#and that includes women too. she will slap everyone across the head equally

[primordialchoice]

I personally will not write my muse with a vendetta against men. Lilith is many things, but she isn't sexist. In the Zohar, Lilith was not called a woman. Yes, she is a CIS female, but the identity ends there. She has never seen Adam as her opposite in terms of gender, which is why she has always insisted that she was his equal. Gender roles simply didn't mean anything to her because the distinction wasn't made in her case. The patriarchy is a concept she doesn't fully grasp even nowadays.

Pekudei: Verse 207.

For in the beginning, BEFORE EVE, he had another union, WITH LILITH, as explained, until Eve came. For the Holy One, blessed be He prepared her for Adam, and they were united face to face. Therefore it is written, "this one shall be called 'woman'" (Beresheet 2:23). But the other one, LILIT, is not so called, as was explained.

[peachyteabuck]

slaughterhouse // bucky barnes x reader

summary:   “ Slaughter it in the Lord’s presence at the entrance to the tent of meeting. Take some of the bull’s blood and put it on the horns of the altar with your finger, and pour out the rest of it at the base of the altar. Then take all the fat on the internal organs, the long lobe of the liver, and both kidneys with the fat on them, and burn them on the altar. But burn the bull’s flesh and its hide and its intestines outside the camp. It is a sin offering.” - exodus 29:11-14

or, the real story of how the winter soldier lost his arm

pairing: winter soldier!bucky x reader

words: 2,035

trigger warnings: heavy gore, explicit references to propaganda use, smut, snuff films, sub!bucky, use of restraints and suicidal thoughts, extreme dehumanization, allusions to breeding 

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

A woman Soldat had never seen and likely would never see again stood confidently in front of him as she delivered the news. Every member of Hydra (at least, the ones that joined willingly) had the same stance – chest out, shoulders back, face blank. None of them needed emotions because the organization felt for them, so their mouths only twisted themselves into smiles when another pro-America politician ate a bullet.

He listened diligently as he could, watching her with eyes long gone dead. The scientist coat she wore – branded with the Hydra insignia – was freshly laundered, covering most of her shapeless black bodysuit. It was the standard bulletproof one all agents wore, including Soldat.

“If we want to form a successful regime,” she explained, “Propaganda is necessary. Simply relying on the organization itself to crumble is a short-sighted approach. Do you understand?”

Soldat nodded, grumbled something akin to a “yes” as he traced the cracks in the cinderblock wall behind her. He had made them, there was no need to map them out once more, but it gave him something to look at besides the middle-aged scientist in front of him – so he continued.

“And, given you’re the most successful case of bodily rejuvenation with the serum,” she paused for a moment, waiting until Soldat’s eyes met her own. “We need you to step up and help Hydra.”

His brow furrowed. Hadn’t he already done enough? He’d given up his freedom, his life, his will to live…what else would this place possibly take from him!?

The woman shook her head and sighed to herself. “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself correctly…”

The guard, who had been silent enough Soldat had forgotten about him, stepped forward. His finger never left its resting place on his weapon and held it close to him as he spoke. Soldat knew for a fact that the man spoke at least ten languages – but somehow his English remained heavily accented and broken in the typical Eastern European style he’d come to know quite well. “We need common man. Common man watch porn. We make porn. You star in porn. Get it?”

Soldat narrowed and his fingers gripped the steel bedframe he was sitting on. He heard the distinct creak of metal bending as he did so. In his own black bodysuit, he felt his cock hardening at the proposition. It had been, what? Months? Years? Decades? Since he buried himself in a tight, hot cunt. Surely this offer was too good to be true – they wouldn’t just film him fucking some snatch and leave it at that…

But he knew, even if there was some weird catch, he wouldn’t have a say in whether or not he had to abide.

So Soldat – all 200 pounds of him – gives a small shrug. The woman seemed relieved. The guard seemed to not care very much either way.

“Good,” the woman says with bated breath, turning to her colleagues. She addresses them with the same tentative, small voice, as if she’s ashamed of what she’s saying. “Go prep the room, I’ll meet you there once it’s done.”

The rest of them, all except the guard, give her a single nod as she exits, waiting for her footsteps to fall out of earshot before they leave. Soldat and the single man are left alone, then, staring at each other with equally bored expressions.

It’s a while – an hour or so, maybe – when the guard gets a radio transmission, a crackly voice speaking Russian requesting for “the transfer of the Soldat to room 4527BW.” The Soldat has never heard of the room – the letters indicating its location in the west wing of the basement with numbers telling him it’s in the part of the Hydra base even the Soldat hasn’t been to. He’s heard murmurings of it, of words like Americans and genes and perfect human male. He remembers overhearing two younger, female scientists giggling about what he was packing, which didn’t make much sense to him. He never had to pack anything, he wore the same clothes the entire mission and guns were either strapped to him or handed to him by a Hydra operative.

No matter his confusion, the Soldat follows the guards to the room previously mentioned on the radio, obediently laying down on a medical table that was slightly wider than what he was used to. He lays there, silently, as he’s strapped down with the special material Hydra had made specially for him. An IV is attached to his left arm by a nurse he’d never seen before, the fluid flowing into his veins soon making everything below his shoulder feel…heavy, somehow.

The same nurse takes out a pen, moves it close to him, and asks him if he can feel that.

Soldat shakes his head once. Then the nurse disappears, and all the ceiling lights go off except one; one single, bright bulb that illuminates the doorway he had walked through just a few minutes prior.

Someone yells “актион!,” and then someone else walks through the door.

He’d seen you before, Soldat realizes as you step into the low lighting. You were, are, a scientist – the one who checks him out every so often after a particularly hard mission. Each visit was never as bad as he’d come to expect from the others; you and your clipboard and your perfectly sharpened pencil were somehow kinder to him in the minutes it took to jot down any external injuries that the others subjected to the serum could suffer. The healing process was documented thoroughly as well, his bruises and broken bones and stab wounds measured and noted on a chart he assumed you had stacks of copies of in your office. He imagines you pulling one off of the large pile each time you were notified he had returned from his “danger-cations,” as you called them. You always said it with a small smile, one Soldat always attempted to mimic once he had left.

The large men, the even larger guns, the numerous cameras and the noises all the objects quickly turn into background noise as you step closer, clad in a skintight dress that makes Soldat’s mouth go dry.

If this was many, many years ago (how many, exactly, he couldn’t tell) he might’ve delivered some smooth line about wanting to take you out on a date, maybe ask you what a good dame like you was doing in a place like this. Maybe he’d give you a nice half-smile and lean against the wall, do something else smooth and flirty.

It’s been a long time since Soldat was like that, since he had that instinct that made him so good with women. All of that melted away the first time he was thawed, revealing some bare canvas for Hydra to paint whatever it is they wanted him to be over his cold, hard skin.

So now he was laid bare, his legs spread out and his arms tied straight out, kept in place by the mythical metal everyone keeps talking about – the thing that makes that dastardly Captain America’s shield so legendary. You clicked them into place just before he was given the cue to keep quiet, shoving a single thin finger between his wrist and the slowly warming material. For a moment, Soldat did not understand why you were doing it and tensed with the anticipation of what was he thought would be a sedative or worse. None of the millions of scenarios that ran through his head included you looking down at him with wide, attentive eyes and asking if the cuffs were too tight.

Soldat just laughed dryly. “What would you do if they were?”

You didn’t respond, just turned back to ask something from a superior that Soldat didn’t bother listening to.

Somewhere between you walking away (and his eyes flitting down to the short hemline of that black dress) and you returning (and his eyes flitting up to the deep neckline of that black dress), you had discarded the matching lace panties that dropped them onto the center of Soldat’s face.

The fabric is soft, softer than anything Soldat had felt in years. He can smell you, too, the deep, heady scent snapping him back to the reality he had been attempting to distance himself from.

“You like that?” you coo, nails now painted some deep red as they trail across his chest. All Soldat does is gulp, his nonverbal actions met by a slap and you grabbing his jaw and forcing his eyes to meet yours. “Answer me.”

“Yes!” He gasps out, voice thick and broken from lack of use.

“Yes, what?” you scream, your face so close to his he can feel the fake rage that settles over your skin.

It takes all of Soldat’s power not to lean forward and kiss you – using all his willpower to keep his body flat on the table instead of wrapping himself around you. “Yes, Mistress!”

You smile and the Soldat swears he feels proud of himself for the first time he can remember.

“Now stay perfectly still, and only speak when spoken to, and maybe I’ll reward you…” your words feel like silk against the man’s skin, soft against his scars and burns and marred flesh.

He nods and keeps himself static, watching as you hike your dress up just enough to reveal your bare pussy. If the Soldat was given permission he’d moan and tell you it’s the most beautiful cunt he’s ever seen; but he wasn’t, so he just watches you with desperate, wide eyes as you climb onto the table he’s strapped to, and then onto him.

You mount him with a look of disgust painted on your face – a single raised brow and bared teeth making Soldat’s cock jump inside of you.

“It’s always a dirty Russian,” you hiss as you slap him again. “Poking around in places you know you shouldn’t be.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I’m so sorry!”

A smirk paints itself across your face. “You want to impregnant me, don’t you? You want to pump me full of you, want to make me round with your children?”

The Soldat, finally, moans out a “Yes! Mistress, yes!” as you tighten around him, the feeling making his head spin.

“But first,” you reach down while the Soldat’s eyes remain trained on your hands. A large knife – one larger than the one he carries but the same shape – is pulled from the holster on your thigh, previously covered by the fabric of your dress. “We need to get you into proper form.”

Still inside of you, the Soldat is too focused on the feeling of you around him to notice the blood dripping down from the table, or the cuff’s heavy metal latch being undone, or the loud THUD of something hitting the cement ground. He feels none of it – too pumped full of hormones and whatever else Hydra mixed into the clear bang hanging from the pole next to him to care at all about that you were doing. As long as he could feel your velvet walls around his aching cock…you could do anything to him, and he’d thank you profusely.

“You going to cum in me, Russian?” your voice is breathy, satisfied. “You going to fill me up with your dirty Russian cum?”

It doesn’t take much longer before the Soldat comes the hardest he ever has, screaming louder than an airplane at takeoff as his thrusts become harder, deeper before he stills at his very peak.

“Oh, Иисус Христос,” he moans, the arm that’s left moving to cup your face. His thumb moves to swipe at your bottom lip and you leave a kiss there, smiling blissfully. Soldat’s vision darkens just as he finds the energy to smile back.

“I love you,” he whispers, knowing he’s fading fast. It’ll be his last words – and he’s okay with that.

“I love you, too,” you tell him in an equally low voice, the reply music to his ears as the world falls apart around him. It’s the first time he’s felt at peace for years, he quickly realizes. Somehow, it’s not as pathetic as he thinks it should be.

[monstersandmaw]

Male werewolf x female reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This is a patreon tier reward, and I hope you enjoy my take on their big, dad-bodded werewolf OC, Lowe. It's been up on Patreon on early release and is now up on Tumblr for you to enjoy.

Content: playful banter, fluff, the briefest flicker of angst, some dominant tendencies in Lowe (it's not D/s though, for anyone who's not into that), and a reader who gives as good as she gets. Wordcount: 2792

___

As you yanked the door to the campus cafe open with about twice as much force as it needed, you caught a glimpse of Lowe working behind the counter. Of course, there was a massive queue at this time of day; at the midpoint of the afternoon when people were thinking about either finishing up early or knuckling down for a caffeine-fuelled all-nighter.

Engrossed as he’d looked in his work before, he glanced up as if he’d sensed your presence, his warm eyes flicked briefly in your direction as the door opened, and he offered you a quick, fond, twitch of the lips before turning back to the masterpiece of latte art in his hands. Even at that distance, you felt your body relaxing a little more around him. In the time since he’d made some playfully snarky comment about your Pokémon shirt a few months ago - which had, in fact, led to a joint outing on campus playing Pokémon Go together - you and he had fallen into an easy friendship.

You tried not to snarl softly to yourself as the woman at the front of the queue, old enough to be a post-grad perhaps, leaned on the counter and flirted openly with him, but at the end of the day, what claim did you have to him anyway? Lowe was your friend, and as much as you’d like to think you might be the tall, long-haired guy’s type (he was certainly yours, with that ���powerful-yet-soft-around-the-edges’ dad bod he had going on, and that self-assured confidence that tipped just pleasantly shy of being arrogance), you couldn��t really be sure. After all, you’d seen him getting pretty close with a guy friend of his, so for all you knew, he wasn’t even interested in women, but you’d never really discussed that. The most personal things had got so far was Bloodborne bosses and beloved DnD characters, which was also fine.

The queue slowly dwindled in front of you, and when you stepped up to the counter, Lowe turned from the machine on the far counter and plonked a large cup down before your lips had even opened to begin your order. His grin was positively wolfish, all teeth and glinting eyes.

You pouted and snapped, “And what if I wanted a chai latte with soy milk today?”

He raised one thick eyebrow as he popped the takeaway lid onto the cup with a distractingly big hand, and said flatly, “You hate soy milk. Drink up, grumpy-guts. You’ll feel better…”

You huffed, took the cup off the counter, slapped the cash down just hard enough to make him chuckle and twitch another smile - damn the bastard looked pleased with himself and double-damn, if he didn’t look extra-specially good wearing that expression - and he announced to his colleague that he was going on break.

He joined you outside, tugging out one of the heavy, metal chairs for you without a word before taking a seat on the other side of the table.

Lowe closed his eyes, tipping his head back a little to feel the chilly late-spring breeze on his face. He looked good as he relaxed like that, with his long, thick, nut-brown hair tied back off his face with a few fluffy bits escaping at the front, and his big arms folded across his chest and resting on the slight paunch he had at the waist. Something about the thick, almost russet-brown scruff on his jaw made you want to touch it. Instead, you sipped your drink and sighed.

“Good?” he asked without moving or opening his eyes.

“You know it is, you cocky little shit,” you laughed. Banter with him was always so easy, and you gave as good as you got. “Thanks, by the way. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m a complete brat…”

He snorted and cracked an eye to look at you. The sun caught in his golden-brown iris and glinted softly like polished amber, and it honestly stole your breath for a moment. “How’s the course going?” he asked instead of teasing you any more. “You were pretty stressed about that assignment last time we talked.”

You rolled your eyes and puffed the air out of your chest, swiftly following it with some inarticulate grunt of despair. “It would be going a lot better if my roommate wasn’t also being such an inconsiderate asshole,” you snarled. “Seriously, I don’t think I can take the smell of weed or the late nights any more.”

He frowned. “Can’t you talk to someone about it?”

“Have done. Not sure I’ll have a roommate for much longer though… Missing classes and being constantly stoned must equal tanking grades, right?”

Lowe nodded but didn’t say anything for a while, watching as a gnoll and her girlfriend strolled past, hand in hand. The gnoll nuzzled her nose against the human’s ear and elicited a squawk that made her giggle in return. Eventually he said, “You free this weekend?”

Cocking your head to one side, you shrugged. “Hand-in is on Friday afternoon, so… yeah? I mean, I had just planned to sleep all day… why?”

He looked uncharacteristically apprehensive and chewed on the inside of his cheek before answering. “I was going to head up into the woods for the weekend. Camping. Wondered if you wanted to come too?”

“Camping?”

“Yeah…” he said, looking like he was regretting mentioning it now. “But if you don’t want to, it’s fine. I mean… you’ve earned your rest, and camping under the stars isn’t for everyone. Don’t feel like you have -”

“Shut up for a second, will you?” you laughed, and he drew up short and blinked, staring at you before laughing fondly. “I’ve actually never been camping. I’d love to go, as long as you don’t make me go for a ten mile hike as well…”

“Would I treat you like that?” he crooned and you rolled your eyes again and muttered something which you didn’t think he’d catch. Somehow, however, he did, and he barked a loud laugh, startling a cervitaur walking past with his grocery shopping in each hand. As Lowe turned to look at the cervitaur he’d surprised, you watched his eyes flare gold, almost unnaturally so. Perhaps it was just a trick of the sunlight at this angle. When he looked back at you, you missed what he said, staring at his eyes, which were now back to their normal, warm brown.

He murmured your name, sounding a little concerned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not a brat… not really…”

“Shut up,” you retorted, your tone carrying no venom. “And you know full well know I can be.”

That Thursday afternoon, your roommate moved out, finally expelled for drug use and selling to other students, and you fumigated the room as best you could, relieved at last. The second after you’d finished deep-cleaning everything, you texted Lowe and said, ‘So… I’m down a roommate now.’

‘You need me to help hide the body?’ he sent back immediately and you burst out laughing.

‘I love you, but no. It was expulsion rather than murder. I was kind of hoping you might want to move in instead?’ you sent, your heart in your mouth. He’d mentioned he was looking for a place closer to campus, and this could be perfect for him. If he was willing to have you as his roommate, of course.

‘Definitely interested. Can I think about it and let you know this weekend?’

That wasn’t a complete rebuttal, you figured. ‘Of course.’

‘Cheers. I’ll pick you up at ten on Saturday.’

True to his word, Lowe didn’t take you on a ten mile route march. He drove you up to the start of a wide, easy looking trail that was apparently only three miles up to the campsite, along a winding, inviting, grassy path. Despite looking maybe a little towards the less fit end of the scale, Lowe was four strides ahead of you in a matter of seconds. Realising this, he slowed, and you nudged him with your elbow.

“Thanks,” you said and he gave you one of his soft, secret smiles that you didn’t see very often.

He wasn’t particularly talkative as you made your way up the path, but the silence between you was easy, relaxing even.

“You’re such a cliche, you know that?” you laughed a little while later as you paused on a rock for a drink and to adjust the laces of your shoe.

Lowe scowled. “How?”

You stared pointedly at the penknife in his hand and the stick he’d picked up and had idly begun to whittle into a howling wolf in his big, strong hands, almost as if he’d not even realised he was doing it. Again, he surprised you by just shrugging a shoulder and turning back to it while you enjoyed the scene. He seemed a bit distracted somehow. When you moved on, he stashed it in his pocket.

Lowe carried literally everything, stowing your water bottle for the way up in the side pocket of his backpack, and even a two-person tent, food supplies for that evening and breakfast, and more water than you probably drank over the course of three days, and yet he still managed to arrive at the campsite as if he’d just strolled the length of one city block.

He impressed you again by lighting a fire and cooking a veritable feast for you both on a little makeshift grill, and he looked more than pleased with himself when you complimented him. “Don’t let it go to your big fat head,” you snickered and he growled playfully at you.

Quite literally growled.

The moment he’d done it, he went still, eyes wide, and even looked a little sick. “Shit,” he hissed.

“What?”

“I…” then his huge shoulders slumped despondently and he let out a long breath. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you. I mean, I’ve been meaning to tell you for… well, since we kind of became friends, really. But it never seemed… convenient…”

“Convenient to tell me what?”

He shuffled a bit and poked at the embers of the fire. Your stomach felt uneasy, and it had nothing to do with the inordinate amount of amazing food you’d just finished. “I…” he began, and then whispered, “Fuck it.” He looked you in the eye and said, “I’m not human. I’m a werewolf.”

You blinked. It didn’t totally surprise you, if you were honest. “Well, that… certainly makes one or two things add up…”

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

He turned his golden eyes away from you and poked a bit more at the smoldering, grey wood, making it crumble to fragile ashes. He did look a bit easier now though. “I figured… maybe you wouldn’t… that if you knew that I’m not human, you might not want me as your roommate anymore… It was stupid though, I know.”

“Lowe,” you said, more gently this time, reaching for his bare forearm where he’d cuffed his tartan sleeve up to his elbow. His skin was warm and his muscles tensed, hard as the earth beneath you as he waited for whatever you were going to say next. “You’ve become probably my best friend… There’s no one I’d rather be roommates with than you. Besides, who else is going to tolerate your Soulsborne marathons and hipster lumberjack wardrobe?”

A long, low growl emanated from him but it dissolved into laughter when he saw your expression and he shook his head. “I can’t believe I was so chicken about you knowing…”

“I can’t believe you looked like you pissed yourself a minute ago!”

