGs. Everyone is splitting off in different directions whether catching a ride from their significant others, heading to the bathroom, or grabbing a cab together to the same neighborhood. Nico is waiting for you. He already texted you that he was by the Dunkin’ just outside of baggage claim.

When you come down the escalator, you grin at him slumped forward on a bench, arms resting on his large thighs, hat hanging low. The airport is pretty much closed for the night so he stands out. Honestly, he’s so gorgeous he would even if it was bustling. His AirPods are in and you can see his mouth moving. A quick check of your Apple Watch makes you gather he’s likely talking to his parents. No one else is awake right now if they don’t have to be.

“Ich muss gehen. Dich lieben.” He says, standing as you approach. His lips pull into an excited grin. “Baby!” He greets, leaning down to press a long, welcoming kiss against your mouth. His hands wind around your waist, lifting you off your feet and into his chest. “Mmm, I missed you.”

“Hi Neeks.” You muse, placing loving kisses on his lips, soaking up his warmth. His brown eyes glitter, only caring to focus on your face.

“You look good. Relaxed.” He notes, setting you back down.

“I feel relaxed.. minus all the travel trouble.” It all seems like minor inconveniences now that you can feel Nico’s hand slipping into yours. He takes the handle on your rolling suitcase so your only job is to walk next to him to the car.

“Yeah that sucked. I was getting frustrated for you.” He shakes his head. “I mean six extra hours at the airport? Woof.”

“Yeah I had a nice buzz going by the time we got on the plane. I even slept for a couple hours.”

“Wow! Practicing for Switzerland this off season, yeah?” You laugh, nodding. You are so looking forward to that with him.

Nico places your suitcase in his car and soon you are on your way back to your apartment. Nico’s fingers slide into yours, bringing your hand to his mouth.

“I missed you so much, babe.” He whispers against your skin.

“Missed you too.” You murmur back to him, turning to watch him while he drives. His face has a bit of stubble and his hair is hidden by a black baseball cap. He chews on his bottom lip, watching the traffic in front of you. He sneaks a few peeks of you every so often, grinning each time your eyes meet.

“Tell me everything. What is the hot goss? Is there pipping hot tea?” You know he is making fun of you. But you missed him so much, you’ll let it slide.

The rest of the ride home is spent chatting about the trip and the various activities and events we participated in. Most of them included indulgence on food and wine. The Airbnb was incredible with so many rooms and spaces to hang out. Plus, a really beautiful, secluded pool and hot tub area.

“So basically, you missed me when you were sleeping?” He jokes, placing a hand on your lower back as he unlocks the door to your apartment.

“Yes, and when I was super, wine drunk.”

His laugh electrifies your body.

“Yeah I remember that FaceTime call.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You cringe, red filling your cheeks at the awful strip tease you gave him.

“I’m hungry. Do we have any food here?” You ask as he wheels your suitcase down to your room.

“Uh… No.” His airy laughter flows down the hall. Nico is not the grocery shopper in this relationship.

“Okay.” You take a peek in the fridge and then the pantry, finding enough ingredients to make Kraft Mac and Cheese. You put water in the pot, letting it come to a boil.

“You gonna share that with me?” He asks, gliding his hands around your body to rest against your stomach. His back warms you through your shirt as he kisses all along your covered shoulders. His hands begin to travel. First to your hips, then down your thighs and back up. His touch has electricity buzzing in your body.

“Babe, I need a little space.” You mutter after testing a noodle and finding it ready.

“No.” He sighs into your back, nuzzling his nose there.

“You’re going to get a monster if you don’t let me eat.” You warn lightly. Nico knows you’re a completely different person when you’re hungry and steps aside so you can separate the noodles and boiling water. His hands are back on you when you return to the stove top. Nico helps by putting in the butter while you measure the milk out. He cringes as you shake the cheese pack in.

“It’s a disgrace to call that cheese.”

“Probably, but it gets the job done.” You stir it all together, mouth watering at the sight and smell of the cheesy, nostalgic goodness. You dish yourself up a bowl and Nico who says he wants to at least try it before calling it trash to your face.

“Okay, this kinda slaps tho?” He says it questioningly, thick eyebrows drawing together in confusion, slowly chewing his first bite.

“It’s the best. I don’t know how it works, but it hits different as an adult.” Nico devours his bowl, then slides you across the couch to finish your bowl resting against his chest. He flicks the TV on, putting on The Kardashians. You look over your shoulder at him.

“Wow….” You trail off, pausing to take another bite of mac and cheese. You run your tongue along the front of your teeth. “It’s almost like you want something from me tonight.”

“Dying for it. Literally.”

“I’d say your chances are about 90%.”

“Okay… I like those odds. But, how do I get to 100%?”

“Hm.” You contemplate, pushing some more noodles around your bowl. “I think I need a massage.” Nico sits up, eager to please. His hands come to your shoulders, immediately rubbing the tense muscles. “And maybe let your hands wander a bit.” You shrug as you delicately chew another bite of food. “And I think I need ice cream after this.”

“So many things.” Nico groans. “You know I can bring my chances to 100% by myself, right?”

“How so?” You ask, scooping up another bite. It pauses right before your mouth when he pulls you back flush with his body and begins to bite gently all along your collar bone. You look down at the remaining golden noodles and say goodbye.

Suddenly, you have better things to put in your mouth.

#Nico hischier #nico hischier fic #nico hischier x reader #hockey writing #NHL fan fiction #my writing #writing request #New Jersey devils #nj devils

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littlesparklight · 3 months ago

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A little something inspired by my headcanon that Helen can mimic birdsong like she can human voices, and @red-moon-at-night lovely art of Helen with her pet birds :D

Paris cocks his head as he comes inside, the door closing quietly behind him.