His eyes flashed openly gold now and he huffed, “I did not…”

“You totally did. Anyway, I’m glad you told me. But you know that means I’m going to want to know all the details.”

“I think I’ll save that for another day,” he said as he reached for the s’mores beside him.

‘Another’ day turned out to be a week after you’d helped him move all his boxes into your room. He was lying on his back on his bed, his arms folded up behind his head, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out, foot dangling off the end of the mattress. You glanced across the room at him from where you had your laptop on your knees and your headphones on, working on the last tweaks of the next assignment due. He looked tense, even though he wasn’t really doing anything in particular.

Removing your headphones, you murmured, “Lowe? Everything alright?”

“Mmm,” he half growled. A moment later he heaved out a huge sigh and said, “No. Full moon’s tomorrow night. I always get kind of… cranky around now.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Whatever you’d thought he’d say, you hadn’t expected the long, low moan that escaped him. It was not an innocent noise. Breathing through his mouth in soft, quiet pants, he didn’t look at you, but you sensed that his eyes were glowing.

“Lowe?”

“No,” he said. “Not unless you want to take whatever this is between us somewhere else…”

You bit your lip. “You mean…?”

“It would probably take the edge off if we slept together, yes,” he said bluntly. “But if you don’t want that, then I’m hardly going to push…”

“I like it when you’re pushy,” you countered, setting your laptop aside and staring him in the eye.

His pupils blew wide and he raised his nose. “Fuck,” he cursed. “Oh… fuck, you’re beautiful.”

With a smile, you crossed the room to him as he sat up, watching your every move with unwavering, lupine focus. “Let me help you out, big guy,” you crooned playfully and he twitched his lip in a possessive snarl, eyes golden and locked on the curve of your neck.

“Last chance,” he said. “I don’t want you regretting crossing this line with me.”

“You’ve got super-human senses, Lowe,” you said, playing with the hem of your shirt. His gaze darted instantly to the movement, transfixed by the glimpse of skin beneath your top. “You must know how I feel about you by now…”

“Yes, but lusting after someone and doing something about it is different when they’re your friend… I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting pressure on you…”

In answer, you reached out and trailed your fingertips up his neck, scratching him a little bit and making him growl again, and as you finished with a single finger drawing a line up his throat and under his chin, he shivered, as if barely holding himself back. “Why don’t you put just the right amount pressure on me… here?” you said, licking your lips as you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs and running your palms over the softness of his stomach.

His jaw was soft, mouth open as he panted openly, and beneath you as you ground your hips to emphasise your question, you felt his hard cock.

A heartbeat later, he’d clamped his hands under your thighs and stood up. Lowe dropped you onto the bed with the perfect mix of recklessness and carefulness and lunged for you. He peppered and mouthed kisses down your neck, tugging at your skin with his canines, biting at your earlobe, his short beard burning and scratching your skin deliciously, and all the while he ground his cock against your thigh through his jeans.

It clearly wasn’t nearly enough, and it wasn’t long before you were both naked on his bed, and he had his mouth on you, his hands spreading your legs wide as he used the strength in his arms that his softer body belied. “Don’t come yet,” he rasped between strokes of his tongue. “Not til I say…”

“Oh,” you gasped, fighting the rising wave of heat that swept up your body, tingling under your skin, at that command. You tried, you really did, but in a mere few strokes of his tongue, you came with a cry against the heat of his mouth, bucking while he held you down and pulled you against his mouth to press his tongue tight against your throbbing clit.

When he pulled back, looking extremely smug about himself and his talents, you saw that his canines had lengthened and his features had become a little less… human.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, clearly still enjoying the taste of you on his lips.

“Will you hurry up and fuck me?” you pouted, and he snarled.

“Such a brat,” he laughed, but he didn’t waste any time either.

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

__

| Masterlist | Patreon | Ko-fi | Writing Commissions |

[recurring-polynya]

Oh boy!!! Polynya I have a sudden ferocious hankering for Byakuya and Aizen being viciously passive aggressive to each other. Most of the time you write B he is in the company of his family or his loved ones. So clearly the ultimate way to bring out the knives is an AU in which all the captains are in the same Homeowner's Association. I have no preference for ships; I crave only drama, the pettier the better.

Alopex. Alopex. Why. Why u do this 2 me. You’re my favorite, tho, I cannot refuse you. I hope this is petty enough. I almost made this whole thing an epistolary fanfic that took place over NextDoor, the worst “social media”, but I think it worked better with everyone in person.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🏠     🏠     🏠

“Gosh darnit, the only K-cups left are apple cider and pumpkin spice!”

“Oh, that can’t be right, I know I filled up the carousel just before the meeting! Retsu! Retsu, honey, we’re out of K-cups, and I bought a whole carton at Costco and I just don’t understand--”

Kuchiki Byakuya glanced up from the presentation materials he was reviewing for the six hundredth time. For starters, Byakuya wasn’t really sure anyone should be letting Hitsugaya Toushirou have coffee in the first place. It was 8p.m., and the child couldn’t be more than twelve. Byakuya had never been very clear on a) why the Seireitei Estates Homeowners’ Association let the child attend the meetings in lieu of his father (or possibly step-father?), a doctor who worked late hours, and b) why a young child would want to attend a Homeowners’ Association meeting anyway, but he had more sense than most of the other board members, so Byakuya didn’t ask questions.

Byakuya also wasn’t sure why they had to have “refreshment breaks.” Breaks were for quitters, in Byakuya’s opinion. Granted, the meeting was being held at Unohana’s house this month, which meant that the baked goods were impeccable, but Unohana’s high-strung wife tended to radiate so much nervous energy that Byakuya worried the woman was going to spontaneously combust.

“Oh, sunflower, I’m sure they just got pushed behind the croquembouche,” Unohana purred reassuringly. “I’ll help you look-- oh, excuse me, Mr. Ichimaru.”

As Unohana pushed past that weaselly shyster Ichimaru Gin, she swung her hips, knocking into him. Approximately thirty K-cups tumbled out of the pockets of Gin’s couture tracksuit.

“Oh, there they are!” Unohana sang innocently.

“How did those get in there?” Gin gasped, as though he were genuinely puzzled.

Byakuya shuddered. Ichimaru worked for the second biggest law firm in town, after, of course, Kuchiki and Sons. Byakuya dreaded the day he might find himself across a negotiation table from the man. Not that harbored any doubts about annihilating that idiot in a contest of the law, he just didn’t like being in the same room with him.

“Here you go, dear,” Unohana said, popping a K-cup into the machine and patting little Toushirou on the head. Toushirou was too busy glaring at Gin to notice.

“That looks like some presentation you’re givin' after the break, eh, Kuchiki?” Ichimaru drawled, selecting a bearclaw from the pastry tray. “Or didja bring home the paperwork from the Tsunayashiro merger?”

Byakuya sniffed and shuffled his papers back into their portfolio. “I approach all areas of my life with the same diligence as I do my professional work.”

“What a coinky-dink! I do, too-- I don’t work hard at anything.”

Byakuya had no interest in frittering away his preparation time to small talk with a moron. “I am going to set up,” he said coolly.

“Good luck!” Ichimaru trilled, giving a saucy little finger wave.

Byakuya returned to Unohana’s sitting room, where he had left his easel and poster board near the hideous faux fireplace with its tacky LED candles.

Aizen was sitting at the cardtable he’d set up at the front of the room, fiddling with his chintzy little gavel. “You look very prepared,” he said, in a tone of voice that was almost as insipid as the oatmeal-marl turtleneck sweater he wore. “Do try not to run too long, though. I’m only the substitute president, you know! I want to run a tight ship, ha ha!”

Byakuya narrowed his eyes. He was still slightly salty that President Yamamoto had felt the need to take a last minute trip on a “Single Seniors Cruise.” Something something about a flash sale and when you’re old you have to take advantage of the time you have left, etcetera, etcetera, but if there were anyone that Byakuya could count on take his side in the matter, it was that antediluvian rule-enforcer. For that matter, Byakuya wasn’t actually sure whether Yamamoto even cared about clipped hedges and shoveled sidewalks or if he just liked yelling at people and slapping them with fines.

Aizen was also a bit of a stickler for the finer points of home maintenance, but the man had no substance to him, with his floppy hair and his chunky knitwear and his horn-rimmed glasses.

“All right, everyone!” Aizen called in his stupid simpering voice. Byakuya had no idea what the man actually did, but Byakuya figured he was a preschool teacher or an art therapist or something equally touchy-feely. “Please take your seats! The next item on our agenda is a presentation on, uh, ‘A Secret But Important Topic, from our neighbor over at number six, let’s give a big hand for...Byakuya!”

“Hold the applause,” Byakuya said sternly, holding up a hand. “I come to you today to call for-- nay, demand the expulsion of one Zaraki Kenpachi from the Board of this Homeowners Association, and possibly also the entire neighborhood, if that’s possible.”

“We can’t kick people out of the neighborhood,” Aizen stage-whispered to him.

“Is he actually a member of the HOA Board?” Kyouraku asked, scratching his shaggy mane. “I’ve never seen him at one of these meetings.”

Byakuya turned to Tousen, the Board treasurer, who had taken his seat at the front table with Aizen and Ichimaru. “Mr. Tousen, did you happen to look into the dues records, as I requested?”

“I did, yes,” Tousen replied. “It turns out that Mr. Zaraki is excused from paying dues. There was a post-it note in President Yamamoto’s handwriting that said,” Tousen made finger quotes, “‘Zaraki fixed my car, excused from dues.’”

Byakuya scowled. “That doesn’t seem… sufficient… it is of no matter.” He grabbed the bed sheet covering his posterboard, and dramatically swept it away. It would have been more dramatic if the bedsheet weren’t covered in Chappy rabbits, but there was no way he was bringing one of his own 800-thread counts into a house that contained cats.

“I have been closely watching Mr. Zaraki’s residence for the last few months, as his rear yard backs to mine, and I believe he may be operating a fight club in his garden on weekends. They do move into the garage if the weather is unpleasant.”

A hush fell over the room, except for Isane and Ukitake Juushirou, who were discussing the merits of blind-baking pie crusts.

“Er, sorry, did I miss something?” Juushirou asked apologetically, after realizing he was the only person talking.

“Kenpachi seems to be running some sort of fight club,” his scruffy husband supplied, looking deeply confused, as usual.

“Goodness!” Juushirou exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

Byakuya cleared his throat. “Allow me to present the evidence I have gathered.” He picked up two large binders, and handed one to Soi Fon in the front row, and the other to Aizen, who immediately passed his, unopened, to Ichimaru. “There are about two dozen disreputable personages who are frequently found loitering about the premises. The first page of the binder indexes each of them by a descriptive nickname, including times I have seen them. Photographic evidence follows.”

“They seem to be washing cars in most of these photos,” Soi Fon pointed out, flipping a page back and forth. Or are they fixing the cars? I can’t tell.”

Komamura craned his head over, curiously. “Wow, is that a ‘73 Stingray? Nice.”

“Yes, they also like to get together to maintain and detail their vehicles,” Byakuya snapped. “Usually at ungodly hours of the morning. I am almost positive that many of those cars do not employ catalytic converters. In any case, it is easier to take pictures of them during the day.”

“Looks like they like to spray each other with hoses, too,” Gin noted, waggling his eyebrows. “Why are there so many pictures of this one guy with the red hair and tattoos? He sure doesn’t like to wear a shirt, does he?” Aizen appeared to be leaning to the side, trying to look at the book out of the corner of his eye.

“My dutiful sister did the photographic surveillance! She is very thorough, and I appreciated the help!” All these questions were knocking Byakuya off his game. He smacked his pointer against the poster. “May I direct your attention to Figure A, a bar chart of traffic on his street vs. hours of the day.”

“Tell us more about the fight club,” Soi Fon interrupted, shoving her binder over to Komamura. “Are there weapons involved, blunted or otherwise? How many people usually show up? Is it held regularly, or do you suspect there’s, say, an email list or something?”

“I think it’s some sort of mixed martial arts,” Byakuya said, rubbing his forehead. “There are often up to a dozen of them, but sometimes it’s as few as three or four.”

“You know, I’m looking through the bylaws,” Aizen said, turning pages in the bylaw binder without actually looking at them, “and I’m not exactly clear on whether fight clubs are actually… you know, forbidden.”

“They’re illegal,” Byakuya bit off.

“Per-haaaps,” Aizen drew out. “But what really constitutes… a ‘fight club,’ am I right? I mean, Dr. Unohana teaches kickboxing classes in her basement studio, is that a fight club?”

“No,” Byakuya replied.

“Exactly, and we wouldn’t want her to be painted with the same brush for just trying to teach other women the arts of self-defense, now would we?”

“It’s not for self-defense,” Unohana clarified.

“Or what about having a bunch of friends over and hitting each other with foam swords while you pretend to be werewolves?” Ichimaru broke in cheerfully. “That’s just our rights as citizens, to pretend to be werewolves in our basements with our friends.”

“It’s a tabletop RPG,” Komamura growled. “I am not a LARPer. There are no weapons. Also, you really do not need to bring it up every single board meeting. It is a perfectly normal adult hobby that I do to spend quality time with my friends.”

“Speaking of which,” Gin turned his binder of pictures around, “isn’t this guy in your group? With the sunglasses?”

“Hmm?” Komamura flipped a few pages. “Oh, huh, yeah, that’s Iba.”

“Surely a good friend of yours wouldn’t have anything to do with an illegal fight club, eh, Mr. Komamura?” Aizen suggested.

Komamura made a non-commital grumble. “I mean, I could ask him if it’s a fight club, if you want me to.”

“I have yet to hear any evidence that supports the existence of this so-called ‘fight club,” Tousen broke in.

“That’s because I keep getting interrupted, I have an audio recording and also some several emergency room admission records--”

“Mr. Zaraki is an upstanding citizen of our town and a devoted father,” Tousen continued. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Zaraki is not a responsible parent?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Byakuya mused.

“Juushirou, you and Shunsui babysit for little Yachiru all the time, don’t you?” Aizen asked sweetly. “Have you ever seen any evidence that she isn’t the sweetest little girl in the entire world?”

Toushirou raised his hand. “Excuse me? She is a menace, actually?”

“Oh, no, Yachiru is always a ray of sunshine!” Juushirou beamed. “Very active child.”

“Eats a lot,” Kyouraku added.

The edges of Byakuya’s vision were beginning to bleed into red. “We are not talking about the Zaraki child--who, by the way, buried an entire ham in my prize tulip bed--”

“It sounds like you have a grudge against the entire family, Kuchiki,” Aizen replied mildly. “These board meetings are not a venue for airing your petty grievances.”

“You are not even listening! If you would just turn to page--”

“I think you’ve wasted enough of everyone’s time.” Aizen turned his doe eyes to the audience. “Is there anyone here who wants to invest any more energy listening to Byakuya’s vitriol?”

Byakuya looked out over his audience, looking for an ally. Komamura shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The Kyouraku-Ukitakes refused to make eye contact. Unohana was reading a magazine about decorative wreaths. Toushirou raised his hand again with a helpful smile, but no one actually ever cared what he thought.

“Soi Fon, you’re an actual police officer!” he begged.

“It’s just a fight club,” Soi Fon shrugged.

Byakuya was desperate. “Dr. Kurotsuchi?”

Kurotsuchi looked up from his phone. “Eh?”

“Have you been paying attention to any of this?”

“Of course not, I only come for the snacks.”

Byakuya gritted his teeth. “Zaraki is running a fight club and these fools wish us to turn our heads and look the other way.”

“Well, it’s not a very good fight club,” Kurotsuchi agreed. “I’ve been. They don’t allow poisoned weapons and the beverage selection is quotidian at best.”

“You see! You see, right there, Kurotsuchi has even attended! That’s proof that a) it exists and b) it defames the character of the neighborhood!”

“I’m declaring this issue closed,” Aizen replied breezily. “And Kuchiki, I really think you should try to get along better with Kenpachi. You are neighbors, after all.” He brightened. “Oh, I know! We’ve got the community yard sale coming up in June. Why don’t you go ask him if he wants to join the planning committee?”

“Byakuya… will...ask....Zaraki...to chair…the yard sale planning committee,” Gin read aloud as he wrote it into the minutes.

“I agreed to no such thing!” Byakuya howled.

“Onto the next topic!” Aizen chirped. “Trash pickup happens every Friday at 7am and a few of our neighbors have been leaving their bins out as late as noon.”

Later, after the meeting, as Byakuya was packing up his binders and his posterboard, Aizen walked up to him, munching on a rhubarb scone. “Really nice presentation, Byakuya. Good fonts, well cited, you obviously put a ton of work into it. Also, that Zaraki is a blight on the neighborhood. Ideally, he would be thrown in prison.”

Byakuya stared at Vice-Presiden Aizen, mouth agape. “Then why did you and your cronies ruin my presentation and shut me down at every turn?”

Aizen’s eyes narrowed. His mouth curved into a cold smile. Light glinted off his glasses. “You dared to usurp my rightful place as the winner of the Spring Spirit Most Beautiful Yard competition.”

Byakuya blinked at him blankly. “You cared about that? A man’s lawn is his pride. I keep my yard beautiful as a matter of principle, not for some silly competition.”

“You pay for a lawn service. You shouldn’t have even been eligible.”

Byakuya didn’t even recall entering, he’d just received a letter that he’d won, and a festive yard sign appeared next to his front walk, which he had immediately removed and thrown in the garbage. “The prize was a gift certificate to a miserable chain restaurant. I would give it to you, except that I already gave it to my sister to go out with her hooligan friends. They are perpetually short on funds. I could get you another one, I suppose. The amount was paltry enough, although I was given to understand that the place offers ‘unlimited breadsticks’.”

“It’s too late for that,” Aizen declared. “You have made a powerful enemy. You will feel my revenge in a thousand cuts.”

Byakuya wondered how much of a hassle it would be to just move. He’d heard there were some nice houses over in Karakura Acres.

~end

Shinigami’s Cup: GOLDEN!

“Do you think it would help if I infiltrated the fight club?”

“I appreciate your zeal, Sister, but, no, I do not think it would help.”

“Because I think I might have an in. I feel like I would be really good at going undercover. I could wear a body mic.”

“Rukia, you know I have the utmost faith in you, but are not even five feet tall. I do not, in any way, see how you could realistically ingratiate yourself to an organization populated by large, lumpy men whose raison d’etre is to clobber each other in the face.”

“I have cat-like reflexes! I am really good at dodging and weaving!”

“Rukia.”

“And I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube videos about muscle cars. Go on, ask me something about Dodge Chargers!”

“Rukia.”

“I even ripped the sleeves of an old t-shirt, I look super tough in it. Please, Byakuya, please can I?”

“All right, fine. But do not drink any alcoholic beverages that have ‘light’ or ‘ice’ in the title. It is against our pride as Kuchiki.”

“Thank you Brother, you’re the best!!”

[tsarisfanfiction]

WIP #47

(Send me a number 1-60 [or a fandom/character I guess] for the corresponding wip) because I’m bored and brain-fried and have too many wips that’ll otherwise never see the light of day.

For @misssquidtracy who asked for “Number 47 - Thunderbirds (specifically da Gords)”.   Luckily, this happens to be a Gordon PoV wip, so it’s all Gordon!

It’s also a Scott!whump, because it’s me and I’m terrible and I have way too many of these lying around, so watch out for that.  There’s also a lot of this.  Nearly 6k words, so enjoy :D

Gordon hated it when his squid sense started to tingle for no discernible reason.  On a rescue, his squid sense was invaluable, warning him just in time that a building was about to topple, or that an aftershock was on its way.  Lives had been saved by his mysterious power – hardly a power, more an instinct honed by too many years of military precision combined with a predisposition for pranks whilst living in a house with three older brothers.  Alan joked about him being bitten by a squid, like that old superhero story about the guy and the spider.

It was easier to laugh it off than get into a debate with the astronaut about the biting habits – or lack thereof – of aquatic creatures his younger brother knew nothing more than the required basics about.

However, joking aside, Gordon’s sixth sense was particularly active, and while usually it was a life-saving boon, this time it was just a nuisance.  He was at home, safe and comfortable in the clean water of the pool. He’d opted for lazy backstrokes, taking his time to reach from one end of the pool to the other before executing a neat flip to repeat the stroke back the way he’d come.  None of his brothers were on missions, either.  John was as ever up in Thunderbird Five, but from the far end of the pool he could see the holographic form of his brother just visible in the den.  Alan was, last checked, also in the den – the two space mad brothers had decided to watch a documentary on, surprise, surprise, space, during what downtime they had – while Virgil had decided to do some maintenance on Thunderbird Two with Brains.

Scott was away on boring business, a stuffy CEO meeting that he couldn’t palm off onto the board of directors that were supposed to be handling that sort of thing for him, or even attend via hologram.  They had insisted on a personal touch – literally – and as it was, apparently, a big deal, that meant Scott had to ditch the blues, send one last longing look at Thunderbird One, and let Kayo escort him in Tracy One to the meeting place.

The meeting had been due to start about an hour ago, if Gordon was getting his timezone calculations correct.  Why Tracy Industries still had its headquarters in America, far too many hours behind Tracy Island, when there was a perfectly respectable landmass or two closer to home, he couldn’t quite fathom, but when he’d raised the point Scott and John had both fixed him with tired, don’t be an idiot looks, with just a hint of be glad you don’t have to deal with this nonsense to stop him from pestering further.

Kayo herself was who-knew-where, sneaking around in her sneaky Kayo way.  He’d seen Tracy One return several hours ago, Kayo’s taxi service duties over until Scott called for her.  Apparently, head of IR security did not equal anything in terms of Tracy Industries security, a fact that he knew grated on her.  Still, she and Lady Penelope had run multiple background checks on all the men and women that made up Scott’s official security, and were as assured as they could be with Kayo not amongst their number that he was in good hands.

So if his squid sense could stop tingling randomly, that’d be great, thanks.

It didn’t, and annoyance turned to dread when the emergency signal went off, summoning them all to the lounge.  A tingling squid sense, and an emergency?  Gordon had a really bad feeling about that.

He made it to the den in record time, more damp than not with a beautiful trail of drips across the carpet that Grandma was going to murder him for later, and still in nothing but his swimming trunks.  Alan made a face of disgust as he threw himself down onto the sofa next to him to face John.  The documentary that the two astronauts had been watching was paused on what his old school lessons told him was a supernova eruption.  The imagery of an explosion did nothing to help his jittery squid sense.

Virgil was last to join them, grease streaking up one sleeve and smearing onto the sofa he chose to sit on – at least he wasn’t the only one that would be facing the wrath of Grandma later.

“What have you got, John?” his eldest currently-home brother asked, looking far too laid back for Gordon’s liking.  Not that there was anything wrong with it – Virgil still was far from relaxed, alert and ready for the briefing before launching himself down the slide of death – but Gordon found himself tense in comparison.

“A plane’s gone down in America,” John told them.  “I intercepted a mayday call from the pilot; the GDF have already responded but it’s a bad one and they don’t have enough resources to get everyone out.   Gear up; I’ll give you the details on the way.”

One of those, huh? Gordon flew towards the fish tank that housed his launch tube, slapping his palm against the hidden sensor and feeling the familiar downwards rush towards the hangars, splitting off from the route to Four and instead making a beeline for Two.  He met Alan on the platform, his youngest brother jittering excitedly as always, just in time for Virgil to retract it, bringing them up into the cockpit.

Co-pilot was his chair, and the only person annoying enough to turf him out of it on ‘superiority’ grounds was Scott.  Even Kayo knew better than to steal his chair, so Alan settled happily enough into the navigation chair behind Virgil, pulling up the screens ready for John to transmit the data straight though.

“You alright?” Virgil asked him as the hangar door rolled down, revealing rows of palm trees ready to bow in homage to the green beast.

“My squid sense is going haywire,” he admitted, no point in lying.  Not on a mission.  He expected John to scoff – his second eldest brother always slightly more dismissive of it than the rest of them.  After all, there was no scientific explanation.  All joking about fish and gills aside, Gordon was one hundred percent human.  John didn’t scoff, and that made his squid sense reach an uncomfortable level.  In fact, John didn’t say anything at all, his hologram not paying them any attention at all as he fiddled with something invisible up on Five.

“Well, it’s a plane crash,” Alan pointed out, his voice somewhat subdued.  Virgil made a noise of agreement as Two’s engines roared to life behind them, punching them into the air.  She was no rocket, but Thunderbird Two could still produce a decent amount of Gs. Gordon wished that was it, but the tingle had started before John briefed them.

“Guys,” John finally said, once Two was cruising at full speed towards America.  “I’ve got hold of the flight details for the plane.  It wasn’t easy; turns out it was a top-secret flight even the GDF didn’t know about.”

“That sounds ominous,” Virgil observed.

“It gets worse.” John’s face was grim.  Really grim.  Bearer of terrible news grim.  “It was a private flight chartered for a top secret business meeting between the biggest aerospace companies in the world.  Four CEOs were on board, including-” his voice broke in a very un-John-like manner, and Gordon’s stomach dropped.

“Don’t say it,” Alan begged. In front of him, Virgil’s knuckles were white on the yoke, Thunderbird Two’s engines whining as they went just that little bit faster.

“Including Scott,” John finished, visibly pulling himself back together.  “In total there were thirty people on board, including the pilots. The reports from the GDF so far say that the rear of the plane is trashed but the cause isn’t yet clear. Two bodies have been recovered so far – neither of them Scott – but they can’t get into the main body of the plane. Scans suggest that approximately half of them survived the initial crash.  I’m picking up fourteen life signs; two of them in the cockpit area so they’re most likely the pilots.”

“Scott’s communicator?” Virgil asked as sea gave way to land beneath them, the American coast looking unfairly beautiful.

“I’m not getting a response,” John admitted.  “I’ll keep trying.”

“Anything from the telemetry?”  Alan was tapping away at the screen by his chair, clearly manipulating the data John was sending him.  Gordon envied him the distraction.

“It’s offline,” John sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.  “Seems like it was damaged in the crash.  EOS is attempting to reconnect but no luck so far.”

“Do you have any good news for us, Johnny?” Gordon asked hopefully.

“Colonel Casey is one of the GDF officers at the scene,” John offered, notably not rising to the bait. Well, Gordon supposed that was better than random officers, or worse, the ones that weren’t overly fond of International Rescue and didn’t fully co-operate.  “Kayo’s just launched in Thunderbird Shadow for the airport they took off from.  Lady Penelope is also on the way; she and Parker are already making enquiries to find out what happened.”

“They think sabotage?” Virgil asked.

“The CEOs of the four most powerful aerospace industries in the world were on that plane,” John pointed out.  “It’s suspicious, at least.”

“Do you think it’s the Hood?”  Gordon sent Alan a withering look.  Not everything was the Hood’s fault, even if it felt like it.

“I don’t know, Alan,” John said.  “Kayo thinks it isn’t his style.  He’d have been looking to get money from them, not kill them.”

“He killed Dad.”

Gordon flinched.  He wasn’t the only one.

“No-one said Scott’s dead,” Virgil said, voice steady even though Gordon couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so tense.

“He’ll be okay, right?” Alan asked.  “I mean, it’s Scott.  If anyone can walk away from a plane crash, it’d be Scott, right?”

“Let’s hope,” John replied.

The co-ordinates John had programmed into Thunderbird Two’s navigation system flashed up, warning that they were on final approach.  Slowed to subsonic, they came to a hover alongside a GDF flier and got their first glimpse of the downed plane.  It wasn’t pretty.

The final third of the plane no longer resembled the tail of anything remotely flight-worthy.  Twisted and warped metal was crumpled and torn ragged. Men and women in GDF uniforms were hovering around the area, large lasers deployed to slice their way in. Gordon knew instantly that no-one who had been in that part of the plane could possibly have survived.

At the other end of the plane, the nose was also crumpled but not as far back as the cockpit windows. It looked as though whatever had downed the plane had occurred at the back, with the damage to the nose only made by the impact of the crash.  More GDF were swarming the cockpit windows, cutting their way in with infinite more care than their counterparts were cleaving the rear.

The area of most interest to them was the middle third.  While not the complete write-off of the rear, massive dents and warps in the metal warned of a serious crash.  Any survivors would be in that area, but the condition of said survivors was unknown. All of the emergency exits were untouched; from a distance, Gordon couldn’t tell if they were wedged shut by warped metal, or if there was another reason that none of them had been opened.

“International Rescue!” Colonel Casey flagged them down, guiding them towards a space just large enough for Thunderbird Two to land.  “You boys are a sight for sore eyes,” she greeted.  “The fuselage is too thick for our lasers to get through without endangering the survivors inside.  We’ve got the pilots under control, but we haven’t been able to make contact with any of the passengers.”

“F.A.B.,” Virgil answered her.  “We’ll get them out.  John said fourteen life signs?”

“Affirmative,” she said. “We have visual on both pilots. The other twelve are randomly positioned within the front half of the plane.”

“We’ll get them out,” Virgil assured her, and ended the call.  “Gordon, Alan, get as much cutting gear and first aid supplies as you can carry.”

“You didn’t mention Scott,” Gordon observed, and he sighed.

“No point worrying her. You two know we have to treat him the same as the rest?”

Alan frowned.

“But couldn’t he help us?”

“If he’s fit to help, then that’s one thing,” Virgil told them.  “But I don’t like that none of the doors are open.  Don’t get your hopes up; this is a nasty crash.”

“Come on,” Gordon muttered, grabbing Alan’s arm and tugging him towards the module.  “Faster we get in there, the faster we’ll find him.”

“I know that much!” Alan grumbled, yanking his arm back.  “I can walk by myself, Gordon!”  He stalked off ahead.  Gordon let him, hearing Virgil catch up with him from behind.

“You don’t think Scott’s okay,” he said, quietly.  It wasn’t a question.

“If he was, he’d have got word out somehow by now,” Virgil replied.  “Even if his communicator’s broken, there are GDF swarming the place. He’d only need to catch their attention through a window.”  He made a beeline straight for his exosuit, pulling on the heavy gear with the ease of practice and charging out of the lowering module door.  Gordon collected their last hand-held cutter and shouldered a medical pack before following alongside Alan, who was kitted out the same.

Virgil’s shoulder laser was powerful and made short work of the fuselage that the GDF had been too reluctant to touch.  A wrench with the claw arm and a thick wodge of metal slammed down on the ground in front of him.  The opening wasn’t huge, too small for Virgil with his suit to fit through comfortably, but it was the largest they’d been willing to risk with the unknown structural integrity of the fuselage.  Gordon slipped through first, hand laser in hand for any further obstacles, and let out a shaky breath.

“Woah,” he muttered, pulling his helmet on.  The air was murky, dust kicked up and swarming around from the warped metal. None of the seats were upright; sheered metal struts protruded from where they should have been, in a circle around what was once a table.  That had broken in two, the far end buried under the start of the truly warped area. “Hello?  International Rescue!”

Silence.

Alongside personal effects and broken pieces of aircraft, the floor was strewn with bodies.  Some were obviously dead, impaled by shrapnel made from the very plane that should have been protecting them.  One in particular was grotesque, a metal strut that had once supported a chair stuck straight through his chest from where he’d been thrown on top of it.  Gordon recognised him as part of Scott’s security detail and had to fight to hold back the bile.

Scott.  Where was Scott?

Despite Virgil’s words, he wasted a moment looking around the scene, but there was no sign of his eldest brother.  Unable to justify hunting for him before checking for signs of life in those immediately visible, he crouched down by the nearest person not obviously dead and checked their pulse.  It was weak but there.

“Woah!”  Alan mimicked his own reaction upon entering.  “What a mess.”

“Alan, I’ve got a survivor here!”  Gordon called him over immediately.  “Mind your step.”  His youngest brother picked his way over to him.  “Find a way to get him out.  I’ll look for more.”

“Have you found Scott yet?” he asked, kneeling down and opening his med kit.  Gordon shook his head.

“No sign.  I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”  Alan nodded, and Gordon continued his search.  It was a grim one.  He’d suspected as such when no-one had responded to his call, but even when he found a warm body, they were unconscious.  Virgil joined him, exosuit stripped off and replaced with more medical kits and a small group of GDF personnel courtesy of Colonel Casey. Between them, it was a far more manageable task to carefully remove the survivors from the wreckage.  Those pronounced as dead were left for the moment as John’s countdown of life signs inside the remains of the plane slowly ticked down.

All in all, they’d so far found eighteen of the twenty eight passengers, including the dead pulled from the ruined tail section.  Ten to go, two of which were still alive according to Thunderbird Five’s scans. One of the ten was Scott.  Gordon felt cruel when he found another breathing body and mentally cursed her for not being Scott.  It wasn’t her fault; she was lucky to be alive herself, torso contorted in a way he knew meant a broken back.  He should be relieved to find any survivors at all, not cursing them for not being the one he wanted to be alive.

He flagged her up to one of the closest medics and moved on.  It was almost too dark to see at the back of the plane, up against the crushed wreckage.  His toe snapped on something soft and he tripped.  Landing in a crouch, he turned around to face the obstruction.  A dead body.  He didn’t even need to check the young man’s pulse; the poor guy had been caught in the mangled metal and torn in half.  His face was twisted in pain and terror, blue eyes wide and glassy with death.  It wasn’t Scott, but Gordon knew he’d be seeing those eyes in his nightmares nonetheless.

Turning back around, he moved to stand before realising he was by part of the fallen table.  Various limbs had been protruding from beneath the large slab at intervals during Gordon’s search, but here there was a gap. A seat, wedged beneath it, had left part of the table at an angle.  It was too dark to see into it, so Gordon palmed a glowstick and snapped it, illuminating the area in an eerie green.  Immediately the silhouette of a body greeted his eyes.  Mindful of additional shrapnel, he reached in carefully, fumbling until he found their wrist.

Thump… thump…

Slow, but there.  At the same time, a GDF woman called in another survivor.  One more than expected.

“Virgil!” he called. “I’ve got someone under the table with a pulse.  Going to need some heavy lifting to get them out!”

“F.A.B.” his brother replied.  He raised the glowstick above his head with the hand not measuring the pulse and waved it around.  “I see you.” A moment later, Virgil and a trio of GDF officers appeared.  “How much of this are we going to need to shift?” he asked.  Gordon shrugged.

“I can’t see.  Got a silhouette but not much more.  Give me your torch.”  He dropped the glowstick and kept his hand open for Virgil’s gear. It landed in his hand and he carefully manoeuvred it down before turning it on.

A once sharp grey suit was covered in dust, but that wasn’t what caught Gordon’s breath in his throat. It was the dark brown hair, and the broken but unmistakable International Rescue communicator on his forearm, less than an inch from Gordon’s fingers on the slow pulse, that made him gasp.

“Gord-?”

“It’s Scott.”  He cut Virgil’s query off.  Behind him, the GDF murmured in surprise.

Virgil didn’t ask anything more.  Gordon stayed where he was, watching the limp form of his eldest brother with a lump in his throat as they moved around him.  His fingers didn’t budge from the pulse, a fear gripping him that if he stopped measuring it, it would stop altogether.  Orders barked and a concert of groans resulted in a large part of the broken table slab being cut up and lifted, letting what pitiful light had reached so far back into the cabin illuminate Scott’s body.

It wasn’t good.  Blood matted his hair, a mark of something striking him in the crash.  One leg was twisted almost completely around, a dislocated hip at best, and more blood stained his arm.

Virgil took charge, nudging Gordon out of the way.  He went willingly only because out of everyone in the world, he only trusted Virgil or Grandma to handle his brother in such a broken state.  He tapped his communicator.

“John, Alan?”

Both answered immediately, eager for news.  Inwardly he was glad not to be the bearer of tragic news, not sure he could have managed it.

“Found him; he’s alive.”

“How is he?” Alan demanded over John’s sigh of relief.  Gordon winced.

“Alive,” he repeated. “Virgil’s got him.  It’s too dark back here to tell past that.”  That was a bare faced lie; even as he spoke he could see Virgil attaching the medical scanner to him, still glowing glow stick highlighting the frown on his face.  Neither brother called him out on it.

“I’ll update the others,” John said instead.  “Keep looking for survivors; you’re on one more than our scans showed.  There might be more.”

“F.A.B.”  He ended the call.  “Virgil?”

“All in hand,” his older brother said shortly.  “Keep looking.”

“Yessir.”

Seven dead bodies later, all thirty crew and passengers were accounted for.  He exited the craft, removing his now filthy helmet, only to almost collide with Colonel Casey.

“You knew Scott was on board the flight,” she said without greeting.  Her face was displeased, and he figured he was the first Tracy she’d managed to collar.

“Of course we did,” he confirmed.  “But that didn’t change how we operated.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  He glanced back at the corpse of the plane, where Virgil was still inside with Scott, carefully transferring him to a hoverstretcher, last Gordon had seen.

“Because it didn’t change anything,” he repeated.  “Excuse me, Colonel, but my job isn’t over yet.”

He didn’t wait to be dismissed, heading towards Thunderbird Two’s open module to prep it for Scott’s transport.  The GDF might be taking the other injured to hospitals, but there was only one craft their brother would be travelling in, and that was their own.  He wasn’t naïve; Scott’s injuries were bad, beyond anything Grandma and Virgil could handle at home.  John and Kayo were already working to locate a hospital both capable of treating him, and with enough security that he would be safe from ill-wishers during his recovery.

None of them were convinced this was a simple accident.  Not with so many high profile individuals on board.  The Hood aside, there were many people that stood to gain from the deaths of the four CEOs.  Lady Penelope was already digging into the employees from the other three companies who stood to benefit from the deaths.  Regretfully, the only CEO still with a pulse was Scott.  All four of them had been towards the back of the cabin, all bar Scott caught up in the twisted metal that was the final third of the plane.

Scott had been lucky, for all that he wasn’t out of the woods yet.  Gordon wasn’t a medical professional, but Virgil’s face told him that much.

“The medical carrier is ready to leave,” Colonel Casey told him.  He assumed she’d followed him to Thunderbird Two, although had at least refrained from entering uninvited.  “As soon as Scott is on board, they’ll be on their way.”

“They can leave now,” Gordon retorted.  “We’ll handle Scott.”

“I know you are concerned, but this crash is a GDF investigation,” she told him.  “All casualties fall under GDF jurisdiction.”

Gordon was shorter than her – the only one of his brothers bar the still-growing Alan with that distinction – but inside the module bay he could still look down at her.

“Scott is International Rescue jurisdiction,” he corrected her.  “And as the CEO of the family business, also Tracy jurisdiction.  He’ll be treated at a location approved by us, not the GDF, and if the GDF have an issue with that, they can take that up with our head of security.”

“And your other employees?” she challenged.  Gordon pushed away the memory of a man impaled by a seat strut.

“None of them survived.” He turned his back on her, readying the finishing touches.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” she said, and he heard her walk away.  He’d barely known them, the six men and women wearing Tracy Industries logos, but Scott had.  John, too, and Kayo had hand-picked the four members of security.

Alan appeared beside him, putting away what remained of the medical supplies he’d taken out earlier and locking the hand-held laser back where it belonged.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asked, and Gordon shrugged, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Do you think this was sabotage?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would anyone do this?”

Gordon sighed.

“It might have just been an accident,” he reminded him, even if he doubted his own words.  Alan looked equally unconvinced.  “Come on, let’s get her ready to go.”

“F.A.B.,” Alan said quietly, and they headed out towards the loading platform, only to be brought up short at the sight of Virgil approaching them, hoverstretcher alongside. Immediately they got out of the way, letting their older brother brush past and secure the stretcher to the wall.