He can hear the sounds of quiet conversation in Phoenician from the room across the hall, where the five Phoenician girls are working on their weaving. Their soft voices are accompanied by the gentle thump of the weft being pushed up against the already-woven cloth. It's basically impossible to pick out any noises from the upper floor from here, so if Helen is up there, he'll have to go look himself.

Discarding his cloak, Paris strolls up the stairs, humming quietly to himself.

It's been a good day so far.

Pleasant weather, he's gotten to spend some time with Hektor which has nothing to do with his brother's insistence he keep up with weapons' practice, despite that after that apparently Achaean fleet mistakenly passed them by two years ago and attacking Teuthrania instead as they heard only afterwards, none have come to bother them, or anyone else on the coast. The house has been finished for well over a year, and they're all settled in, now; Paris had been quite happy in his extended apartments, but it really hadn't been enough space when it was more than just him. This is perfect.

There's birdsong in the air when he comes up on the second floor.

Pausing there, Paris slowly smiles, softly clapping his hands together. Has to check himself - as if his body is now a sprightly stallion, eager for the grazing meadows - so he doesn't hurry down the short corridor, making too much noise. He doesn't want to disturb the birds - Helen would be able to soothe them into singing again, but by that point the moment would surely have been spoiled.

So Paris walks, and leans for a moment in the doorway to the most private parts of the house, delight warm in his chest.

Helen is seated near one of the windows, and there is only Korinsia and Astyanassa in the room with her. Not odd, given her raised hand and the bird perched on her finger, the gold band over his wings as bright and bold as his partially red little head.

Both of them are singing; bright, charming birdsong, trilling slides and rises filling the room. Expected from the goldfinch, of course, and echoed by his two companions still in the cage on the other side of the room. But Helen, too, her lips just barely parted, her throat subtly vibrating right around where the rosy shadow under her chin do not hide such a subtle detail on her pale skin, is singing just the same.

Not words, and not charmingly wordless human singing; no, it's birdsong, perfectly matched to that of her goldfinch, that's spilling past those soft lips.

It's captivating.

And more importantly, Helen doesn't stop singing; she knows he's there, of course, though she hasn't moved or looked towards him. Paris would suspect she'd known he was coming even before he'd finished scaling the stairs. She'd revealed she could mimic other humans' voices to him on their journey back to Troy, but this was a more recent revelation. Even more recent that she is willing to let him be present as she sings in this way. It's still odd to think of Helen, confident, firm, commanding Helen, as self-conscious, but in this thing, odd as it admittedly is, she is.

But it's delightful, and Paris hopes she might one day feel less embarrassed by it. Especially as it clearly brings her joy; her eyes are shining, a reflection and mirror for the unstained sky outside, her mist-coloured eyes having taken on a blue tint to match the tiniest bit of soft, upwards curl in the corners of her mouth.

The only reason Paris can tear himself from the sight is that he has an idea, and it demands to be explored.

Once more Paris has to ensure to walk calmly, so as to not spook the bird even if it mostly seems focused on its mistress. There's no need to go far; he's left one of his small lyres on the couch nearby, from yesterday evening. Taking a moment to ensure it's still tuned right, Paris strokes the finely polished cedar. With his back to Helen and the birdsong filling the room, it would be easy to think it's only Helen's pet birds that are making noise.

But it isn't.

Paris turns around only slowly, eyes closed as he listens to melodies that have become intimately familiar in the last couple years.

Of course, he's heard plenty of song from wild goldfinches, especially in the greenery of mountain meadows as he was herding, but that's one thing. He's also heard the melodies in passing in the palace; a couple of his father's concubines keep birds as pets, and the goldfinch was one of the more popular ones. It'd been easy make sure Helen could get a couple more aside from the two she's decided to bring with her. Paris had been relieved and also rather surprised - is still so, in all honesty - that the birds had taken the trip well, despite its length. But as familiar as he is with them, it's yet another thing entirely to live with them nearby, especially the few Helen like to keep in the cage in this room.

There's another room on the bottom floor that's fully dedicated to Helen's birds; she has a small collection of them now, just as she'd had in Sparta.

So, Paris is familiar with the goldfinch's song, pretty as it is. But usually he's simply listening to it.

This time, after a couple moments, he starts plucking his lyre's strings to match with the birdsong from Helen and her pet. Paris opens his eyes to a startled break in the song, Helen watching him while her bird keeps singing. Smiling, Paris arches his brows and adds a more playful trill of his own. Helen, her eyes shining, laughs softly.

She opens her mouth again, catching her bird's flagging attention as she goes back to singing. She doesn't turn back to mostly face the window, though; instead she sits facing him, the earlier lurking smile now a blooming blossom on her lips as their curious little duet fills the air with music.

#greek mythology #paris of troy #helen of sparta #helen of troy #helen and paris #lightart

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unironicallytes · 4 months ago

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WIP Wednesday! (now brought to you on time!)

Been a while! Here's an excerpt I've been noodling on for Dear Brother, in which a newly-advanced Mathieu Bellamont lies a lot chats with Silencer Zathiril.

This may or may not go in Chapter 5. Sometimes characters just talk and I end up moving their dialogue around after lol

Tagging @orfeoarte @frumpybadger @dirty-bosmer @maulslittlemeowmeow and anyone else who wants to join!

“You and Speaker started there, yes? At the Gold Coast Sanctuary?” Lucien must have made passing mention of our history in their discussion, else it would have been odd for Mathieu to know. “Him ‘fore me, but that’s right.” “What's it like? I've never been out that way.” “Y’haven’t?” I gave him a funny look. “ ... what?” He gave me one in return. “Sorry, ‘tis just, ye sound like ye’re from there? Ye got the Stridwater tongue like Speaker did, so I assumed. He only took on that posh Heartland talk after we transferred.” “Ah … no. My mother– she was from Anvil.” Mathieu’s face twitched involuntarily. “That's probably it.” “Oh, aye, that’ll do it.”