“Gordon, pilot,” he said. “John and Kayo found us a New Zealand hospital.  It’s a fair distance, but it’s secure.  Scott should hold on long enough to get there as long as you don’t dawdle.”

“F.A.B.”  Gordon wasn’t a fan of the implication that Scott might not, but had no choice but to trust Virgil as he jabbed the button to raise the platform.  Alan stayed behind – understandable, as he hadn’t seen yet seen their eldest brother – but Gordon didn’t say anything.  He could pilot Two solo.

There were many words that could be used to describe the speed they left the crash site and headed for the other side of the world at, but ‘dawdle’ was not one of them.  She was no rocket like One or Three, but Two was still one of the fastest planes in the world, and Gordon was determined to get as much speed out of her as he dared.  Virgil could take her faster, another Mach at least, but he wasn’t Virgil and didn’t trust himself to keep her flight smooth at top speed.  He just hoped it would be fast enough.

About halfway there, somewhere over the large expanse of water that Gordon would much rather be in than over, Virgil contacted him, a hologram flickering into life in his periphery.

“If I send Alan up, will you go faster?” he asked.  Gordon’s heart sank.

“Is he getting worse?” Please no, please not Scott.

“I’ve got him stable,” Virgil reassured him.  “But he’s still critical.  The sooner we get him to the hospital the happier I’ll be.”

“More speed coming up,” he confirmed, reaching for the throttle.  “Uh, yeah, send Alan up, would you?”  He could probably do with a co-pilot if he went any faster.

“Sure thing,” Virgil agreed. “He’s on his way.”

Sure enough, no sooner than his older brother ended the connection, the door opened and Alan stumbled through it, all but collapsing into the co-pilot’s chair.

“He hasn’t woken up,” the astronaut offered as he reached forwards to power up the co-pilot controls. As soon as the second set of lights lit up, Gordon accelerated the craft towards top speed.  “Virgil’s worried about the head injury.”

Gordon grit his teeth, remembering the red matted into the brown under the powerful beam of Virgil’s torch.

“Head injuries are tricky,” he agreed.  “But Virgil knows what he’s going, and John’s found a hospital that specialises in them.”

“I know,” Alan replied quietly.  “That’s what worries me.  They’re not telling us something.”

“The hazards of being the youngest,” Gordon groaned, unsurprised but as annoyed as Alan about it. Scott was their brother too, dammit. “So, what are they not telling us?”

“Have you seen the results of the scan?” Alan asked him.  Gordon shook his head.

“Nah, had to leave to look for other survivors once Virgil was dealing with him, and haven’t seen him since.”  Five seconds of hoverstretcher rushing past didn’t really count.  “What came up?”

“No idea,” Alan sulked. “Virgil’s been keeping it out of my sight all journey.  But I know John knows.”

Gordon growled and slammed the comm button.

“John, Virgil, I want the result of those scans,” he demanded.

“You’re piloting,” Virgil responded immediately.  “No reading while you’re controlling my ‘bird.”

“Then summarise for me,” he retorted.  “Starting with that head injury.”

“Just get us to the hospital,” Virgil ordered.

“Already doing that,” he ground out, hackles rising.  “Stop trying to keep us in the dark!  He’s our brother too!”  Thunderbird Two lurched under his grip before Alan hastily stabilised them.

“What are you doing up there?” Virgil demanded.  “Be careful!”

“Letting my imagination fill in the blanks,” he lied – he was, in fact, keeping his imagination carefully blank.

“Is it that bad?” Alan interrupted before Virgil could find a fresh retort.  “Is he dying?”

Silence filled the cabin, and Gordon’s temper flared.

“You said he was stable!” he yelled.  “Dammit, Virgil, don’t lie to me about that!”

“I said critical but stable,” Virgil corrected.  “He is stable, Gordo, but…”  He trailed off, and Gordon glanced over at Alan to see his own growing panic mirrored back at him in blue eyes.

“He’s comatose,” John said quietly.

“What?” Alan yelped. Gordon stiffened, hands threatening to crush the yoke in his hands before he forcibly relaxed them.

“You didn’t think I might like to know that?” he growled, flashes of hospitals and white coats and bodiless voices stirring in the back of his mind before he trampled them down ruthlessly.  Not now. Silence answered him.  Clearly both his conscious older brothers knew they were in the wrong, and that whatever nonsense they fed him about not wanting to distract him while he was piloting wouldn’t pacify him in the slightest.

Alan’s face had gone white, big blue eyes focused on him, and he knew his younger brother was remembering the last time he’d had a family member in a coma – him.  He forced a smile for his benefit, which had about as much of an effect as any pacifying words John or Virgil might have tried to use.

“Why?” Alan asked, voice shaking.  “Who would do that?”

“Kayo and Lady Penelope are looking into it,” John told them.  “Whatever happened, they’ll find out.  I’ve got EOS doing some digging of her own, too.”

“But… is Scott going to be okay?” Alan pleaded, looking back at Gordon, who was clearly the resident expert on comas.  He remembered the fight for consciousness, pleading voices turning to resigned ones as they talked about their day yet again.  He remembered wanting to respond so badly but being trapped by his own body.

The idea of Scott going through that filled him with dread – if he even did.  Comas were different for different people, he’d found out later, when he’d torn through everything he could get his hands on in a desperate attempt to understand what had happened to him.  He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, except maybe the Hood but then even only in his blackest moods.  Scott had done nothing to deserve that.

“He’s a fighter,” was all he could say.

The hospital staff were ready and waiting for them when they finally arrived, a two hour flight that had felt far longer.  No sooner had he touched down and opened the module than they were swarming, hurrying Scott inside with Virgil hot on their heels, presumably talking doctor-speak and filling in anything they hadn’t already been briefed about.

Gordon and Alan were left in Thunderbird Two’s cockpit, watching out of the windows as their elder brothers vanished into the maw of the hospital.

“Do we follow them?” Alan asked after a moment.  Gordon looked at the doors with no small amount of dread, and shook his head.

“They won’t be allowing visitors just yet,” he said.  “Virgil will have a fight to stay with him, and he’s our medic.  We’ll just get shoved in a waiting room with sympathetic looks and no news.”

At least, that was the stories he’d heard from his brothers, regarding his own accident. International Rescue might have more weight than merely the Tracy name had back then, but a patient was a patient.

“Come home,” John said, popping up from the dashboard and looking them both over.  He looked tired, too, and Gordon wondered how much worse it was for him, stuck up in space and fully reliant on holograms to see Scott. At least the rest of them had been able to see – and touch – him.  It didn’t take much for Gordon to recall the thump-thump of a faint pulse beneath his fingers as he clung to the sign that he hadn’t lost anyone else.

Not yet, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind.  He silenced it sharply.

“But-” Alan protested, clinging to the edges of his seat as though it was the hoverstretcher carrying Scott’s limp body.

“Come home and get cleaned up,” John said firmly, reminding Gordon that he’d spent several hours in a wrecked plane with dead bodies.  It was hidden slightly better on Alan’s uniform, but a glance at his own showed red drying into brown on his yellow baldric.  “By the time we get back there, they might have news for us.”

“We?” Gordon locked onto, and John crossed his arms.

“I’m not staying up here waiting for news to trickle in,” he snapped, and Gordon raised his hands in surrender.

“Never said you were, big bro,” he soothed.

“What about the investigation?” Alan asked, even as he started flicking switches and preparing the massive craft for lift off once more.

“I’ve got EOS on that,” John replied.  Following Alan’s lead, Gordon took control of the massive Thunderbird again, her VTOLs roaring as they peeled away from their landing spot back into the sky.  “I’ll let Virgil know where you are once he gets in contact.”

“F.A.B.,” Gordon acknowledged.

He pretended it didn’t hurt to turn their back on the hospital where Scott lay comatose, but even if it fooled his brothers (doubtful), he couldn’t fool himself.

...tbc..?

[ourimpavidheroine]

I’ve gotta say, I’m really enjoying these stories. Also, your late father sounds like an amazing man. I can really see the inspiration for LoLo come out in your mentions of him.

When my mother got pregnant with me - a planned pregnancy, they were young when they married but I was born 16 months later - my father knew from the get-go that he wanted a girl.

This was (and, I am sad to say, still is) an unusual thing for a father to wish for. Most fathers wish for a son. My Dad, however, was raised by a drunken, abusive, narcissistic man and he was afraid that if he had a son he’d just turn into his father. He thought a daughter would help him break that cycle of abuse. 

When I was born he told the nurse who brought me out to him in the waiting room that I was an angel, and Angel was the nickname that he alone called me.

He and I were very, very close, something that made my mother and younger brother jealous. (I didn’t really see or understand that until after he died when I was 26.)  There was nothing whatsoever or remotely sexual about it, which is what people usually assume when a father and daughter are very close. As my girlhood best friend said to me a few months ago, my father thought the sun rose and set on me, thought that I was his fairy princess. All of my odd, Autistic/ADHD weirdness was something he loved. I always knew he loved me not just despite my weirdness but because of it. (Something that my late wife did as well.)

My father was a brilliant man. He graduated high school at 15 and went into university to study architecture. Academically he handled it, but he was way too young to handle the social aspects as well as the responsibility of it and so he dropped out a year later. Things were apparently hellish with my grandfather and my Dad enlisted in the Army on his 18th birthday. This was 1965 and the US started sending soldiers to Vietnam. Not my Dad, though. He took some tests the military gave him and after boot camp spent his entire three years on a Nike missle base in the middle of Milwaukee, working on one of those huge old mainframe computers (you know, the kind with punch cards). I’m guessing they didn’t send the really smart ones off to be killed.

He taught himself how to be an architect through reading books at the library, including textbooks that he would sit and read at UC Berkeley’s library, even though he wasn’t a student there any longer. Then, after he had learned that, he read through engineering and physics textbooks. Then he read through every single book he could find that taught him how to actually build the structures he had learned to draw. He was completely self-taught, and the man not only designed and built complicated, Broadway-worthy theater sets he also designed and built houses from the ground up. He wanted to build a rock retaining wall at our house (which was located at the base of a hill and was on an incline) and so he went to the library and got a book about how Romans built walls and spent three years going to the local river to source variously-sized river rocks to build that retaining wall, which he did completely without any kind of mortar, just balancing the rocks perfectly. It’s still standing, 40 years later.

He always worked at very menial jobs - he was a line cook, a stocker in a supermarket produce department, an RV park manager, etc. He was terrible with money, didn’t understand it at all. We lived right on top of the poverty line. He had zero executive functioning and that caused a lot of problems for all of us and meant a lot of broken promises, too.

I am completely sure that like me, like both of his grandchildren, he had Autism and ADHD. Not diagnosed of course, they weren’t in those days, But he had them nevertheless.

He was a voracious reader and introduced me to sci fi and fantasy. On my eighth birthday he gave me his copies of The Lord of the Rings and had me read them. (This was 1977, trust me when I tell you those books were not a household name at that point.)  He’d wake me up at 3:30 am and we’d go fishing together, him with a thermos of black coffee, me with a bottle of orange juice and a box of Entenmann’s mixed donuts and we’d sit there in happy silence together, fishing and enjoying each other’s company. He was a wonderful storyteller and only once did he get angry with me. He never laid a hand on me or my brother but the one time he got angry with me he slapped me across the face and then the both of us cried.

He taught me many useful skills, like how to jimmy locks and how to walk through people unseen and how to learn on my own how to do things and how to make the world’s best pie. He always told me that I could absolutely anything I put my mind to. When I asked him once if that meant I could be a father - I was joking - he looked me straight in the eye and asked me if I actually wanted to be a father. When I told him no he responded that he had said if I had put my mind to it, and he wasn’t vouching for anything I pulled when I didn’t care.

He also told me that I was the strongest person he’d ever met and when I scoffed at that he shook his head and said, “Angel, most people see you and they have no idea at all what’s inside of you and what you are capable of. There is nothing in this life you won’t overcome. Someday, when we’re both dead, you come find me and tell me I’m wrong.” (So far, he has not been wrong.)

He was a functioning drunk; he only drank after 8 at night, however. Just enough to make sure he’d not be hungover in the morning. He was a night person and all his life only needed about 4 hours of sleep to be completely rested.

He loved movies but he hated to go alone and usually took me. Not all of these movies were appropriate for kids my age but there it was. When I was eleven he took me with him to see The Elephant Man and I broke down completely, devastated and sobbing, horrified at how cruel people were to the lead character, just because he was different. After the movie we sat in the car and he held me until I was done crying and when I was all done he told me to never forget how the movie had made me feel and to remember that no matter how different people were from me they were all human and deserved kindness, compassion and understanding. This was a lesson I have tried very hard to live throughout my life. He took people at face value, and that included everyone. I don’t think he was particularly woke based on 2021 sentiments but he tried very hard to treat people equally and that included queer people during the AIDS crisis, too.

He was a feminist and believed women should be equal to men. He walked the walk, too: he cooked, he cleaned, he changed diapers, etc. And by that I mean he did them as par for the course, as part of his daily life. He did not rely on my mother’s emotional labor to remind him to do shit. He just did it because things needed doing and he was a grownass man, not a man-child. He did not consider caring for his children as babysitting, either.

He liked to sing. My mother and brother have opera-quality singing voices - for real, both of them are quite gifted - but his wasn’t like that, it was just a perfectly ordinary, passable baritone, just like mine is a perfectly ordinary, passable alto. He sang and he whistled when he was happy and I do the same. He used to make up funny little songs and rhymes on the spot, he had a gift for improvisation that way. I wish I had inherited that but alas! No.

Even when he was a boy all of the neighborhood kids would come to him with broken toys to be fixed. He quite genuinely liked kids and even teenagers and spent a lot of time working with the local high school drama department, building the sets, working as the stage manager and setting up and working the lights and soundboard (he taught himself to do that as well) and even directing some of the plays when the drama teacher was out on maternity leave. To this day I still get contacted by people who were in school with me or my brother who tell me what an influence my father was on them, the special things he did for them to make sure they knew he was paying attention and cared. One guy a couple of years ago contacted me on Facebook and told me that he got into some trouble after high school, even got imprisoned for a few months. My father visited him in prison and afterwards took him to AA with him, became his sponsor, helped keep on the straight and narrow. He named his oldest son after my father, in fact. I hear a lot of those stories.

He loved books and he loved music and he taught me to love those things as well. He fell in love with my mother when he was seventeen and married her five years later and came to regret it - like his father, his wife was an abusive, narcissistic person. He stayed with her, though, until my second year of university, when he abruptly walked out on her, went to AA and quit drinking. I asked him about it later; he told me that he had wanted to leave her for years but knew that if he did he’d never see me or my younger brother again. The courts in those days automatically gave kids to the mother and my mother was an accomplished liar and would have told the courts anything and they would have believed her. Once I was out of the house and secure, then he was done. (The fact that my brother was only fifteen and left to fend for himself with my mother was...not good. Not good at all. My father was not perfect and he was not a saint and that was a mistake that still has repercussions today.) He did not do enough to protect me from my mother while I was growing up, however. He regretted it, he told me later. I understand now that he was constantly walking a knife’s edge, trying to keep her satisfied enough so she wouldn’t try to take me away from him, but it took therapy long after he died for me to really understand that.

His special interest was model railroading and he built these amazing, intricate landscapes, all by hand and by scratch. The man took latex molds off the sides of rocks to build mountains with and built buildings out of tiny pieces of wood and such. I spent many hours with him as he built, listening to music and reading or just laying there, thinking my thinks, or sometimes chattering nonstop to him.

He called me, every single Friday night, right after the X-Files ended, right after the child’s voice said “I made this.” My phone would ring and we’d chat for hours, talking about the show (we both loved it) and whatever else. He lived about 5 hours away from me at the time and we did talk at other times during the week but that was our standard date. He died in the middle of Season 2 and to this very goddamn fucking day whenever I hear that “I made this” I wait for my phone to ring. And I cry every single time because he will never call me again.

I absolutely think that meeting my late wife via the X-Files was my father, watching out for me. When my twins were newborn and pretty much all I did 24x7 was breastfeed them I re-watched the entirety of X-Files on the DVDs I had and I’d talk to my father in my head, telling him about his grandchildren.

He’d always buy the new Stephen King books in hardcover and read them and then give them to me to keep. He especially loved the Dark Tower series but I haven’t finished the ones that were published after he died. I bought them myself but they are still sitting on my bookshelf, unread. I just can’t.

He died in the hospital after being in a coma for a week. The ICU nurses were very kind and showed me how I could turn off the life support machine if I wanted to and told me that I could be in there with him as long as I needed. They very considerately closed all of the curtains and closed the door to the room. I was alone with him in there and I turned off the machine and I held his hand and I sang to him as he died. I didn’t want him to be alone. 

He was right. I was strong enough to do that. It hurt, though. It still hurts.

He’s buried in California with a free military headstone because my comfortably upper middle class grandfather refused to shell out for a headstone and I was flat broke. Many years later I had a regular stone engraved with the words, “Go then, there are other worlds than these” and I placed it at our summer cottage here in Finland for him. I like to think that he and my late wife are keeping company. They never met here, but they would have liked each other very much, that I do know.

[highqueenofelfhame]

25 Days of Christmas: Rowaelin

Fear and Fire: Chapter Two.

“I want to try for special ops,” she said, sitting on the edge of her chair and regarding her Admiral with the utmost respect. Brullo’s fingers were tented in front of his face, chin resting on his thumbs as he mulled his words over. 

“You’re sure you’re ready?” His eyes finally met hers, scanning her face for any sign of instability, she was sure. There had been a long while when, after Sam, she had been like a loose canon. At this point, she wasn’t sure how many times they’d had this conversation. That she was ready to join, but that he didn’t think she was ready. After yesterday, she was positive he was going to say no again, but instead he leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Alright.”

“You’re serious?” Brullo’s approval meant everything to Aelin, considering how hard they had both worked to get her where she was at present. Despite it being the twenty-first century, men didn’t take kindly to taking orders from women. Especially women younger than they were, women that were smaller than they were. It usually took her kicking their ass before they would treat her with an ounce of respect. So for him to say that it was okay, to give his go-ahead that she so desperately sought, meant the world. 

“Of course I’m serious. I think it’s time,” he said, nodding to himself as she rushed around the desk and threw her arms around his neck. It wasn’t often that he allowed such things, but when she snuck it up on him he could hardly refuse. Brullo had been friends with her father, was someone Aelin had known since she was a child, and sometimes felt like all of her dad that she had left. 

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

~*~

Aelin had never wanted to let Brullo down so much in her life. She knew, weeks ago when she had asked for his approval, that the special ops tryouts were grueling. She had known that Brullo had worked his ass off to make it so she could even tryout for special ops. Up until Aelin had voiced her interest months ago, women hadn’t been allowed. Aelin was the first, and currently only, woman to tryout to be on one of the elite teams of Terrasen’s Navy. 

Now that she had passed the initial test (an intense physical test that included running, swimming, and various other physical tests), training had begun and her life was already hell. Everyone was making sure of it, too. Everyone except for her friends in the Cadre: the twins, Vaughan, and Gavriel. Aelin was pretty sure that Rowan and Lorcan wanted to eat her for a snack. 

Now, with her hands bound behind her back and her ankles tied together, she had been struggling so hard to keep her head just above water that she would have been embarrassed had the men not had an equally difficult time. When the final whistle blew, she took a deep breath and let her body go completely limp to sink beneath the surface while she untied her hands and feet with ease. The knots hadn’t ever been so tight that she wouldn’t have been able to get out of them. With her eyes open beneath the water, she could see several of the men having a hard time unravelling their knots. It was amusing, really, to know that their biggest fear was likely being bested by the only woman and then having to watch it come to fruition when she finally pulled herself out of the pool. Aelin sat on the ledge for a few minutes, untying her boots and depositing them on the concrete beside her. When she tilted them upside down, water poured from inside and she shook her head with a sigh. 

And then the catcalling started. The low whistles, the cheers while she twisted her hair to wring out the water. 

It wasn’t the first time that it had happened. It wasn’t even the first time this week that it had happened. Her rank didn’t matter when she was smaller than all the men on base. The fact that she kicked their asses day in and out before special ops training didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was a woman, she had tits, she had an ass, and these men were wildly deprived on base despite frequent trips into the bars and pubs in town. It was gross. It was wearing her thin, and she couldn’t help but wonder when she would finally snap and beat them all to a bloody pulp, likely getting excused or kicked out of special ops training for violent behavior. 

“Take it off, Princess!” Someone shouted in her direction, and she kept her head down while she squeezed the water from her shirt. The same man that had just yelled at her had stripped his shirt off and tossed it to the side, and Aelin shifted uncomfortably while he yelled at her again, only to be joined by several others. It was disgusting, the male mind in thinking that they were completely entitled to speak to her however they so wished. Just when she’d lost her patience, another louder and more authoritative voice rang clear through the room, echoing off the walls and cutting through the choppy splashing of the water. 

“Everybody outside. Now.” Whitethorn. Nobody hesitated when he or anyone from the Cadre spoke. They were the law as far as anyone was concerned, and they would follow each and every order they were given.

Despite her aching and waterlogged body, Aelin pulled herself to her feet and shoved them back into her shoes, following the rest of the soldiers outside. They all stood in a single line, heads held high despite their aching bones. 

“Galathynius.” Aelin stepped forward, lifting her chin a fraction of an inch and did her best to ignore the low chuckles behind her. 

“Sir!” 

“About how badly would you like to kick these men’s asses for patronizing you simply because you’re a woman?” The question caught her off guard so much that she huffed out a laugh, her shoulders relaxing the slightest amount. For a moment, she had been worried that he, too, would start reaming her over her gender.

“You would be surprised how bad, sir,” she answered truthfully as Rowan came to stop in front of her. Gods, he was huge. Aelin looked up at him, making direct eye contact for the first time.

 He leaned down then, lips close to her ear and murmured, “Can I do it for you?” 

“I don’t need protecting, sir. I can do it myself.” Something in Rowan’s eyes flickered as he stepped back and gave her an appreciative look. 

“Would you mind?”

“No, sir.” She admitted, not minding at all if he took them down if only because she was too tired with jello limbs to do it herself. 

It was the biggest honor of her life, she decided, watching thirteen men get the life beat out of them in a sparring ring while she got to watch. 

An even bigger honor just to watch Rowan Whitethorn take down men with hardly any effort at all. It was like it came so naturally, so second nature that it took no effort. The only sign that he didn’t possess some sort of superhuman strength was his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths from exertion. He moved in such a beautiful way that it surprised her. Despite his size he moved with such grace that it was almost like watching a dance. Rowan Whitethorn may as well be Superman.

~*~

Aelin had been running on the treadmill for too long. Despite the long stamina she had when it came to running, the fact that she had been holding a steady pace for well over an hour while she watched Rowan and Fenrys spar on a mat across the room. There was a stitch in her side, because there were others in the room besides just Rowan and Fenrys. Grave and Cain were two of them, and Aelin refused to slow down lest they decide she was weak and couldn’t keep up a mild sprint for long enough. They kept looking at her laughing as it were, each of them sporting swollen jaws and black eyes from the beating Rowan had dished out earlier in the day. As soon as those two left the work out room, though, she slammed the speed button to slow down while she gulped in large breaths of air. 

Not too long after, Fenrys and Rowan fist bumped and Fen left the room leaving Rowan and Aelin alone. Rowan was dabbing at his brow with a towel, sweat reflecting off the surface of his stupidly pronounced chest. There was such a raw cut to each of his abdominal muscles that it felt more like she was looking in on Brad Pitt filming Fight Club. 

“Sir?” She immediately wanted to die at how out of breath she sounded, how raspy her voice was. Rowan lifted his eyes to meet hers as she finally stepped off the treadmill, though, and raised a brow. “I had a question for you.” 

“Ask away,” he said, tilting his head back to squirt a shot of water into his mouth from his water bottle before spraying it over his face. Shit. He was hot. 

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like you did today.” Not her question, and his answer of a raised brow told her that he, too, noticed it wasn’t a question. “I’m quick. I’m strong. I am very accomplished as a soldier but I was hoping that you might teach me. Teach me how to fight the way you were. I can kill someone with a dagger from fifty feet straight to the heart, but with just my fists I’m not as talented. I feel like if I don’t ask for help where I need it that I won’t get the job I’m trying so hard to obtain and I refuse to not get a promotion because a few men decided I wasn’t good enough.” Her heart was thundering in her chest, pounding like a herd of wild stallions were beating against her ribs. Rowan tilted his head slightly as he looked at her, licked his lips, then nodded once. 

“Only if I can take you out for a drink.” Aelin was torn between wanting to scream yes and wanting to slap him for being like the rest of the men on base.

“That sounds wildly inappropriate. Is that why you beat everyone up today?”

“I kicked their asses because their behavior was bullshit and not something that I tolerate.” 

“So you’re going to approve me for the SO position if I say yes?” Chewing on her bottom lip, she rested her hands on her hips while she watched his face carefully. His cheeks were flushed now, eyes flustered but bright. 

“Asking you out for a drink is inappropriate but trying to get me to hand you a position isn’t?”

“I’m a woman, sir. I need all the help I can get.” It was a challenge, those two sentences. A challenge that if he failed, she would find a dagger and stab him with it for being a hypocrite, but when he spoke she found herself to be pleasantly surprised.

“You don’t need my help getting the job. You’re doing more than fine without my help, you will get SO because you deserve it, because you are capable.” The sincerity in his voice was striking, the lilt of his accent making the words a soft confession that she wanted him to repeat. She wanted to ask him if he meant it, if he truly believed what he said, but the look in his eyes told her that he did. Rowan Whitethorn, if no one else on the base, believed in her. “I’ll train you. The drink is optional, but yes, I will help you train.” 

With flying colors, he passed. So after a few beats, after she willed her heart to calm, she took a step back and offered him a small smile. “You can pick me up at seven.”

tags: @starseternalnighttriumphant @mariamuses @keshavomit @faefromthenorth @ifyouwouldseemysoul @murlymoo150 @faerie-queen-fireheart @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @feyre-therabeaux @runawayrowan @someonemagical @stormymeow @singme-t0sleep @tswaney17 @shyvioletcat @city-of-fae @kandasboi @mynewdreamwasyou @tangledraysofsunshine @aelin-is-my-heart @empire-of-wildfire @mynameiscelaenasardothien​ @myfeyrelady​ @schmlip-scribble​ @musicmaam​ @nalgenewhore​ @westofmoon​ @aaronwarnvrs @acourtofrowaelinandfeysand​ @im-not-rare-im-rarr​

[solitaria-fantasma]

((Session #5 highlights, GO!))

Our DM admitted to me the night before that this session was going to be “plot and  C H A O S” and honestly I am sO excited.

We start off with Matthias telling the party that he’d gone back to the bazaar and stolen a forged ledger. We’re uncovering organized crime today.

Recap: We still need to return Von Trikona’s books, as well as investigate/avenge the death of Clarissa Rose.

There are two new country names on the map - Croyden and Iandow!

New non-country locations listed include: Red Hawk, Caister, Alenwik, Aynor, Leeside, Dewsbary, Peinrith, Farenfros, Veritas, and Westwend.

Also ‘Fwee’ is actually spelled ‘Phwie’ and I need to adjust my notes.

We stumbled across a hungover wizard being harassed by a goblin. I immediately tried to scare it away, and rolled REALLY high intimidation.

“The goblin is intimidated af, and fucks off into the wilds.”

The wizard - Renaldo Ladboy - admitted that he’d ‘partied too hard’ the night before, and didn’t remember WHY he’d pitched his camp out in the woods.

Renaldo perks up when he hears that we are travelers, and heading in the same direction he is. He offers to take us there, but since a teleport spell has a limit on how many it can carry, and we are five people + five horses, he basically wants to put us in a Bag of Holding.

I imagined Renaldo pulling Udaji out by her horns and burst out laughing bc she’s sEVEN FEET TALL IT’D BE LIKE THE ENDLESS HANDKERCHIEF TRICK BUT WITH A BARD-

“Get in the fucking bag, Mountain!”

“What was the price of your freedom?”/”A Pringle.”

The interior of a Bag of Holding is - in the DM’s words - ‘a dumpster fire’. There’s everything from random treasure to books to laundry just thrown about in piles....and also there’s another person.

This is Helena (played by the DM’s mom), and she has been in here for a long time, apparently.

There is also Theo, a mysterious voice hidden in the laundry. They warn us to be wary of ‘skittering sounds’, and to hide when we hear them.

I think we were tricked.

Matthias knelt down specifically to slap Claus, who had rolled the highest on the insight check and found nothing suspicious.

Theo came out of hiding to once more warn us to be careful what we touched, and be wary of ‘the Guardians’.

Theo has been in here too long, though, and has a very small reservoir of spoons, so after this final warning, he disappeared back into hiding.

It is DEAFENINGLY quiet inside the Bag of Holding.

Udaji nervously strummed her lute, and the echo took a long time to come back…..and then we heard a flutter.

While Matthias tried to loot some potions and Mountain tried to take a nap, I strummed again to try and recreate the flutter….and I heard more fluttering. It was loud enough to actually wake up Mountain.

Udaji immediately ran off to investigate one of the sources of the fluttering, and then the fluttering turned into skittering. Oh no.

“Udaji, roll for initiative.”

I roared into the darkness and managed to intimidate away one of the gargoyles that were stalking me.

I also apparently terrified Theo with my ‘I Am A Mighty Dragon’ roar. Whoops.

I shouted back to the party “I FOUND THE SKITTERING THINGS!” and retreated one square, but Udaji is simultaneously too stubborn to completely run away and too afraid to run off into the darkness (again).

I TOOK “ZONE OF TRUTH” AS A SPELL LAST LEVEL UP I COULD HAVE CAST IT ON RENALDO-

Helena temporarily lit up our little corner of Hell, and I cast Heroism on Mountain because I have no ranged weaponry/spells.

Mountain could gain a max of 40 temporary hp from this spell if A) he doesn’t get hit and B) I don’t get hit and lose concentration.

Aaaaand one gargoyle promptly flew 60 feet and bit me, shattering my concentration. Heck.

Mountain tried to do a trick shot with his bow and accidentally shot Matthias.

Gargoyle #1 tried to bite Claus, but missed because Claus was too short for it to hit.

I desperately want to test out my Earth Tremor spell but my teammates are tOO CLOSE-

Honestly sessions with the DM’s mom are always a little bit awkward bc it sometimes becomes the mom and three sisters arguing and me just sitting there in awkward silence but I know she means well.

Theo ran up and hit behind the Dragonborn for safety when a THIRD gargoyle came out of hiding. This may prove to be a mistake

Gargoyle #1 hit Claus and I’m starting to wish I’d made Udaji a barbarian bECAUSE I’M READY TO RAGE-

All anger aside I’m actually having a very hard time not envisioning these gargoyles as THE Gargoyles from the Disney show, and I feel bad every time I stab them.

THEO KNOWS DIVINE SMITE?!

“It’s a very, very high pile of laundry, so we’re going to classify it as difficult terrain.”

I lost almost half my hit points in one turn and then got healed half of THAT back in the next what a roller coaster.

I FINALLY GOT TO USE EARTH  TREMOR AND KNOCKED GARGOYLE #1 PRONE!

Two gargoyles down, one to go!

Helena coming in with the killing blow on gargoyle #1!

With the battle over, Helena picked up some of the gold off the ground.

Poor Theo was being harassed by those three gargoyles for at least a month, maybe more (it’s hard to keep track of time in a dark, sunless void).

Theo admits that he got tricked into entering the bag after getting injured fighting ghouls, and the wizard came along and offered to carry him to safety.

Renaldo has now kidnapped seven people with his Bag of Holding, and has four people lined up to punch him (the other three advocate for murder).

Theo gives us a much clearer warning now about ‘the Guardians’ - two suits of armor that guard Renaldo’s stuff, and attack people who try to steal it.

Matthias immediately disappears to try and steal things.

Udaji sat down and started filling the silence with lute music because she is realizing that she does NOT like this kind of heavy silence.

Astrid stole a few potions, and Mountain realized we could switch out our suspicious, fake gold for real gold.

Theo watched us in visible confusion as we poured gold out onto the ground, only to then pick up equal amounts of seemingly identical gold.

“This man has kidnapped seven people! Seven people and presumably five horses!”

Astrid has a crush on Mountain, and tries to snuggle up to him, but Matthias literally flung himself between them in protest, so Astrid snuggled up with Udaji instead.

We took a long rest, and at the end of it, Renaldo actually remembered to pull us all out.

The only reason he remembered was because he’d teleported with our party’s horses, and landed surrounded by equines.

Theo punched him square in the nose.

“Claus is old enough to drink, but Udaji is not. Do not let the Dragonborn order beer.”

We hadn’t eaten in two and a half days, so we all ordered double meals and chowed down.

While eating on the mostly empty inn floor, we overhear two women whispering across the floor.

Eventually, one of the women raises her voice and says “We are not having this discussion! You are marrying Hassan, and that’s final!”

Marrying the Lord who was supposedly betrothed to the young Lady Rose? So soon? How scandalous…

Matthias sidled up to try and talk to them, and finds out that they are, in fact, talking about the same Lord Hassan who was betrothed to Clarissa Rose.

The older woman demanded to know how we knew of this supposed ‘other prospect’, and Matthias lied - saying that we had been hired by Clarissa’s mother to retrieve her daughter’s body.

This, predictably, did not endear him to the two women, so Astrid had to saunter over and try to assist.

The women are Amelia (younger) and Charlotte (older) Ulsten.

They asked when this previous engagement had been made, and we said that it had been a month. Charlotte got very pale and very still, and Amelia immediately told her “I told you something was wrong!”

Charlotte tells us that they had received the marriage proposal around the same time.

Matthias asked if they had heard the rumors of ‘accidents’ and stolen dowries. They said no.

The two women were traveling from Westwend, in Croyden.

“Charlotte sort of blubbers, like a Karen who’s been confronted by a manager and isn’t getting her free Frostie from Wendy’s.”

I traded places with Matthias to try and smooth things over, and Amelia - who has never seen a Dragonborn before - can’t stop staring.

Charlotte unbristled, and explained that they hadn’t heard of Lord Hassan before the proposal, so they’d hired a private investigator to look into him.

Their PI found that Lord Hassan WAS a legitimate bachelor and Lord in Kenkilly, but they hadn’t heard of this potential scam.

“But we DO have guards!”/”So did Miss Rose…”

Amelia begs her mother not to make her see this through, and Charlotte agrees that this scenario is too weird for her, and that they will seek a marriage prospect elsewhere.

Matthias speed-ate all his cake purely to avoid sharing with anyone.

Astrid gave her father puppy eyes, and he eventually caved, and bought her a slice of cake.

Amelia was still staring at Udaji as everyone settled back down to finish eating.

Claus and Astrid may or may not be leaving the party for a time bc the DM doesn’t want to end up playing too many NPCs, and while I understand that, I am going to dearly miss my best halfling friend and only female companion.

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 8

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Though your father had been a country count, unimportant to the machinations of Wistal’s court, you had never lacked for companionship.  What your father had lacked in political clout, he had made up for in varied acquaintance: knights’ daughters, a neighboring baron’s young granddaughter, your own cousins-- all of them had made up your coterie of ladies, giggling beneath covers in childhood and over fans when you made your debut.

They had cooed when you had told them of your husband’s proposal, teasing you over his age, over his equally distant holdings, but when you had married in your father’s lavish gardens, taking your husband’s hand as you made your first steps toward Bederin--

They had wept.

You wonder sometimes what has become of them. Whether they married well, whether the pretty knight’s daughter caught a peer after all. Perhaps you sit on the council with their husbands, and they--

They ignore the receipts as well. Just another entry made in the ledger, written in their neat hand at the same time it is thoroughly unseen.

Perhaps they think of you, too. The news of your husband’s death, at least, must have brought them pause over their needlepoint, remembering their younger, less complicated years. Their condolences could have been one of the hundreds you received and blindly answered, too deeply entrenched in your mourning to think of anything more than a few lines of thanks.

They might even think of you now, wondering if you nephew took care of you as he ought as the new count, or if you had been sent to the house of your brother, living as a spectral albatross about his neck.

Ah, whatever they think, it would pale to the truth of it.

“I only mean to say, if we’re to be taxed for acts, then what’s the incentive for us to do more than give ‘em a quick rub and send ‘em on their way?” Himawari folds her arms right under her chest, mouth set in a belligerent pout. “What next? Are they going to take for duration too? For how many little deaths we fake?”

At least, you hope your friends would not be able to guess at this. “I am not sure of the lords’ plans for future taxation, but as it currently stands, you would be changed more for a, ah, rub than you would be for something more...traditional.”

Himawari’s brows draw sharply over her blade of a nose. “Traditional.”

“What her ladyship is trying to imply,” Kikyo interjects smoothly, “is that they mean to tax us for what they call lewd acts, which doesn’t include fucking. Unless you do it any way but on your back.”

Himawari snorts, stretching out to her full, impressive length. Before tonight you thought few men wanted a woman who could look them in the eye, but it’s taken you weeks to find an opening in Himawari’s schedule. Aside from Tsubaki, she’s the most popular girl in the house.

“Well, that makes no sense. It’s quicker and cleaner to just use a hand, and I--”

“Plenty of your other companions feel the same,” you explain quickly. If you have learned anything in your meetings with the ladies of this house, it is that you do not give them time to expound upon...personal experiences. Or rather, specific personal experiences. It only leaves you wondering which of your fellow councilmen might have been the ‘rude gent that wanted a spank’ before he inevitably got down to business.

(Though you do have a few ideas on that one. And the lord who asked for a glass of port during a specific act you will not allow yourself to recount.)

Himawari frowns, somehow forbidding even in her gossamer negligee. “Then what’s to be done about it? It’s the lords what decide our fate. Are we to deny them custom? Starve ourselves while they go elsewhere?”

“That is why I am here.” You smooth your notebook across your lap, taking comfort in the paper beneath your palms. “His Majesty has task me with finding an alternate proposal.”

“She’s been asking all of us our thoughts,” Kikyo explains, “in an attempt to make one that’s more fair to us, instead of the lords.”

Himawari raises a skeptical brow. “And how’s that been coming?”

“Ah...” Your notes are a mess; you ask one girl what she wants, and it confounds another’s. You put forth this contradictory piece, and suddenly you are in a debate with no experience to draw from, only what you have gleaned from your interviews and trolling through the Big House’s archives. “I am...approaching an idea...”

“Yeah, that none of us want the same thing,” she laughs, shaking her head. “There’s some girls here who don’t to much but lie on their backs. And some of us that have made a name filling different sorts of appetites. And have you talked to the boys?”

“Boys?” You blink, shuffling through your notes. “The doormen--”

“They’re for sale too.” Her mouth hooks, wry. “I’m sure they’d have plenty to say about getting taxed up the--”

“We take your point,” Kikyo interjects smoothly, “but there’s not much to be done. Not without suspicion.”

You nod. “I’ve gleaned that your madam wouldn’t like the idea of you girls bargaining a better position.”

“Not unless it made her a pretty penny,” Himawari spat, “which it might well do, since she’s so keep on pinching from our pockets.”

You swallow a sigh, shifting in your seat. “It would be nice to have all of you in a room at once, if only to make some sense of it all. But your madam--”

“Would never allow it,” Kikyo confirms. “She’d think it was cutting into profits.”

“Even if I paid?” You would be far from the first peer to rent out a house of ill repute for an evening. “I could--”

“My lady, it would only be a pretense.” Kikyo sends you one of her soft, sly smiles. “She hardly likes two of us in a room at once, let alone all of us.”

“And agreeing,” Himawari huffs. “Might give us ideas about who should really be running the house.”

Your mouth hooks into a smirk. “Sounds like you all have ideas on that too.”