“You pay close attention to voices and speech patterns, then?” “Mhm.” Finished checking over Lucien’s chasuble, I crossed my arms and leaned on the counter. Although his presence earlier had unintentionally irked me, Mathieu actually proved refreshing to talk to. He didn't prattle or blether - he only spoke exactly what he needed to say, and did so in a surprisingly soothing voice. His was rustling leaves in an autumnal breeze. “A voice tells ye plenty ‘bout the person. Useful. Me, had to practice all that anyhow. Gotta talk like ye mennish folk to blend in when a Sacrament calls for it.” “I see.” Mathieu mirrored my stance, adopting a similarly casual pose. “Where are you from, brother? I hope you don't mind me asking. We've never really gotten a chance to talk like this.” “Ah, 'tis no trouble. Valenwood, deep in the Tarlains. Know where those‘re?” “No. I confess I don't know much of anything about Valenwood.” “Ye’ll learn while servin’ with Gold, they got coverage there. ‘Tis the southern mountain range. Alright, yer turn - said yer mam's from Anvil, aye, but what about ye then?” I noted the same nervous energy suddenly jolt beneath his skin, almost tugging his lip back into a pained snarl. Some bad memory, likely. But he smothered it and answered all the same. “The City, waterfront.” Oh yes, well, that confirmed it. A breeding ground for horrible experiences, I'd heard. Though, most people there just ended up freelance cutthroats or Gray Fox lackeys, doomed to languish in manacles behind cell bars. Mother could be quite picky in adopting new children. Mathieu was lucky.

“Mm, barren soil for a sprout. Well, I already extended welcome to ye years back, but I'll do it once more and welcome ye to the Hand. Glad to have yer black heart with us, brother. And I'll bet things're better here than they were on the Rumare, eh?” I gave him a tentative, brotherly pat on the shoulder, to which he offered a flinching smile. “Now, let's get ye outfitted proper, ‘fore Speaker catches us loiterin’.”

#dear brother #wip wednesday #tesblr #dark brotherhood #oblivion fanfiction #tes oblivion #mathieu bellamont #oc: zathiril #my writing

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officewebmaster415 · 1 year ago

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officewebmaster315 · 1 year ago

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Parkwood Skin Clinic

Welcome to our skincare clinic, where we provide comprehensive care for all skin conditions, from skin cancer to skin health and cosmetic concerns.

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Our team of experienced and compassionate professionals is dedicated to addressing your individual needs and concerns, offering tailored treatment plans for every skin condition.

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sweetarethediscords · 9 months ago

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The Maiden of The Barren Rime

Winter Wind blows through the valley, pushes us into our homes.

Pleading she knocks at our windows, scorned she continues to roam.

Chapter 1: The Brambled Beauty

Mina quieted at the sound of unfamiliar voices on the wind.

Mina picked up her pace, leaping up into the treetops, crossing miles in minutes towards the voices with no more sound than the rustle of wind through pine needles.

She stilled. The branch beneath her feet barely creaked.

A journey Mina would take no part in.

“Well,” the woman stuffed her compass into her jacket pocket. “At least it’s a nice day out to wait. Sun’s still warm enough to cut the edge off the autumn chill.”

Dammit, Mina thought. They were here for an expedition.

“Ya know, we could always go with another alpinist,” the woman offered. “Beto Lamar’s homestead is about a day’s ride west from here.”

“Even if she’s already off on an expedition?”

“She’s not,” the man gestured over his shoulder. “The windows are open. And this cabin is too well maintained for its owner to just head off for two months with the windows left open.”

Mina thudded her head against the tree trunk. Of course. An observant and stubborn knight.

Three more weeks in the cold. Three more weeks to die. The unwilling thought made her teeth ache.

The trespassing pair jumped. The knight drew his sword as the woman bladed her feet into a wide stance, arms lifted, ready to perform some sort of cast.

So they were a magic wielder and a knight.

“Get off the porch,” Mina stated bluntly as she hung another rack.

“My apologies, miss. We’re looking for the alpinist that lives here,” she said. “Would that be you?”

“No,” Mina lied. “I’m a hunter. The alpinist lives to the west.”

The woman arched an eyebrow and looked to the knight. He flared his nostrils, puffed out his chest, and stomped over towards her.

“I am Sir Murmir Gargic, general-rank knight of the Lanholde Royal Army, proud servant to King Fritz Reinhardt.”

“Never heard of him,” she lied again.

The knight sputtered, whatever bullshit speech he had prepared dying on his tongue. “You never—”

“Sir Gargic,” the woman whispered behind him, calling his attention and allowing him a moment to regain his composure.

Annoying.

“If that’s the case, then I guess your king expects you both to die,” Mina droned, mono-toned and matter-of-factly. “I’m a hunter, not an alpinist.”

The knight’s breathing shallowed as her jab at his ruler crawled under his skin. He inhaled deeply, a tirade building, when the woman placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How much would it cost for you to be an alpinist?” she asked.

Mina drifted her dull gaze over towards the woman, finding her with a smirk on her lips and a knowing glint in her eye.

“Seven thousand gilt one way,” she answered. “The real alpinist to the west charges half that.”

Mina blinked slowly, then repeated. “Seven thousand gilt one way.”

“Deal.”

Gods fucking dammit. An unfortunately familiar tug pulled at her spine.

She did, reluctantly. Her arm dragged by that damned tug.

“Mina,” the woman read her name aloud, standing on the tips of her toes to watch as she wrote it. “I’m Wera Alrust.”

Mina snapped the quill once she finished, dropped it to the ground, and headed into her cabin.

“Where are you going?” Sir Gargic barked behind her. “You’re under contract to—”

“Packing,” Mina answered. “Can’t climb a ten-thousand-foot cliff face with just a bow, a sword, and a can-do attitude.” She paused in the doorway. “Just two going up?”

“Five,” Wera answered. “Six if you count yourself.”

“I don’t.”

“Where are the other three?” she asked as she stepped back outside and locked the door.

“Back on the road, waiting with the wagon,” Wera replied.

“You can’t take a wagon up a mountain.”

“We don’t plan to.” She was, frustratingly, smiling at Mina when she turned around. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

Sir Gargic’s spine straightened and chest puffed out as he put on a bit of bravado. “We’ve returned!” he cried, waving grandly.

Enoch raised his hand partially, too engrossed in whatever he was writing to look away.

Annoy the knight. Unnerve the old woman. Now she just had to find the others’ weaknesses.

“You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road. They’ll slow us down and will be hunted by the beasts of the Harrow.”

Sir Gargic sputtered with embarrassment. Wera shot Enoch a disgusted look.

Mina stared at him blankly.

“I know,” she said after a moment.

Enoch choked on his spit at her response. Wera burst out into a fit of laughter, drawing Mina’s attention.

Laughter wasn’t a response she was used to receiving.

“Don’t forget to write that one down,” Wera wheezed through her giggles. “‘My attempts at flirtation failed tremendously as usual.’ A good archivist doesn’t leave out any details!”

“S-sorry, M-mina,” Enoch stammered, still caught off guard by her curtness as he leaned back away from her, rubbing his injured arm.

“Hello, I am Sebastian Windenhofer. It is wonderful to meet you!” the man extended his hand out in greeting.

She did not shake it.

“Mina,” she said to the hand, in the same bland manner that she had introduced herself to everyone else.

Mina’s distant stare met his attentive gaze. Sebastian didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to leave the wagon and loose the horses an hour or so up the road.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

Mina paused, and tilted her head to the side, caught off guard by his question.

“Have I spoken out of turn?” his voice wavered.

“Ugh, my penmanship gets so poor when we’re walking,” Enoch groaned as he slid down from the driver’s seat.

Not just a magic user. He was a wizard, capable enough to demonstrate his talents so casually.

Or cocky enough to make a big show over the few skills he did have.

“No,” Mina replied, tapping the canteen attached to her belt. “I have a canteen.”

She could have just left it at ‘no’.

“Of course.” He threw the tea set into the air as if he were throwing away a piece of paper over his shoulder and with a snap of his fingers they vanished.

Definitely a show-off.

“I have a few things to pack myself if you’ll excuse me,” he continued, smiling again, still wide as it shifted to a slightly different shape, then headed back into the covered wagon.

Mina watched him walk away.

If he wasn’t just a show-off, then maybe they’d make it a mile past Rabbet’s Pass.

🜁

“That’s all there is to know,” she replied.

“It’s not.”

“Then how’d it happen for you?”

“Someone had to do it. So I did it.”

“And what did that entail?”

“Doing it.”

“Are you volunteering to go next then, Enoch?” Sebastian asked.

“I— uh—” Enoch jogged up in front of them and turned to walk backwards as he spoke, “Well I met—”

“Don’t walk like that,” Mina interrupted. “If you fall and break something, we’ll have to leave you behind, or I’ll have to kill you.”

His steps slowed as his eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

“It’s quicker than the duskwolves tearing into your flesh and snapping your neck.” It was brutal imagery, but not entirely false.

“She’s kidding, Enoch,” Sebastian said.

Enoch’s voice hollowed. “H-how can you tell?”

“Because if you did break something, Tanir would gladly patch you up,” he reasoned.

Wera groaned.

She looked back at Enoch and snickered, “See? Short, sweet, and to the point. Your turn, Sir Gargic.”

Sebastian broke the thick silence and turned to Tanir, “Did you really have to tell the basilisk story, Tani?”

“It’s one of my first and favorite memories of you,” she replied.

“Aha! You’re a hunter too!” Sebastian — frustratingly — cheered. “I knew there was more to you!”

“Now, do you have any other comments, questions, concerns for our happy little troop? Perhaps some tips on how to deal with those duskwolves you—”

“You’re all loud,” she stated. “It’ll draw things to us, and cause trouble on the Peaks.”

“Why’s that?” Tanir asked.

“Avalanches.”

“Wait,” Enoch said. “There’s going to be snow on these mountains?”

“What did you think we bought all those cold weather clothes for?” Wera scoffed.

“Lanholde has a cooler climate. I just thought winter wear was the fashion there.”

Wera sent a pleading look Sebastian’s way. “Did you really have to hire him, ‘Bastian? We could have just left him stranded on that beach.”

“True,” Sebastian shrugged, “but we need entertainment on this journey, and watching the two of you bicker could rival some of the best traveling shows.”

“Right. Which of you can fight?” Mina asked as she headed to the front of the pack.

All of them raised their hands.

Wera and Sir Gargic she understood but the others… “This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten this far if we couldn’t hold our own, lass,” Sir Gargic said. “Trust me, I was wary myself when I first met them, but even Enoch is worthwhile in a scrap.”

“Hey!” Enoch whined.

Mina didn’t wait for them to finish pairing off before weaving her way through the trees. She didn’t even acknowledge Wera as she hustled to fall in place beside her.

“So,” Wera drawled after a few minutes of silence between them, “why’d you pick me for the front?”

If she had to suffer through another expedition, at least she could make this one of use.

She could feel the pressure of Wera studying her face, looking for something she’d never find.

“Just write down the trail taken and there’s no need to worry about any of that.”

She heard Wera’s pen skip on the page and a heavy exhale out of her nose.