“Don’t we just.” Himarwari’s teeth bare in a tiger’s smile. “Mainly seeing our current one out of it.”

Her words slap you as hard as a thunder clap. “Would that be possible?”

Kikyo’s eyes widen. “My lady?”

“I do not mean permanently.” Yet. “But for a night. Is there a way to get her from the house?”

The two women exchange glances.

“She hardly ever leaves,” Himawari admits. “Unless...”

“Unless she has custom,” Kikyo finishes, thoughtful. “But she considers her services very...elite.”

“What she means is: the madam won’t go out for anyone but the choicest lords.” Himawari grins. “Which don’t happen too often, considering how they all like young things that aren’t too big for their britches.”

More likely they prefer young things who are impressed by their power and will do anything to please them. You bite down on the thought; as true as it may be, your job here is not to denigrate the reputation of the other councilmen.

After all, they do such a fine job of it themselves.

“Not that it would solve much,” Himawari scoffs, “Sumire would still be here.”

Sumire. You’ve heard the name before, once or twice, as girls passed meaningful looks. “Is that...?”

“The Madam’s spy?” Himawari snaps. “Yes.”

Kikyo’s glance is laden with censure as she says, “Sumire is the Madam’s freshest flower.”

“Freshest flower?” you ask, already fearing the explanation, but-- you are here to learn. There is no point in helping them if you choose to turn away from what they cannot.

“She debuted last year,” Kikyo explains with a hesitation that sets your teeth on edge. “To much anticipation.”

Himawari snorts. “She paraded the girl around for a year, letting everyone look and never touch, and then sold the right to the highest bidder.”

“An auction.” Kikyo gives her a quelling glare. “Only the most promising receive one. There’s no point, after all, if one’s debut won’t pay for the party itself.”

“You mean that her...” You flounder for the words, and Himawari smirks. “Her maiden’s head was...?”

“Sold, yes.” You stifle a squirm, but Himawari’s grin says you have done a poor job of it. “To some lord, who kept her until he tired of her.”

“That isn’t what happened,” Kikyo snaps. “You know that well enough.”

“It hardly matters in any case.” The tall woman shrugs, careless. “Only the fanciest lords are allowed to have her now.”

Your mouth pulls thin. “I take it that the Madam has something to do with that?”

“Of course.” Himawari’s grin is sharp. “Why accept less than the opening bid?”

“The Madam gives her the choicest clients,” Kikyo clarifies, “and as such, Sumire is loyal to her. Like a child to a mother.”

It is on the tip of your tongue: a mother would never sell her child. But it is an easy thing for you to say, a woman who never had one, a child who never wanted despite it. But when a child is yet another open mouth to feed, and there’s not enough food to hand-- who knows what might be done to make up the lack.

You stare at your hands, still covered in lace, the weight of your wedding ring heavy on your finger, and--

And maybe it is not only those hungry for bread that sell their daughters.

You nod, briskly, to organize your thoughts. “Then we will table such an idea for now. But as for your thoughts...”

You close the door behind you, leaving the woman to whatever preparations they make to conceive the illusion of your visit being a profitable one. For your own peace of mind, you’ve never quite asked what that entails.

Those thoughts are not the ones that occupy you in any case. Your mind races, as it always does, filled with half-written laws that sag in the middle, or are only held together by a thin chain of ellipses as you search for the words you need to bind them. The other councilors might joke about your knotty problem, but if it is one, its loops conceal a hopeless tangle beneath, the whole of it always hidden from your view. You may pull at what you see, hoping to find an end, but you suspect all of those efforts have only made it worse, not better.

Still, you probe at it, mind tugging at its coils. If only you could drag every last bit of it into the light--

You press your lips together, teeth biting at your cheeks. There is a way to do it, if only you could figure out the logistics of it.

Hah, but is that not what you were trained to do? They may not have wanted you to be a countess in your own right, but the perfect count’s wife, able to organize a luncheon--

Now that, that you have been trained to do.

“Obi.”

He glances up from where he leans against the wall, all impossibly long limbs, the way hounds were just after they grew out of being puppies.

“May I help you?” he asks, gaze darting to the door behind you. “Is my lady ready to leave?”

You blink. “Yes?”

His brow arches, every feature of his face curved into polite curiosity. It takes you aback for a moment, he looks younger like this, hardly more than a boy without the guarded suspicion marring his face. “Will you get her?”

“Get her?” You stare at him, brows drawn in confusion. “I’m here.”

“You’re--?” His eyes widen, jaw going slack. “My lady. I didn’t-- I didn’t recognize you without--”

Words fail him, and he gestures vaguely toward his face. For a moment, you stand stymied, but then you raise your hands, the smooth round of your cheek squishing beneath the lace of your fingers.

“My veil,” you breathe, reaching for your reticule. “I must have-- I didn’t--”

His hands come to still yours, lifting the fall of lace from your boneless fingers. “Please, my lady, allow me.”

He sets it over you gently, lowering the blusher of your veil until it falls over your chest, obscuring the world beneath a black cage.

“There, that’s...” His lips press together. “Normal.”

“Normal,” you sigh, fussing with the edge. “Yes. I suppose.”

Obi opens his mouth only to close it again. “You were going to ask me something else, my lady?”

“Yes.” Your hands drop down to your side, laying flat against the crape. “There’s a girl I want you to secure a meeting with. Her name is Sumire.”

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Red Dust

Link to song: Red Dust (acoustic) by Vincent James McMorrow

Synopsis: Game night for the Inner Circle! What could possibly go wrong?

TW: Mentions of suicide and domestic abuse. Please read with caution.

Ao3 link

Chapter 18: Red Dust

“Another hotel on Pennsylvania avenue, please,” Mor asked sweetly. Sending her daggers with his eyes, Cassian chucked the red piece of plastic at the blonde who added next to the two others.

“Can she even do that?” Rhys demanded, searching the box for an instructions list.

We’d moved on from Monopoly after Rhys, Amren and I won at Pictionary. It wasn’t too hard, considering my sketching skills—Mor thought I was cheating after Amren guessed my rendition of the phrase “big brother’s watching”. It took her, unsurprisingly, lots of convincing that Pictionary was a very difficult game to cheat at, and that I was just a good artist.

“You’ve got quite the talent,” Rhys had commented at the end of the game. “Would you like to draw me some time?”

“I’m more of a painter than a sketch artist. And I’m afraid it would be a disgrace to my talent to try to render you.”

“Why? Because you can’t possibly capture my charm and beautiful looks?”

“No, because I don’t have a canvas big enough to fit your ego in.”

He’d laughed at that, and I’d managed a small, secret grin before we’d moved over to the living room where Cassian was already tediously setting up the Monopoly board. He'd even searched all of us, to see if somebody had smuggled some money up their sleeve while we weren’t looking. I’d thought it was completely ludicrous until he’d found a clump of rolled up fifties in Amren’s front pocket. She’d only smirked like a snake before dropping into her chair.

Only now, staring across the expanse of the board, I realized exactly how ruthless family game night was. It was a sea of hotels and houses, including my own properties—somehow I was better at handling fake money than real money and investments, and found myself neck and neck with Mor at the top of the leaderboard.

“We’re never letting her back here,” Cassian mumbled. “She’s a wizard, Rhys. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“You’re just pissed because I bought Boardwalk before you.”

“I’m pissed because landing on your spot costs me two thousand dollars, Feyre.” He said before taking another sip of his scotch. They’d brought out one of Rhys’s older bottles after moving on to Monopoly. I was on my third glass of wine, and the effects were beginning to kick in. I couldn’t remember why I wasn’t allowed to drink in the first place.

I rolled a six and landed once again on boardwalk. I handed four fifties to Azriel and said, “Another hotel please.”

“This is why I hate Monopoly. You people hoard all of the properties then raise your rent so high I go bankrupt every time I turn the fucking corner.” Cassian said.

“It’s called capitalism, sweetie, and it’s a beautiful world.” Amren ostentatiously thumbed her stack of money, perched cross-legged on her chair across from me.

“Oh shut up, Amren, or I’ll kick your piece right to jail.”

“Touch my piece and you die, Cassian.”

“Ha! Chance! I get to claim three hundred dollars from the bank.” Rhys said, looking to Azriel. He was the only one anybody trusted to hand out the money.

“There’s no money left,” Azriel said, “the bank ran out last round after Amren passed Go.”

“Well print some more!” Rhys demanded. For the first five turns, he’d only landed on non-buying spaces and spent a few rounds in jail. His meagre two properties beside the Go space only had one house on them, and his stack was very, very thin.

“I can lend you some money,” Mor said sweetly, “if you give me a real raise.”

“Oh, piss off,” he muttered before passing me the die.

“It’s your turn Amren.” Azriel commented drily. He couldn’t complain, he was right behind Mor, Amren and I.

“You men are just jealous because the women are winning. How’s that for a wage gap?” She took the die in her hands and Cassian rolled his eyes.

“At least my wage gap is fictitious,” he said and slumped back against the couch.

“Watch it Cassian, because I make more than you.”

His eyes darted to hers. “Says who?”

Rhys sighed and buried his head in his hands.

“Says the many, many legal documents and payrolls I’ve been gazing over at work.”

“Okay, that’s it—” he went to pluck Amren’s piece, presumably to place her in jail, but Mor slapped his hand away.

“Don’t put your pig hands on her. Us women stick together.” Mor said, arms crossed. Cassian rolled his eyes.

“Exactly.” Amren said and rolled the dice.

“Exactly,” I added from my quiet corner with a nod of my head before taking a sip of wine.

“Fuck the patriarchy,” Mor chanted, fist raised in the air.

“Fuck the patriarchy—” Amren and I repeated, but we were cut off as she counted with her piece until she landed on Boardwalk.

Everyone was silent as Amren looked between Boardwalk, me and her stack of bills, which, though thick, was not enough to pay my rent.

Deadpan, she said, “I’m not paying that.”

“Oh yes you are,” Mor countered, “that’s the rules of life, honey.”

“And to think I was chanting with you just seconds ago.” Amren shook her head, disgusted.

“How’s the patriarchy looking now, huh?” Cassian said, his hands raised with an ‘I told you so’ look directed at Amren.

“Fuck off, Cassian, I can swipe your ass off the board in seconds.”

“But you can’t seem to pay Feyre’s rent.” He refuted pointedly.

“Because I’m not paying her rent. I counted wrong. Oops! I was supposed to land on luxury tax. Seventy-five dollars.”

“If I can’t get my three-hundred dollars from the bankrupt bank, then you have to put your properties up for mortgage and pay Feyre.” Rhys declared, and I nodded along with him. I didn’t give a shit about the three thousand dollars, I just wanted a fair game.

“I’m not paying her three thousand dollars!” Amren cried.

Cassian cooed, “That’s the name of the game, honey! What’d you say? Capitalism is a beautiful world?”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful when you keep landing on all the chance spaces and got all your money from the bank!” Amren stood, fists clenched at her sides.

“You were the one who tried to smuggle fifties at the beginning of the game!”

“You were the one who kept the fifties in your sleeve until we found them five minutes later, jackass!”

From my corner, things were silent. Mor and Rhys got up to interject, and Azriel’s eyes, I could sense, were closely watching me as my heart began to beat faster. All the noise and yelling—

“How about this, how about this! You don’t pay rent, and I move you to where you belong!” Cassian took Amren’s piece and slammed it down on the jail spot.

“Oh, that’s it!” She took Cassian’s piece and dropped it down right beside hers. “Have fun getting your insides rearranged in jail, ass wipe!”

All I could see was his face, yelling in mine, the feel of the study’s floor against my back as I laid there for an hour in agonizing pain, having to cover up my neck with layers of makeup day after day—

Or that last night when he’d thrown the glass and it’d shattered across the wall, how I couldn’t tell the difference between the red wine and the blood on my hands from all the shards—

Then the next thing I knew was the sound of the loud crash, pieces scattering across the floor, and an upset table sitting sideways before me. I looked up at them, mouth hanging open, impending panic completely gone.

Only Amren said, “You know, Feyre, you dug your gave the second you put up a second hotel.”

The phrase rolled so easily off her tongue, an expression she probably used often with friends like this—I didn’t realize it until it played again in my mind. Rhys did, too, because his eyes widened and zeroed on me, then Amren, ready to verbally eviscerate her.

But all I could do was laugh. A full, rich laugh, one I hadn’t let out in a while. It felt good at the start, because just the irony of this entire situation, being in Rhys’s townhouse playing Monopoly with his friends days after I tried to kill myself, was really fucking hilarious. The more I thought of it though, the more it brought me back up on that ledge, back in those moments of absolute agony that I would never shake for the rest of my life. Then, the thought of me, in my grave, and the sad, sad tombstone atop of it. Feyre Archeron. Remembered and loved by no one.

I didn’t realize I was sobbing until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Rhys, the pain and fury in his eyes, and quickly pushed off from the chair before turning towards the stairs.

***

Rhys

I released the breath I was holding after I heard the door close quietly upstairs. It took everything within me not to order them out of the house and run up to her, hold her, wipe those awful tears away and just have some damn quiet for once.

The blood in my veins was hot enough to burn this fucking house to the ground as I turned to Amren. She seemed completely unbothered by the entire thing, if not bored. And though I’d risk my manhood doing so, I didn’t care about being an asshole as I seethed, “You can really be an inconsiderate bitch sometimes, Amren.”

Even Mor flinched. Ariel looked uneasily between the two of us, but Amren only rolled her eyes as she examined her nails. “Rhysand, you cannot say I’m inconsiderate when I have no fucking clue what’s going on. How was I supposed to know that death sets her off?”

Instead of losing my cool, which I was very, very close to doing, I let out another breath and heaved my table back into its original position, thanking my past self for buying something more resistant this time. Azriel and Mor started picking up the little pieces as I said, “Feyre left Cassian’s condo Friday because Tamlin was able to track her down.”

“And you were going to tell me that when?” Cassian demanded venomously. Even Azriel looked pissed, equally for Feyre’s safety and for a breach in security.

“Whenever I found the damn time,” I spat back, “because as you can see, I’ve been very short on that recently.”

“How did he find her?” Amren asked, eyes blazing. It was comforting to know Amren hated the prick just as much as me. Judging from the lethal rage in her eyes, probably more.

“She still had her iCloud connected to his account. I wonder why he didn’t show up days before, but then again, he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Mor snorted. “Fuckin tool. I like that. Tamlin the Tool.”

I blinked, then refocused, but kind of liking the sound of that as well. “Anyways, he found her but she didn’t let him in. He didn’t see her or hear her, but he still thinks that she’s staying there. For now that gives us some sort of upper hand before he finally figures out that she’s living here.”

Cassian said, “That’ll be a nice homecoming gift if I could sucker punch him in the face.”

“Aim for the balls.” Mor commented quietly.

“I don’t get it. He showed up at the condo. What does what I said have anything to do with that?”

I swallowed hard. I hesitated over whether or not I should’ve told them right away, not knowing if Feyre would’ve wanted it or not, or if she would’ve rather telling them herself. But after tonight, I thought a little sensitivity might be best for her.

Saying the words always felt unreal. Thinking of it, being back up on the rooftop, the moment she leaned forward and I could see her dead, crumpled body in my mind, never failed to steal the breath from my lungs. It was like that constant aching feeling, the one that festered in my chest for so long, slowly leaking back in like dark ink spreading across a white sheet.

“When I got there a half hour later, Feyre was in the middle of a suicide attempt.”

Mor dropped the Monopoly pieces. Cassian’s head sunk into his hands. Azriel released a sigh and leaned back into the couch. Even Amren’s eyes dropped, her head turned away to gaze at the window looking out onto the street.

“What did she—” Mor wondered lowly, but I cut her off.

“I’m not saying how, what happened or anything about that. But I got her help, and I’ve been watching her over the weekend. She will tell you if she feels like it when she is ready, and that is that. But I thought you should know. So we could avoid these kinds of…situations.”

There were a few beats of silence. Amren finally pushed off the couch and went to collect her things. She didn’t say a word as she put on her shoes and count then closed the door behind her. It was expected of her; her range of emotions over the years I knew her were limited. But this one was something that didn’t present itself often.

Shame.

After a few more seconds, Mor said, “I should go talk to her.”

“No, I’ll go,” Cassian said quietly. “I’m the one that left her alone. I should’ve been there.” With that, he took Feyre’s glass of wine from her chair’s side table and wandered up the steps. Mor finally looked to me, then came and sat beside me on the arm of my chair, her hand settling gently on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry we ruined game night.” She murmured. I laughed, and put my hand atop hers.

“It’s okay. I knew this was going to be a disaster.”

“And I’m sorry that you were the one who found her, Rhys,” Azriel added quietly. “I know it can’t be easy after…”

I nodded as he trailed off, unwilling to let those memories back into my consciousness either. “Thank you, brother.”

***

Feyre

I laid on Rhys’s guest bed, numb. It’d been only a few minutes since I’d marched up the stairs and closed the door behind me before dragging myself to bed and letting myself drain out.

It was like poison within me, this dread. Soaking through my skin and staining the sheets and mattress beneath me. A cloud that always loomed behind me, far enough not to notice, but ready to rain down upon me whenever the time was right. I drenched in its waters now and let it wash over me with its all-consuming misery.

A soft knock sounded at the door, then Cassian’s head poked around the corner. He took one look at me, then said, “Somebody’s taken my bed as a hostage.”

I threw a pillow at him. He caught it with ease, a smile on his face, before wandering over to my side. I slid over so he had enough space to sit down next to me. Cassian took my hand in both of his huge ones, their warmth leeching into my cold skin.

“I’m sorry about before. I’m just too fucking sensitive and—”

“Feyre, you don’t have to explain yourself.” He sighed and found my gaze. All I could see in his hazel eyes was pain and concern, bleeding for me, I knew. Quietly, he said, “Rhys told us what happened.”

My chest deflated, but the feeling in my chest wasn’t anger. It was relief. Relief that quickly morphed into embarrassment. I could barely look him in the eye, and all I managed to say was, “Oh.”

“I’m not pushing you to tell me anything. I just want you to know that I am here for you. No matter what, no matter when, one text, one call or email or fuck it, I even have a fax machine—”

I chuckled at that. “I get the point.”

“All I’m saying,” he smiled, “is that I am here for you. We all are. And I should’ve been there for you that night at the condo, and I am so sorry that I wasn’t.”

“It’s not your fault, Cassian,” I murmured, covering our hands with my other one. “You couldn’t have known.”

Cassian nodded, but my thoughts clouded over as I thought of that night again, the moment I’d heard his voice through the door. Looking at our hands together, my eyes wandered up his arms to his biceps, nearly thicker than my thighs, and thought of our time together at the gym. When we worked out, when he guided me through each punch, each kick, I felt like lightning incarnate. He’d armed me with all I needed about self-defence, about fending off an attacker. We’d gone through motions time after time, and he’d drilled me with counter-moves, defensive positions, where to strike and when.

But it’d all emptied from my head whenever I’d faced him. In that ring, I felt like fire. But against my fiancee, I felt like a drop of water in the hurricane I was supposed to be.

“What’s wrong?” The question was quiet. Like he knew prodding wasn’t a good idea, that it would unseal Pandora’s box of darkness ready to careen open inside of me. Maybe it was time I let some of the tendrils slip out.

Unable to meet his eyes, I said, “After everything you taught me, after all the hours we spent together training, it all flew out of my head as soon as I faced him. As soon as I heard him.”

There was no need to specify who he was. The hard look on Cassian’s face said enough.

“I should’ve done more. I should’ve told Rhys, convinced you to get out of there sooner, been there at the condo that night—”

“No,” I said, shaking off his protests, because they were fruitless. “Nothing was going to change my mind about leaving, Cassian. Nothing but what happened that day.” More tears pricked at the back of my eyes, and I was so fucking sick of crying. “In the time I needed it most, everything you gave me was for nothing. I forgot what you taught me. I forgot how to live, and I forgot I was strong.”