There it was. She hated being talked down to.

“Would you look at that,” Sir Gargic remarked, voice slightly muffled and strained. He talked out of the corner of his mouth in a bad attempt to be quiet. “She’s actually talking to Wera.”

“People do often talk to each other,” Sebastian said coolly, not feeding the knight’s judgment.

“Yes, but she’s so—”

“Are we talking about the Brambled Beauty?” Enoch whispered.

“The what?” Sebastian deadpanned.

“You don’t like it, sir? I’m trying to figure out the perfect way to describe such a terrifying and alluring creature.”

“Alluring?” Sir Gargic guffawed, “She’s so cold!”

“Yes! She’s cold!” Tanir added, voice peaking with a burst of realization.

Mina ground her teeth to keep from chewing them out. It was better that they didn’t know how well she could hear, and she had bore much harsher digs than their rude observations anyways.

“Just because she’s different than us doesn’t make her less of a person,” Sebastian chided. “And Tanir it’s unlike you to make assumptions about someone you’ve just met.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just—”

Their footfalls and chitchat ceased abruptly. Mina turned her head to the side, putting a finger to her lips to signal them to stay silent and wait.

“A meadowlark?” Sebastian whispered.

Mina secured her bow on her back and slid down the tree’s trunk.

“Keep moving,” she said to the group as she retrieved her sword from the terramawg’s corpse.

All of their mouths hung agape.

A dull pang pushed against Mina’s chest at the sight.

“Great Gods. Save some for the rest of us next time, will ya?” Sir Gargic shuddered.

“Hey, wait up!” Wera ran after her, manipulating the ink back in its vial and pulling out her notebook once again.“How were you able to tell where it was?”

Tanir pulled a stupefied Enoch along, “Come on. You should be jumping with joy. Action like that is sure to make your book even more exciting.”

“Well,” Sir Gargic remarked to Sebastian with a heavy exhale, “I guess we know why she’s so cold now.”

Sebastian hummed in acknowledgment, nothing more. Nothing until moments later, when under his breath a murmured thought slipped out.

“The wind even changed direction.”

The reverence in his tone, unheard by everyone else, bristled against the back of Mina’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of The Maiden of the Barren Rime! Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read it.

If you're interested in reading more, MBR releases on May 1st and is available for pre-order now! You can order it from Barnes and Noble, Books-a-Million, Amazon, and most independent bookstores!

#bookblr #writing #the maiden of the barren rime #fantasy novel #fantasy romance #fantasy books #romance novels #romance #slow burn #romantasy #words #writblr

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madmanwonder · 8 months ago

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NEW OC MUSE

Name: Gabriel Stark

Nickname: Gab, Gabby, Hero of the Capital Wasteland, the Loner Wanderer, the Courier, Knucklehead (Amata/Veronica), Dumbfuck (Cass), Civillian (by Sarah Lyon), Courier Six, Mojave Express, Followers of the Apocalypse, Kings, Great Khan

Age: 19-35 (depending upon the muse question and au)

Race: Human (Wastelander Mutant), Cyborg

Gender: Male

Occupation: Bounty Hunter, Solider, Cook, Survivalist, Inventor, Politician, Warlord

Allegiance: Brotherhood of Steel, East Coast Chapter (Formerly), Minutemen, Regulator, NCR (Formerly), The Strip, Enclave Remnan

Physical Information:

Weight: 183 lbs, (before mutation) 282 Ibs (after mutation)

Height: 5'10" (before mutation) 6'9 (after mutation)

Build: Lean-Swimmer, Hulking Bodybuilder

Hair colour: Black (before mutation), Silvery-Black with green highlights (after mutation)

Unusual markings/Features: Pronounced canine, cat-like pupils, glowing eyes, Brotherhood of Steel Tatto on his right shoulder, Lucky 21 tattoo on his left shoulder, 216 tatto on his right check, bullet scar on his temple

Eye colour: Brown (before mutation), Blue (after mutation)

Skin Color: Dark Tan

Clothing:

Accessories: Iron Cross necklace,

Mutations: Radiation-Empowered Healing Factor, Enhanced Senses

Psychological information

Personality: Gabriel is a kind-hearted, noble, heroic, idealistic but ruthless, manipulative, cunning and relentless. Has a heart of gold but a pragmatic view of the world after leaving his home.

Attitude: Idealist and Pragmatic

Quirks: Bare Teeth in anger, tilt head in confusion, let out a dog-like whine when he sad

Likes: Food, Good Deeds, Lyons Brotherhood of Steel, Loyalty, Friendship, Peace, Unusual Stuff, Animals

Dislikes: Abuse, Evil, Enclave (Capital Wasteland), Slavery, Rape, Wanton Murder, Disloyalty, Hypocrisy

Phobias: Arachnophobia, Autophobia, Alektorophobia

Motto: "Live Long, Fight Hard, Love Better"

Background information:

Place of Origin: Jefferson Memorial

Date of Birth: July 13, 2258

Family: James (Dead), Catherine (Dead)

Brief History: Gabriel, ex-Vault Dweller turned Hero of Captial Wasteland, and the Hero of Mojave Wasteland and founder and first Chairman of the The Free Syndicate of Unification

S.P.E.C.I.A.L. stats:

Strength: 9/10

Perception: 7/10

Endurance: 8/10

Charisma: 9/10

Intelligence: 10/10

Agility: 6/10

Luck: 6/10

Combat Information: He like to be up and close to people using his great strength and endurance to tank attacsk, but also skilled markmanship and great with explosion.

Favoured weapons: Super Sledge, Hunting Shotgun, Grenade Machinegun

Preferred fighting range: Close-to-Mid Close Range

Perks: Terrifying Presence, Jurry-Rigging, Lady Killer, Confirmed Bachelor, Demolition Expert

#my post #oc muse #fallout series #fallout 3 #fallout new vegas #gabriel stark #character profile

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averagejoesolomon · 2 years ago

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lol you guys want a *checks watch* Tuesday update?? I am trying my darndest to wrap this one up, so please enjoy and thank you for being patient with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. CW: Lots of religious themes in this one. Definitely only read if you're in the right headspace for that sort of thing.

Chapter Eleven

Folks can say what they like about organized religion, and say plenty more about Catholicism in particular, but there’s a universal truth that most anyone can agree on, regardless of their broader opinions on the matter—the Catholics know how to build a church.

The undisputed masters of the craft, in Matt’s opinion, are of course the Italians. It’s hard to top all of that Renaissance art and harder still to top the ancient and ornate architecture that surrounds it. With centuries to practice, they’ve perfected the sacred artistry of it all—made saints out of marble, carved psalms into stone, and painstakingly plated their ceilings in gold. There’s beauty to a culture that erects an entire city in the name of worship and every time Matt visits, a strand of spirituality knits to dense cloth in his stomach. Italy grounds him to God in a way Nebraska never could.

There are echoes of Italy in the churches along America’s east coast. Rich, European roots have reached across the Atlantic and sprouted up in all of the major settlements, growing straight into the cities of today. There have been adaptations and modernizations, to be sure, but it only takes one glance to recognize the influence. Generations upon generations of architects have had their way with stone, marble, gold, and glass, all in an effort to build a place of worship worthy of one almighty God.

This church is no exception, an exquisite stone citadel tucked into a far-off corner of the John Hopkins campus. Matt stares up at it from the edge of the sidewalk as an entirely new feeling burrows into the base of his stomach. It’s a behemoth of limestone, capped by a patinated emerald copper. The doors wait for him at the top of an insurmountable staircase, hidden behind the jaws of awesome, towering pillars. It’s beautiful, and structural, and dignified, but suffers ever so slightly from an uncanny sense of Americana that likens it more to DC’s Capitol District than to the grand Italian cathedrals. It ought to be a library. It ought to be a bank.

If he keeps listing all the things it should be, maybe he won’t have to face the truth, and maybe he’ll finally convince himself to walk inside.

Two small, iron sconces act as the only guiding light through an otherwise dark evening, offering a candlelit glow that feels too faint for the task at hand. The shine barely reaches Matt’s breath, clouding up against the chill. One step. It’ll only take one step. He knows he ought to pray for strength, but praying is part of the problem these days, so he keeps his thoughts down here on Earth where no one can hear them. Instead of the Heavens, his prayers find their way into stiff shoulders, into icy lungs, into the stinging red-white swirl of his bare and bruised knuckles.

You’re too good for that.

He ain’t too proud of where he left things with Rachel, all twisted up in tears, and cold, and words that feel harsh in hindsight. Screaming and hollering never suited him, and it definitely don’t suit her. Rachel’s the type to let silence do most of her speaking. She’s the type to set a guy straight with a single glance. This evening is proof of a sharper side to her personality, defined by an anger that lingers even in her absence. It mixes with his own to form a stiff, shameful weight atop his shoulders, pressing into skin, muscle, and bone until he’s got no choice but to slump beneath it all.

Matt beholds the grand staircase before him and takes his first step toward the Heavens.

It ought to be a courthouse. It ought to be a museum.

Come to think of it, he’s not too happy with how he left Abby, either—midway through a dance, without so much as a thank you or a goodbye. Maybe he’s grateful this business with the Circle distracted him long enough to soften the immediacy of her rejection, but it all catches up to him now. He’s got the instant replay rolling through his head, slipping into slow motion, every movement analyzed under an intense, frame-by-frame scrutiny. He’s spent years planning his confession, practicing it over and over in his head, but now he’s gone and pitched wide and high. Blew his shot at the major leagues before he could even take it, just so he could chase down a phony lead with an alibi that Abby already swore by.

He climbs up one step, then another. The banister is ice beneath his palm. The air is frozen to the sides of his throat. He shivers against the absence of a coat he left hanging on Rachel’s shoulders.

It ought to be a theater. It ought to be a police station.

There’s some solace in the fact that he’s still got Joe, off somewhere in a North Baltimore motel making a pot of coffee that will keep them both up all night. They’ll need the extra hours, now that they’ve run head-first into another dead end. This ain’t the first time they’ll start from scratch on their search for the center of the Circle, but it is the first time Matt wonders if they’re going about it the right way. If they should be going about it at all.

Each step comes right after the last until he’s falling, falling, falling heavenward. The staircase finally plateaus at its top and Matt has to pause. Catch his breath.

It’s just a church. Same as all the others. He’s walked into dozens just like it.

Even so, apprehension slithers up and around his ankles, binding him in place, pulling him deep into the stone. Standing before a building this mighty, he can’t help but feel tiny in comparison. With every step, the church grows taller and Matt only shrinks in its wake, the shadow of the night deepened by the presence of such an imposing beast. A wind whistles through the columns, flags and banners snapping in the breeze, and Matt swears he feels a breath.

Maybe it’s high time he came in from the cold.

Strands of panic cuff his wrists. It takes all he has to snap free of them, reaching for black handles that are worn to gold at the crest of each curve. The double doors open under his tender touch, easy and welcoming, as though he was always meant to walk right in. Matt’s not one to ignore a sign from above when he sees it, which is probably how he musters up the courage to take the first step inside.

They just don’t make them like this back home—pew, after pew, after pew lined in perfect rows across a solid stone floor. Grand, arching ceilings made of interlocking brick, stretching from window to window. The stained glass has gone dark with the night, their colors now dense and thick compared to the airiness of daylight, but the hanging pendants catch faint, muted streaks of red and blue and gold. There are twelve windows, weaving between twelve Stations of the Cross, all leading up to the twelve disciples mosaicked above one massive, marble altar.