“You know what I taught you.” Cassian said, his hand leaving mine to settle on my shoulder. His hazel eyes clung to mine with hope and tenacity. “You survived. You got out of there. You are strong.”

“Maybe I was in the past,” I whispered, throat thick with tears, “but not anymore. I don’t know…” I shook my head, closing my eyes. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, where I’m going to live, how I’m going to support myself in the long run—I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Come here,” he said, and I leaned up in the bed for him to wrap his arms around me. My tear-stained cheeks soaked his t-shirt. “We’ve been here with you every step through this. You can stay with Rhys as long as you want, because I know for damn sure he doesn’t mind, and you just told us today that we’ve got a job lined up for you right now. Judging by Rhys’s salaries, you will be very well off before the month is up.” I snorted, and he squeezed me tighter. “And about knowing who you are Feyre, well—the best thing about not knowing who you are is that you can create who you want to be from here on out.” He pulled back so he could meet my eyes once more. “You can be anyone you’ve dreamt to be, Feyre. Nothing is stopping you anymore.” He cracked a smirk of his and added, “Just not a pimp. I don’t think I could support you if you became a pimp.”

I let out another stream of laughter as he hugged me close once more. Then I realize he’d brought not only my wine glass, but the entire bottle up with him. We both took turns taking sips, talking and laughing the night away, until the clock read half-past midnight and he said that Rhys would whip his ass if he was late to work in the morning.

***

By my third heaving into the porcelain bowl, Rhys had rushed into the bathroom and was pulling back my hair. I sagged against the toilet, spitting a wad of bile into the water, and let out a low, painful moan.

“Nightmare?” Rhys murmured as he pulled my hair away from my face. I let out what sounded like a grateful sigh, then heaved once more.

“Wine,” I choked out, spitting once more into the bowl.

From behind me, I could hear his chuckle and threw him a vulgar gesture above my shoulder.  He only laughed some more, and kept smoothing my hair back in a calming, comforting way. Another wave of nausea bloomed, and I was vomiting once more.

“Back in the academy, we used to smuggle in alcohol by sewing it into our clothes. Never anything too big, bottles like the ones you get in mini-bars, but enough of them to get us properly wasted. They only every caught us because we’d wake up in pools of our own vomit. We spent those days hosing down our rooms, then doing the old-school toilet toothbrush cleaning in everyone’s bathrooms as punishment.”

I wrinkled my nose as I panted. Even the thought of more alcohol had my toes curling.

Rhys said quietly, “I try not to drink often, though. After the incident I told you about and leaving my job, I got bad for a little while. Obviously you know who came busting down my door after I shut myself in for nearly a month.” His hand was now travelling up and down my back. I closed my eyes and focused on that soothing touch instead of the riot in my stomach. “Vodka. That used to be my poison. I don’t touch the stuff anymore if I can help it.”

“Whiskey,” I said, then spat. “When I was still living at home, that’s what my dad drank. Whiskey. It was like water to him.”

He murmured, “I’m sorry.”

I shrugged my shoulders, then reached up to flush. Pushing off the toilet seat, I went over to the sink and rinsed out my mouth and splashed some water on my face, then popped two Advils just to be safe (Rhys only left five of them in a small container in his medicine cabinet, which I told him was excessive, but he said was cautionary). When I turned back, I saw him sitting back against the wall, his eyes closed. I wandered back over to him, stumbling with the remaining effects of alcohol, and sank down at his side, our shoulders touching. His warmth was intoxicating.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” I dismissed. My head turned to examine him. His eyes were still closed, like he was sleeping. He looked so at peace like this, head tilted back, hair pressed down against his scalp from his pillow, features relaxed.

Beautiful.

Quietly, I said, “You told them.”

He opened one eye, then the other, and told me, “I didn’t know what else to do. And I didn’t mention any specifics or details.”

“No, no, it’s okay, Rhys,” I sighed, closing my eyes once more. My body felt tingly from the lingering buzz. “I’m honestly relieved. I don’t know how I would’ve explained myself.”

“You don’t owe anyone any explanations.”

I snorted. “Suriel said that. He also told me not to drink, but here I am.”

A pause. Then, “Feyre.”

“Oh, Rhys, it was harmless—”

“Feyre.”

“What?” I snapped.

He turned so he was facing me, and put both hands on my shoulders. “If you’re going to get better, if you want to make progress, you have to listen to him. Even though it might be stupid and you feel like it doesn’t seem so bad, you have to listen to him. He is trying to help you.”

“But it was a few drinks!” I cried.

“You were throwing up thirty seconds ago!” Rhys said. His eyes were sharp steel as he said, “I promised I would help you, but you’ve got to put the work in as well. You’ve got to hold up your end of the bargain. Okay?”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I don’t see how wine will impediment my progress, though.”

Rhys laughed, and his hand reached up to curl a piece of hair behind my ear. “Go to bed, darling.”

That night, I didn’t know whether it was the alcohol or the lasting effects of the night, but I slept soundly.

[honestsycrets]

Like Me VI: Giving In

❛ pairing | ivar x oi!reader

❛ word count | 3k+

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | ivar misses his dear friend. he seeks to give her all she wants. even if it includes him.

❛  warnings | rivalry, jealousy, arguing, one of them will kill the other.

The worst part of being a walking cripple was to have to endure the need to be in the goodwill of the only other cripple you knew that could walk as well.

“Ow!” Your fingers deepen in strokes upon the bird whose claws hollow the glove you wear. The blacksmith recoils from your nasty cry in the back of the royal quarters. Your earrings jingle as you shake your head to rid yourself of the sting that came from the blacksmith’s clanging. Your friend rears his head from his goblet of ale to your seat, grinding tooth together.

“What are you doing to her?” Ivar seethes. “She is screaming.”

“It is too tight on her legs, King Ivar. It is restricting movement.” He rumbles. “I was only adjusting them for improvement.”

Ivar droves off of his chair, dragging himself along the floor toward you. He sits himself up, dragging the leather strap of his bound legs directly in front.

“If her legs come out of that injured, you’ll answer to me, hm?” Ivar resounds with his war pick, flipping the blade at the blacksmith to reassure the man without question what will become of him.

“Uh-- of course, of course, my king. I will take these for repairs” He slips the braces off of your legs again, pulling the heavy straps of metal onto his arms as he stands. It doesn’t escape Ivar’s notice that you quickly chuck your dress over your notched legs to shield them from your view. Mangled legs, he reminds himself.

“Goodman,” Ivar replies with sycophantic smoothness as the man makes himself scarce from the room. You sit with your hands in your lap, one on top of another. Your lips have gone flat, calming your strokes across the bird. “Goodman… (Y/N)?”

“Yes?” You look toward the silken straps that bind your legs down. You need to bind them to be able to return home, this time on your forearms. The spirit of relaxation that you previously had with Ivar seems to have eviscerated in exchange for a tense and wary background.

“I did not mean what I said of your legs. And the prince. I was led by anger.” He reaches out to set his hand upon your knee.

“Rorik?” You say, leading him on to say the prince’s name. Ivar much rather eat his words than say the ruddy-haired prince that came with strange Persian, Swede and dark-skinned thralls. Yet if he had to in order to repair this relationship, he would.

“Rorik of Novgorod.” His thumb strokes your kneecap through your warm dress. Then, bouncing off your knee, he looks to you. “Sigrunn told me you saw him in the waters the other day. You enjoy his company, don’t you?”

“More than anything.” You answer too quickly. Enough that his face drops completely at your assertion. They are too soon, too raw. He clenches his jaw to avoid a raw reaction, tightening his grip upon your knee. He’s about to blow again, you know. In order to curb his brash reaction, your hands drop down to his gloved fingers. His Viking skin is calloused-- reflecting the days of his childhood and those of being truly Viking. The first touch that you had given him since the wedding and so he’ll take it.

“In another way, Ivar.” You say. “You are my friend, I understand our relationship. Freydis is a fair queen and you are a k--”

“A god.” Ivar cuts you off, dry in nature. “And you are a goddess. My equal.”

You’ve heard such things before from Freydis who worshiped Ivar’s feet in her own way. Still, you do not know what to say nor how to respond. Ivar brings the back of your palm to his lips, planting a gentle kiss upon the knuckle in tender care. Your love of the king always went like this. At times, tender and loving. At others, harsh and unforgiving.

“I have decided. As a goddess, you should be free to spend your time with who you wish without fear.”

Should you bend down on the floor and thank him for being such a fair and pious ruler? Your lips quirk into a smile, unable to contain it. Fighting Ivar in this state-- where his mind was degenerating… it would get you nowhere.

“So you approve of him becoming my lover?” You ask.

“I never said that.” Ivar sibilates when a white-hot prick of anger sears through his bones. “Only that I’m giving you an opportunity to choose.”

Your jaw relaxes, bending with your great beast on your arm. You lean to the shaved side of his head, planting a small kiss upon the scar that follows his cheekbone down. His cheeks almost could have reddened.

“Thank you, Ivar.”

He hates to admit it, but a gale of glee fills his stomach when you speak to him like that. Your voice is sweeter than his cups of mead. He feels as if he’s done something right when he notices the sharp eyes of the falcon on your other arm, his wings lifting as if he’s gotten too close.

“Where did you get that beast anyway?” He grumbles.

“Oh, the falcon?” You ask. “Rorik brought it to me from somewhere past Jorvik. Isn’t he cute?”

“He is anything but cute.” Ivar looks up and down the beast on your arm. “Babies are cute.”

“I heard Freydis is with child,” You gleam and know full heartedly that well, any child from their union was likely not Ivar’s in blood. You realize moments later, that it did not matter. The child was his in the soul. Freydis was right… this, this was good for him.

“I’m going to be a father.” His lips prick up, shifting the short hair of his mustache up along with it. “Do you want to be a mother, (Y/N)?”

Your heart drops, weak as you consider his suggestion. You shake your head at the absurdity of the statement and then look down to your skirts. Your face is practiced in emotion, eyes almost empty when Ivar shifts to look at you. No one expected a family of a cripple, of someone that could barely walk. How were you to chase a child? To care for a child? The thralls you would need!

“I don’t think so. I am a cripple.” You say after a moment in which your heart beats painful and deep. You relax your shoulders when Ivar leans up, coursing his hand along your thigh to your hips.

“So am I.” He leans in. His hand shifts up to the sky. “And Frigg has given me a child.”  

“It is easy for you, Ivar. You are a man.” You then groan, a tremulous sound from your lips. “I can’t imagine the strain in carrying a child. I have heard of bleeding, malformations and small children in women like me as little as they may be. Even sex makes me...”

“Whitehair hasn’t fucked you?” Ivar asks.

“Of course not!” You shout. Dyr, or so you decided to name him, flared his wings. You hush him back down. “I’m sorry. I-- Can I tell you something, Ivar?”

“Yes.” Ivar hands you a chunk of meat for your beast. He pecks determinedly at his dinner. You take a wary breath as you decide to put it out there and far more than that, trust Ivar again. Your bird takes the meat with keen interest.

“I want to be a grown woman. Not just because I am married. But everyone will see me for only my legs. Like you.”  

“I don’t see you as--”

“If I had been born like a normal woman.” You say sharp, but diaphanous in tone. Ivar feels the words before you actually finish them. “Would I have been your queen?”

There is no witty comeback from his lips this time. He turns to stare at you as if you’ve slapped him across the face instead of the other way around. You could have been, you think, and for a moment, you take in a long breath.

“No that-- that is…” Ivar stumbles.

“Ridiculous.” You say. The words scrape off your tongue, disdainful in an answer. Ivar has no other desire but to stop his slip up. Dyr swallows his dinner much like Ivar swallows his words. The gulf of emptiness in his stomach spreading. “Sigrunn!”

“Yes?” She turns the corner, clutching dark leather veils that are curtains. Her hands in front of her lap.

“Take Dyr. I am going home.”

As much as Ivar wants to ask you why you are like this… why you push him out, well, he can’t. He knows your affliction all too well. It’s his own.

It was late at night when Rorik heard the knock upon the door. His men shared the living space of the longhouse they took up in. His men were about the fire, roaring in laughter. He settles them down, roaring shut up! Shut up! As his booze sloshes over his pasty knuckles. As he works the latches, each harder than they should have been-- he hears the banter on the other side of the door.

“Why am I doing this?”

“To show her how deeply you care.”

“Yes and when she shows with child, what then?”

He pops the door open. Therein flesh and blood is Ivar standing arm and arm with his wife. Rorik stands in trousers alone, legs wrapped and stuffed in lazy boots. His tattoos blotch over his shoulder and chest.

“If it isn’t the god Ivar!” He roars, giving a lazy bow at the waist. Ivar’s hand flexes about his crutch, clearly debating if he should kill him now or later. “And Queen Freydis-- she’s far too pretty for you, you know.”

“Rorik.” One of his warriors intervene and cause a banter between the prince and his warband in words that Ivar truthfully cannot follow. They argue shortly in a quick swap of tongues before Rorik huffs forcefully out of his nose and steps aside to let them in.

“What can I help you with?” Rorik asks, forcefully closing the door with a lock. If Ivar was here to burn them too, as he learned Ivar was fond of, he probably wouldn’t do it if he was in here too.

“With her,” Ivar says.

“Her? Who her?” Rorik leads. Given the other day, he’s not sure if the moment in the bar or the wedding is the question. The men about him consider their prince as if they were entitled to know whatever was going on in his life.

“(Y/N).” Ivar starts. His headache was welling up in the front of his head. A furrow of newfound concern creases Rorik’s brow. He comes to sling his arm around Ivar’s shoulder to pull him from Freydis.

“Let us talk in private.” Ivar looks away from Freydis who sits confidently among the men. She motions him forward with a face as flat and hard as she ever wore among foreigners. His patience is visibly unwinding.

“What about (Y/N)?” He shows Ivar to his backroom, gripping the waistline of his pants once they got in. Ivar shifts around, head bobbing as he looks to the dark wooden walls, a spiraling shield up on the walls. A half wobbly smile takes his face. “Have you done something to her?”

“Have I done something to her?” Ivar’s gaze goes hard, voice grating at Rorik’s assertion. “If I were to do anything it would be to you.”

“Then get on with it.” Rorik flicks his hands into the air. He could have-- Ivar thinks. The man is drunk and incredulous. With his queen in the other room though, he would do nothing. To Rorik’s obvious amazement, Ivar holds up his gloved fingers.

“Shut up.” Ivar orders, soothing over any bite to his voice. “As little as I like you, I like seeing her upset less.”

Rorik snorts as he takes a few lazy paces around the room. The longer he stayed, the itchier his skin became. He scratches the long runic marks of his arms when finally Ivar finally admits why he is here.

“Have sex with her.” He says.It aches him to say, but he knows Rorik is the only one to see you than more than your disability. Perhaps, more than him. “She wants to be made a woman.”

Rorik’s brow lifts. He wants to laugh, but he can’t, he can only run his hand up through his loosened braids.

“Ahhh. King Ivar.” He says, acrid amusement festering in his gut. “I know you think you control her. I know you do! But you are late. She has asked me herself.”

“What?” No answers come to him though-- Rorik’s cocky smile simpers the waters of his tolerance into a full-blown boil. The foreigner comes up, patting Ivar’s shoulder.

“She wants me to deflower her,” Rorik says in a would-be-good-natured tone. “But I appreciate your approval, keeper of the keys. Truly. I’ve never heard anything better. I’ll keep it in my heart. Now is that all?”

Ivar’s hand flexes at his belt. His patience blown-- and the last semblance of a relationship torn.

“Yes.” He sneers, incredulously. “That is all.”

Perhaps Freydis was right. You needed someone. But there is no way that this man deserved you.

Rorik had sex with many women. But… not a cripple. He tried not to think of you in that way; crippled. His men consider it a fetish because why, in their eyes, would he want a cripple if he could want an able-bodied woman? Even Ivar did, making that heated request in the deep of night.

They didn’t understand.

“You won’t like them.”

“I’m certain I will.” He almost fights your hands upon your skirts, wet kisses moistening your neck as he ground himself against your shy body. Your knees knock together, too shy to let him see your pretty pussy behind your skirts. His other hand grabs all that you offer, squeezing your nipples between his thumb and index finger to tug gently.

“But what if you don’t?” You breathe out in a hushed gasp. “What if they are so disgusting that you run from them? Women are supposed to have gorgeous legs.”

“Shhhh…”

He knows why you’re so anxious. King Ivar, as he was told, told you that you had ‘mangled legs’ as you later recounted to him. It took work to dispel those fears and still you fought him. Even with Ivar’s so-called approval, men watched him wherever he went. They look for a foul up. A reason to kill him in justification so that you would not hate the king. His pride must be wounded because now, more eyes than ever, he feels the hate.

“You will,” Rorik says, growing hard in his heated desire against your side. The prince shifts over your body. “Just let me see them.”

You tug your blue skirts over your legs, squeezing your eyes and shifting your face away. It lets him take your body in. His piercing eyes glance over your twisted legs up to your hips. Rorik slides down between your legs, shifting one over each shoulder.

“Oh!” You squeak adorably.

“See! Look at you and that glorious--” Rorik spreads your lips apart, gazing at your well-kept pussy.

“Rorik, stop.” You say. He leans in, swirling his tongue against your inner lips. He pulls his head back once again, sweeping his tongue against your puffy wet pussy in smooth licks. Your head drops back, adjusting to this strange new feeling. Slowly you roll your hips down upon his tongue, gasping when Rorik gave a playful suckle against your outer folds.

“Why?” His laugh almost vibrates hot breath against your pussy. “I can’t wait to get my dick in that pretty pussy.”

Rorik moves on when you don’t respond, suckling playfully. The pads of his fingers playfully slap your wet pussy, delighting in the knowledge that you’re moist and wet for him. His tongue shifts down, flicking his tongue in the tight little hole.

“Mm, do you touch yourself, hm?” Rorik hums, nudging his nose against your folds. His beard tickles against your wetness, a soft but prickling feeling against your body. He goes to work, lapping and licking at your sweet pussy with loud slurping noises.

“No-- No.”

“You should. I can see it in my mind already.”

“Do you have to talk so much?” You weave his hair between your fingers, shoving him forward into your cunt when there’s a long, loud thwack, thwack, thwack at the door. You shift with your forearms, legs slipping off Rorik’s shoulders.

“Ignore it.” He says, turning his head to huff against your thighs.

“I have to get it. It could be Ivar.” You say and push past him. Rorik lets loose a long draw of annoyance. You slide down onto the ground, using your forearms and palms carry you over to the door, ignoring the hot pulse of your pussy engorged with the need for your orgasm that you denied yourself.

“It’s always fucking Ivar,” Rorik growls, low under his breath. You throw a look back at him that leaves the prince exasperated upon the bed.

“Be patient.”

“Patient!? Děva… I was that close!” Rorik drops back, flopping on the bed while you reach-- unfortunately with difficulty toward the door. The locks of the door are too high up when you’re out of your braces. Unfortunately, the blacksmith yet still had them.

“Rorik, please. Sigrunn needs her rest.” You call out to him, pointing toward the door. He flips his hand midway in the air, dramatically dropping on his chest.

“I’m coming.” He pushes himself off the bed, jamming his hand into his pants to adjust his cock comfortably. He grasps his uncle’s sword from the wall and sways over to the door, jerking it open. You drag yourself out of the way to avoid getting smacked.

The first thing he says, of course, is said with a sigh.

“Queen Freydis.”

Checkmate.

@igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok, @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @cbouvier23, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @end-of-night, @gruffle1, @lol-haha-joke @arses21434,  @smileyparrots, @Moosemittens13, @miss-artemis-wild, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @wonderwoman292, @wish-i-was-a-mermaid, @fangirls94, @mcuimxgine, @killerb00sdeath, @heartbeats-wildly, @boo20017, @acacheofstrange, @shaelyn102, @astoryoffireandlight, @smokealone, @shaelyn102 @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly--canthrope, @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @oneofthelothbroks

[softbiker]

A Familiar Place - Part 1

A recovery story - this series follows some events in the first year of Bucky’s life back stateside, and his small adventures while learning to come home to himself. This is not an “x Reader” or romance story.