Matt is greeted first by the low trickle of a stone baptismal font. As he basks in the Lord’s surrounding beauty, his fingertips float toward the sound and it’s not until he strikes the warmth of the holy water that he realizes what’s happened. Muscle memory sends his fingers flicking before he brings his own touch to his head, his chest, shoulder to shoulder, just like his mama taught him all those years ago.

Ain’t no going back now.

The lights are lit, but dimmed. All of the candles are extinguished, save the few burning in memoriam at the Mother Mary’s feet. Matt is alone as he marches down an empty aisle, but even so, he can’t escape the feeling of a watchful eye. A tail he can’t quite shake.

But he doesn’t search over his shoulder or examine the shadows, because he’ll find no one there. He knows that. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the sky and does the one thing no agent is ever supposed to do—blow his own cover. “I reckon a few Hail Marys ain’t gonna cut it this time, huh?”

Prayers in real life don’t look like prayers in the stories. Not in Matt’s experience, anyway. In the stories, a prayer always makes its way to God and it’s always answered in a timely manner, be that through a serendipitous act of grace, a convenient streak of luck, or a miraculous one-on-one conversation with the Big Guy himself. But it’s never been that simple for Matt. He’s had prayers answered, sure, but never with such clarity. Never with any amount of certainty.

For Matt, prayers feel more like a faithful cast into an inky night. He was raised to believe that there’s strength and beauty in the unknown, in the unsure, in the repeated hope that someone, somewhere is listening to his deepest thoughts, and desires, and pleas. The power of God comes from the willingness to believe He is present, even when evidence suggests otherwise. The power is in the gutting, hollow hope that he is not alone, even when it most feels like he is. “The best I can offer instead, is an apology,” says Matt. “So I’m sorry. I ain’t been around too much. And I’m sorry someone else had to realize it before I could.”

Only here, standing at the heart of His church does Matt begin to run the numbers. The number of days without a service. The number of deeds without goodwill. The number of prayers locked tight in his chest, for fear that their bitter cadence would expose the rest of his unholy insides. Matt shivers at the thought of how much longer he would have gone, had he not been redirected to Baltimore. Had Rachel not found this place for him. Had they not screamed, and hollered, and tore one another to pieces.

“And for what it’s worth, she’s wrong, y’know.” The words come out quick, and sharp, and unexpected. He has to settle the unbound eagerness, lest it sound too much like guilt. “She always thinks she’s right, but she’s wrong this time. We both know she’s wrong, don’t we? Because I ain’t been too good lately.”

His hand falls to the squared edge of a single pew, lacquered wood smooth beneath his touch. He takes comfort in the ritual—in the soundlessness of the church, in the familiar smells of stale incense and melted wax. Matt slides into the pew and folds the kneeler to the floor, falling to his knees, because that’s just what a fella is supposed to do when he walks into church. Holy water, sign of the cross, prayer. It’s been that way since he was a boy, so he lets his wrists fall against the edge of the wood and laces his fingers together.

Blotches of red, and purple, and black stain his worship.

He shuts his eyes, aiming for focus, but waves of memory wash over him with every throb of his interlocked knuckles. Years of double-booked days. Weeks spent in hiding in Rome, and Budapest, and Warsaw. So many lies that he’s forgotten the truth. Without permission, his mind begins to count the commandments he’s broken and they add up quicker than he cares to admit. One, two, three, four—his rising thoughts turn a remorseful, bloody red.

He has stolen files from Hungarian embassies and robbed Russian dignitaries blind. He has fought his way through the Circle’s lowest ranks and manipulated the wants, wills, and desires of every informant he could find. In the past year, Matt’s assets have been drowned, poisoned, or imprisoned for the simple crime of answering his questions, and it’s hard not to take credit for those deaths. Matt has yet to kill a man with his own two hands, but there’s plenty of blame to be shared for those that die by the Circle’s hand at his prompting. “And I’m sorry for that, too,” he says. “I am. I am, truly—when we got into this mission, we were trying to save lives. But it seems like I’ve done more harm than good, since we started. I know Pops always said you can’t fight fire with fire, but I dunno. I dunno. Kinda feels like there’s no amount of good that’s gonna fight off this kind of bad. Kinda feels like more bad is the only thing left.”

His knuckles throb against the strain in his grip, but he doesn’t remember how to loosen it. Can’t make himself feel at ease. After years of lying to everyone he knows, he’s forced to finally face the raw, gnarly truth. Matt can’t lie to an all-knowing God and, in turn, Matt can’t lie to himself, either. Not anymore. “No one ever tells you if it’s okay to do bad things for a good reason,” he says. “And while we’re on the subject—no one really tells you what a good reason is, either.”

Everything you do is about Joe. And I don’t know how you haven’t figured that out yet.

Because if Matt is finally honest with himself, he knows he was never truly in this to save lives, plural. He was only ever in this for one life—for Joe’s life. Rachel had seen that much and told him so, even before Matt knew it himself. Maintaining the world order and preventing nuclear apocalypse are both handy side effects, but in the end, all of this is for his friend, his partner, his brother. For perfectly synced fights with someone who can anticipate his every move. For glass shattered across the kitchen floor and Joe’s head in his lap. For a sleepless night in basic training, then another beside a bathtub in Italy.

Because meeting Joe the first time, hidden behind Army camo and a fake name pulled straight from the pages of a bible, had been a stroke of luck. But meeting Joe a second time, at the edge of Italy and in the middle of a city’s prayer, at the exact moment they most needed one another—that had been an act of divine intervention. Matt had known better than to turn away from something like that. He’s spent all his life wondering if prayers get answered, and he knew better than to look away when it finally happened.

Friends are a noble cause. Joe is a noble cause. Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to fight for, if not for the people he loves. “Except maybe I’m not sorry for that, after all,” he confesses. “I mean, what’s Joe supposed to be anyway, huh? Is he supposed to be some kinda test? Because I’ll fail that one every time, swear to—”

He stops himself. That’s probably in poor taste.

“Well, anyway,” he says, shifting on his knees. “You sent me a brother—someone who sees straight into me like no one ever has before. Someone who keeps me alive when I should be dead ten times over by now. It’s not my fault you’ve gone and torn him into pieces. I’m just doing what I can to put him back together again. Send me a guy who’s hurting and I’ll find a way to make him hurt less. That’s what you told me to do. I’m acting in your image.”

And even though prayers aren’t usually answered in words, sometimes God still finds a way to reply, in the form of a twinged gut or a hot flash of red that runs down the spine. It’s the same feeling he used to get when his mama delivered her sharpest looks. “No, you’re right,” Matt admits, adding another broken commandment to his growing list. “I guess I’m not. But I don’t know if there’s a good way to do this—I don’t know. Can I serve you and serve Joe? Can I serve you and serve my country? Can I serve you and serve myself?”

These are the same questions that have been asked in the same churches, decade after decade and century after century. Just as He has done with every man before Matt, God leaves this particular question without an answer.

So Matt provides one of his own. “I don’t know if I can become a good man.” These words come out quieter than the rest, I’s dotted with apprehension and T’s crossed with hesitance. Even so, God hears them. God hears all. “But, sure as the sunrise, I ain’t proud of who I am now.”

Knuckles crack as his fingers fold and fidget between one another, desperately trying to break free of their prayer. He’s never felt this way before—filled with the urge to run. To forget. His brain is specially trained to remember every detail of every moment, and while that particular practice serves him well in the field, it has never done him many favors among the silences. Perfect recall is a lot like Fort Jackson’s gas chambers, in that it expands to fill all available space, sneaking into every crevice and snarling into every crack. One wrong move could steal a fella’s breath and claw at his throat.

He remembers the sounds of the crickets below Rachel’s raised voice. The smell of broken bourbon and Micheal’s ribs beneath Matt’s foot. The feeling of Abby’s hand on his shoulder, and the feeling of it falling away. The buzz of a fresh haircut. The thrum of a throbbing jaw. The smoothness of luxury leather.

“So I can promise you this,” he says, trying to fill the air with words before the memories engulf him entirely. “I can promise you I’ll try. I’ll try, and I’ll try, and I’ll try, however many times you’ll let me.”

The reek of a cigar. The chime of crystal. An impenetrable office, torn apart at the seams. Crooked curtains, and scattered paper, and stolen disks. Accusation after accusation from the man with all of the questions.

“I will try to be a good man.” A father who would do anything for his daughters. “Even if I can’t always do good things.”

And Matt figures that even if a string of Hail Marys ain’t gonna help, they at least won’t hurt. It’s out of habit that he mutters the prayer three times over, thoughts getting lost in the familiar cadence. Better than suffocating among his own memories. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. His mind is permitted to wander ever so slightly and just as Matt begins to ponder the existence of good people who do bad things for good reasons, epiphany strikes.

So maybe God does answer the occasional prayer, after all.

Matt’s eyes flash open, and he snaps his gaze toward the ornate ceiling overhead, and to the heavens beyond. With a sharp, satisfied sigh, he stands to his feet and draws the Sign of the Cross along his features. “Loud and clear, Big Guy,” he says. “Guess I’ll see you next week.”

He can’t can’t seem to stumble out of the pew quick enough, mind racing with answers to questions he didn’t even know he was asking. His exit is brisker than his entrance, neglecting the beauty of the church in favor of the stark and urgent need to leave. To get a cab. To find Joe.

But of course, when Matt opens the doors back into the cool spring night, Joe is already there.

The embers of his cigarette glow orange against the darkness. It’s the only thing that keeps him from being a complete shadow, all wrapped up in black, on black, on black. His silhouette stands resolute at the base of the staircase, turning to spot Matt high above. “What are you…?” Matt starts.

Joe flicks his cigarette between his fingers, sending sparks toward the cement of the sidewalk. “You couldn’t flag down a cab if your life depended on it,” he says, taking another huff and igniting the flame even further. “And to be clear, I know that because your life has depended on it. On more than one occasion.”

This is Joe’s way of saying that he stayed for Matt. This is also Joe’s way of avoiding the unspoken truth they both know—the Circle is everywhere, and Matt can’t afford to be alone.

Walking down the staircase feels so much shorter than the grueling trudge upward, but maybe that’s because Matt’s eager to get a move on. He bounds down the steps until he’s right at Joe’s side. “Then you ought to make quick work out of calling one.”

Curls of smoke tumble out of Joe’s sigh. “What’s the rush?” he says. “Excited for a thrilling night of retracing our steps? Can’t wait to spend hours combing through old case notes to scrape up another lead? After all, what are the odds that we hit another dead end?”

Matt shakes his head, and it's enough to draw Joe's eyebrows together. “We haven’t hit a dead end,” he says. “At least, not yet.”

And there’s something godly, between Matt and Joe. Something that doesn’t need words—an understanding that comes from some sixth sense that only exists between the two of them. All Matt has to do is cast his thoughts into the inky night, and Joe hears him. Loud and clear. In all of the places God usually leaves Matt wondering, Joe always makes sure to answer every last one of Matt’s silent prayers.

At the foot of the church steps, Joe drops his cigarette to the sidewalk, grinds it under the sole of his shoe, and raises two fingers toward a pair of oncoming headlights.

#Full Circle

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