Warnings: some language, probably sloppy editing

A/N: I’m posting the first part of this story to celebrate hitting 100 followers this weekend! Thank you so much everyone! I’m having a blast with this writing blog. This story probably won’t be updated as fast as Born to Run since I don’t have it all written out yet, but I still wanted to post it. Tagging @bitsandbobsandstuff since she answered my question about Steve’s coffee order :) As always, let me know what you think and if you like it!

There’s a stack of books next to his bed that need to go back to the library. Probably overdue, he thinks, and he hasn’t read a single page. He feels a little guilty for it as he stares at their spines, blinking slow and sleepy.

A knock at the door.

“Hey man, you ready?” Sam pokes his head in, eyebrows up and expectant.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky nods. Finishes lacing his sneakers. Grabs a baseball cap from the doorknob on his way.

Steve is waiting by the front door, rolling his shoulders underneath a (frankly ridiculous) tight blue shirt. The corner of his mouth quirks up when he turns.

“Mornin’, Buck.”

“Morning.”

“He’s so damn chipper in the mornings,” Sam grins, slapping Bucky’s shoulder. “I feel perky just standing next to you, Tin Man.”

Bucky narrows his eyes but says nothing, just watches Steve shake his head like a fond mother. He knew by now that their animosity was mostly a pretense.

“Ready to go?” the Captain asks, rubbing his hands together, eager and alert despite the bags under his own eyes. Bucky suspects that Steve stays up to see if he needs him, listening for the sounds of his nightmares. He feels a little guilty for that, too.

They do a quick warm up outside, some leg swings and lunges and jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. It’s mostly for Sam - Bucky doesn’t know if it’s possible for him or Steve to pull a muscle, but it definitely won’t be on their morning runs. But they do the routine together anyways, the three of them, their breaths puffing in the spring morning air.

It’s only a couple of miles from their place to Prospect Park, and Bucky and Steve jog at a reasonable pace for Sam’s sake. The conversation is easy between them now - Sam’s date last week with the nurse from the medical wing, Steve’s painting class, Bucky’s therapy sessions. He’s noncommittal on any specifics, but he admits that he thinks they help. And that’s enough - Sam and Steve don’t press him, happy to have him out and moving and living under a sunrise. They take a few laps through the curving paths of the park, nodding to other early morning runners.

About 6 miles in, Bucky yawns.

“Are we gonna actually run today, Rogers, or are we letting the flightless bird set the pace?”

Steve cocks an eyebrow and glances to his left at Sam, the only member of their trio with a collection of sweat on his chest and under his arms and little beads of it running down his face.

“If you think you can keep up, jerk.”

Sam is left behind somewhere around the lake, yelling something about not being afraid to “beat senior citizen ass.”

Here’s the thing about being a super soldier: it doesn’t feel that crazy most of the time. Bucky knows he’s not straining when he moves an entire rack of weights in the gym, or lifts the back end of a car to help put a jack under it. Tony rented out batting cages for the team one time, and he broke the bat on the first swing, simultaneously popping the stitches on the ball. He plays this little game sometimes where he tries to balance as much weight as he can on his index finger - he’s managed 40 pounds so far on his human hand.

But none of that feels special when he does it. Being strong is just a fact about him. It doesn’t make him feel superhuman. “Enhanced”.

Running, though.

When he and Steve go for runs, legs stretching forward and pavement barely felt as it flows beneath their feet, the world feels different. Slower. They dart around the joggers and strollers in their path, and Bucky watches them slip behind him in slow motion. They propel their bodies like bullets, their cadence the rapidfire staccato of a machine gun. The trees ebb and grow in cresting waves of green as the soldiers fly past.

Flying, Bucky thinks. That’s how he feels now.

Steve is a half beat ahead of him, and his head turns in profile, eyes cutting to find Bucky’s. The corner of his lip twitches.

“Tired yet?”

“Not on your life, punk.”

Steve laughs as he nearly doubles their pace, legs a blur to the eyes of everyone they pass. Bucky follows, gripping the bill of his cap as it threatens to fly up at their speed. He shifts it around backwards, the way he sees Sam wear his sometimes. They turn up the periphery of the park to the northeast, chasing the half-risen sun, now above the buildings and trees around them. Bucky can see the shape of the public library as they pass by, the bronze gate gleaming in the morning light. Some of his old gear, Army stuff and boxing gloves and pictures of him and Steve sitting on the hood of a jeep in France, had been on display with their historical collection when he got here - got home - a few months ago. Sam showed him when they went there; Bucky had leaned close, tried to recognize that kid under the glass.

The supersoldiers put in about 20 miles before they decide to find Sam, now that they’ve finally broken a sweat. Cutting across the grass, they slow their pace to human level and look for their friend. Sam is still by the lake, stretching in the grass while laughing with a girl with a long braided ponytail and crazy tight workout clothes. Bucky and Steve share a look as they jog across the lawn, but act polite when the starstruck girl realizes who Sam’s running buddies are.

After taking a couple selfies with them, the girl jogs off to get ready for work, ponytail swinging behind her. Steve raises an eyebrow in Sam’s direction.

“So, what about that nurse?”

Sam gives him the finger.

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

“Look man, all I’m saying is, you could give it a shot,” Sam shrugs, sipping from his to-go cappuccino. “I mean, who knows, there’s probably plenty of ladies out there who are into this whole thing.” He waves the coffee cup to gesture to Bucky’s entire body.

Bucky frowns. “I have a thing?”

“Sure, you know the brooding, emotionally tortured, dark past kinda thing.” Sam slaps his shoulder. “Lean into it, chicks dig that.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his own drink as he glares at Sam. Steve hides his smile behind his complete monstrosity of a drink. A limited edition something, the clear cup holds 20 ounces of frozen tie-dye, swirling in red, blue, and yellow, and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. Steve Rogers, ever the little shit, had ordered this drink with a straight face, and now slurps loudly on his straw, while taking breaks to run his finger through the whipped cream. Bucky can see the name “Cap” scrawled in neat sharpie on the side of the cup, with a star drawn next to it.

“I’m not interested, okay,” Bucky shrugs, dodging a piece of gum on the sidewalk. They had gotten coffee on their walk back to the brownstone, and were discussing a topic that now made Bucky’s skin crawl with discomfort - women.

“Hey, you don’t have to be looking for a wife,” Sam goes on. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to download an app or two. Tinder. Bumble. Something.”

“Aw, lay off him, Sam,” Steve finally speaks up, shaking his head. “Bucky’s not ready. Maybe he’ll feel like it when he’s back to his old lady killer self.”

Bucky cringes at the phrase, at the half-formed memories it conjures. A swaggering Brooklyn kid who spent far too much time combing his hair and winking at pretty girls. He remembers tucking flowers into the lapel of his suit jacket, spending hours shining his shoes, just to spend a night dancing with some pretty girl he’d never see again. He could barely bring himself to talk to strangers anymore, let alone ask one on a date.

“Shut up, Rogers,” he mumbles into his coffee. “That Bucky is dead and buried.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Steve’s face has that stricken grimace he pulls whenever Bucky says something dark and self-deprecating. He wishes he could say those things without making Steve feel guilty, cause now he feels guilty…

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Buck…”

“I know, I know,” Bucky waves him off. “Just quit tryin’ to set me up, both of you. Let an old man rest, will you? Jeez…”

His little joke is enough to put Steve and Sam at ease again, and the conversation turns to Steve’s equally lackluster love life until they reach their place and shuffle up the front steps. Ivy creeps and climbs up the walls for this entire block of buildings, and Bucky wonders if someone planted it there. He likes the lush green of it, especially in the morning.

The 3 of them part ways to hit the showers. In his room again, Bucky’s eye is drawn back to his sad little pile of books.

Sam is smart. An asshole, yes, but smart. Which is why his book choices tend to include biographies, history, political topics - the stack on the nightstand includes only one novel, a recent bestseller about a retired veteran adopting a dog. Bucky remembers reading, being a reader - he remembers bringing home books from school or trading them at the bookstore or receiving them as gifts from Steve. But not those kinds of books. Nothing boring. Nothing to remind him of the uncertain, hard world he lived in.

He stares at the spines of Sam’s books for a few more moments, then hurries through the shower, his mind made up.

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

“Um, excuse me,” he clears his throat at the front desk. “I need to return these, but, uh. I think - well, they’re overdue.”

Bucky tries a smile at the clerk, a middle-aged woman with a short-cropped haircut, but he can feel how unnatural it looks on his face. The clerk raises an eyebrow at him - he realizes he should have waited a bit before coming here; the tips of his hair are still wet, tiny wet spots coloring the shoulders on his hoodie.

“Well, let’s scan them and see,” she sighs, pulling his books across the desk. Bucky shifts, his hands curling and uncurling in his front pockets. The old Bucky could probably charm his way out of the fine, but this one? Not a chance in hell, Barnes. The librarian grabs the first book and scans the barcode taped to the plastic jacket.

His books are 13 days overdue - costing him a grand total of $5.20. He thinks of Steve’s now expensive coffee habit as he hands over the bill and change. There goes one of his frozen sugar nightmares.

With his fine taken care of, Bucky wanders his way through the fiction section, his eyes passing over names and titles without catching on anything. Sam’s books weren’t his taste. But he doesn’t even remember his own taste. Gloved fingers drift over the shelves, tapping on the wood.

“Can I help you find something?”

Bucky is embarrassed to be so startled - his head jerks around to see the old man standing there, a warm smile on his face. His shoulders are stooped a little, hands clasped behind his back as he tilts his head up to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“No...well, I don’t know,” Bucky huffs. “I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

“Oh, I see,” the man nods. The crooked name tag on his striped shirt reads ‘Marvin’. “Would you like some recommendations, then?”

Bucky hesitates, quirking the corner of his mouth down.

“I guess so,” he nods. “I like...fiction. But I haven’t really read anything in a long time.”

Marvin nods quietly, pursing his lips. His eyes pass over the shelves behind his coke bottle glasses, tapping a finger to his chin.

“Follow me,” he shuffles down the aisle, waving a hand behind him. Bucky obeys, turning the corner onto the next set of author’s names. Marvin’s mouth moves silently as he walks along, searching and searching.

“Aha! Here we go.” He reaches up to a shelf at eye level, taking a book and showing Bucky the front cover. “This has been a classic since it was published, really. And the author wrote a trilogy that followed. It’s fantasy, maybe that’s your thing?”

“I...I’m trying new things,” Bucky decides, clearing his throat as he takes the book, admiring the pastoral scene on the cover. “Um, you said he wrote other books?”

Marvin smiles and turns back to the shelf, reaching for the adjacent books.

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

Bucky’s backpack makes a ‘thunk’ sound as he drops it next to his bed, closing the door with his foot. He had loaned all four books that Marvin suggested, eager as he read their inside covers. Maybe he and Steve and Sam could watch the movie adaptations sometime, on one of their pizza nights. He had always opted out of choosing a movie, so overwhelmed by the options and apathetic to Sam’s DVD library. But maybe he would suggest it to Steve next time. Steve would like that.

He toes off his sneakers, shuffling back and messing up the comforter on his perfectly made bed. When he first moved in, he thought the room was furnished with way too many pillows - who needs more than one pillow? Now he fluffs the three behind his back and props himself up against the headboard, leaning over to slip the first book out of his backpack. He settles back on his bed, folds back the cover to the first chapter.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

Tags

@vacant-writings

[allisondraste]

Temperance (14/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:    Puberty woes and expressions of familial bonds.  Isn’t that what it’s like for everyone at fourteen? 

Note:  Since this is a puberty chapter, there are some slightly more mature themes than I've had in previous chapters. Nothing explicit by any means, and nothing I thought would warrant a rating change. But in case any of my readers are sensitive to such things there are light mentions of physical changes and menstruation.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK]

Highever, 9:19 Dragon

Nathaniel wasn’t going to survive the summer, at least not if his body had anything to say about it. Traitorous skin and bones, muscles and nerves, everything tense and aching in tandem at the slightest hint of stimulation. His senses did not seem to discriminate either: women, men, statues of anyone including Andraste, unusually shaped plants, and sometimes, on the days where the Maker really wanted to punish him, a slight breeze.  Being at Highever, around Liss in particular, made everything worse.  

More days than not, it felt like his skin was on inside out, sensitive to every small movement and touch.  Sometimes her presence across the room was enough to knock the wind out of him. Other times, she didn’t even need to be physically present at all.  Just the thought of her drove him crazy. It did not help the matter that she had changed since the last summer he had spent with her.  She had grown taller, and the soft lines of her body had become curves -- not that he had looked.  In fact, he tried desperately not to look at her.

It was something Liss made incredibly difficult.  For as long as he had known her, she had always been outgoing and affectionate.  She made herself seen and heard no matter where she was. At present, she was in the gardens, sun bouncing off her hair as she sat on the stone steps with Rila, talking and laughing, arms waving about erratically.  The two must have made up since what happened the previous summer. She probably was still not supposed to be with servant girl. It would take more than her parents’ warnings to stop Liss from doing as she pleased.

Nathaniel was so engrossed in watching the girls talk that he barely noticed Fergus waving a hand in front of his face and speaking to him.  “Hellooooooo? Are you even listening to me?” The other boy moved from waving to grabbing his shoulder and shaking him.

“I’m listening,” he lied as jerked away and directed his attention to Fergus again.  After all, they’d been speaking before he’d gotten -- well --distracted.

Fergus eyed him skeptically, eyebrows raised, grin spreading across his face.  “Really? Because it looked like you were staring at my sister.”

“I heard every word you said.” Nathaniel ignored the obvious attempt to tease him. “You met the daughter of some wealthy Antivan merchant the last time you were in Denerim and spent a day together. Her name is Oriana, she is the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, and now you think you’re in love.”

“No, Nate,” he said cheerfully, patting Nathaniel on the back roughly, “I know I’m in love."

“How can you be in love with someone you just spent one day with?”

“It was a glorious day,” Fergus said, winking and wiggling his brows and Nathaniel rolled his eyes.  A wistful expression crossed Fergus’ face as he continued, “Besides, we’ve been exchanging letters ever since.”

“You’re actually serious.”  Nathaniel was genuinely surprised.  The other boy had spoken to him about  girls more times than he could count. Sometimes, he wondered if there was much else on Fergus’ mind beside which Bann’s daughter he could woo at the next festival -- something he was actually good at.  He had an easy charisma that Nathaniel envied on most days. Talking to people, being likable in general, was not something that came naturally to him.  

“Of course I am,” Fergus blurted, sounding more offended than he was, “ What do you take me for?”

“Not serious. About anything… Ever.” He offered Fergus a smirk. “Especially not about girls.”

“I’m a changed man,” Fergus said, lifting his chin and puffing out his chest.

“Right.” Nathaniel couldn’t help but laugh at him. Even at his most earnest, Fergus was hard to take seriously. “I feel sorry for Lady Oriana.”

“Between you and Liss, I swear,” Fergus said, shoving him playfully, “Brats the both of you.”

Several silent moments lapsed between the two boys.  Nathaniel could tell Fergus had something he wanted to say, and was thinking over just how to say it.  It was not typical for him, so it had to be serious, or at least something he perceived to be.

“I know I give you a hard way to go.” He laughed, though a serious expression followed, “But I’m glad to know you, Nate.  I know things are bad for you at home sometimes — not that it’s any of my business — but you’re as good as a brother to me, and I’ll always have your back.”

“I…” Embarrassed, Nathaniel turned his gaze downward to look at the stone beneath his feet.  “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know.” Fergus shrugged. “Just thought you might need to hear it.”

Nathaniel didn’t know what to say, though he searched and searched from something equally sentimental.  He settled for a simple, “Thank you. Same to you.”

It was almost too polite, and he knew it, but Fergus appeared to be satisfied with his response, slapping him on the back again before announcing that he’d be going to the kennels again, to check the latest litter. It had been years, and he had still not managed to have one of the hounds imprint on him. Odd, considering his demeanor made him an ideal match for a mabari.  And yet it didn’t dampen Fergus’ spirit. Nothing seemed to.

Returning his attention to the garden, Nathaniel noticed that the girls were gone.  He hadn’t realized how much time had passed in his conversation with the other boy, but figured that Rila had to return to her chores, leaving Liss to attend lessons or combat training. Unless, of course, she’s gotten in trouble, then, there was no telling where she may be hiding.

He set out to look for her.  As uncomfortable as it was to feel the way he felt about her, that didn’t change the fact that she was his friend and he enjoyed her company.  He would suffer physical agony if he had to, but he wouldn’t waste his summer avoiding her -- especially since he’d hardly spent time with her at all the year prior. Father made sure of it.

He searched for her in all the usual places, but Liss was nowhere to be found. Neither Aldous nor any of the trainers had seen her.  The former made some remark about the “insufferable girl,” and Nathaniel bit his tongue, thanked him and headed back out down the hall. There was no point in debating with the stubborn old man.  The only reason he didn’t like Liss was because she was smarter than him and he knew it.

Resigning himself to the fact that she would turn up eventually, Nathaniel headed toward his room to grab his archery gear.  Over the past few years he’d built up a small collection of archers’ gloves and thumb rings, as well as tools for making arrows in the field. Not that he’d ever actually been in the field with a shortage of arrows.  He still thought it would be a good skill to have.  Just like picking locks, although he kept the fact that he had taught himself to do that a secret.  He didn’t know what would happen to him if he were accused of stealing something, and he didn’t care to.

Pushing open the door, he was immediately met with a shrill, but muffled shout. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

The sound had come the girl lying face-down on his bed, face buried in the pillow beneath a mass of blonde curls.  Entering the room and closing the door behind him, Nathaniel stood some distance away, perplexed by the whole situation.

“Liss,” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to upset her further.  

“What don’t you understand about ‘Go away’?” Her question was pointed, sinking into him as well as any knife could have.  He tried not to let it get to him, though. She was mad at something, but it couldn’t be him. He hadn’t even talked to her yet… unless that was the problem.

“I understand it just fine, but—.”

“But what? ” Another knife, right to the chest.

“This is my room,” he said as calmly and patiently as he could, despite his hurt feelings.

Liss’ head shot up and she scowled as she eyed the room critically, taking in each piece of furniture as if it wasn’t immediately obvious that this wasn’t her room. There were not nearly enough books, flowers, or candles.

“Oh,” she said, letting her head fall back down to the pillow muffling her voice once more, “Sorry.” She lay motionless, clearly with no intention of leaving.

“Is...everything all right?” Feeling as if he could move more freely, he began to mill about, gathering his things.

Liss didn’t answer with words, but rather growled an emphatic “ugh,” picking up another pillow and placing it over her head.  It reminded him of how Delilah had been behaving the past few months. Adria had explained it to him, how girls’ bodies change when they start to become women.  It all sounded frightening and unpleasant, and it made him grateful for all of the strange things his body did. Annoying as they were, it was not that.

“Your instructors are looking for you.”

“Well, they can keep looking. I’m not going,” she huffed, but immediately softened, turning her head to the side so her big brown eyes met his.  They were glistening with tears. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Delilah has days like this too,” he said, continuing to busy himself with his things even though he already had what he needed.  He didn’t want to annoy her with unnecessary eye contact. “We’ve never really talked about it, but she does.”

“Oh?” She seemed to perk up and rolled so that she was on her side completely.  She picked at a loose thread on his coverlet. “Does she skip lessons? Probably not.  Delilah’s perfect.”

Nathaniel laughed; his sister was far from perfect.  “Sometimes she does,” he answered instead of speaking badly about her, “She stays in her room and likes to drink tea and take hot baths.  I guess it helps.” He shrugged.

“Mama says it means I’m a woman now,” she sighed, “I’d rather not be a woman, I think.” Laughing, she sat up and slid off of his bed, facing him and wringing her hands nervously in front of her. “Sorry I came into your bedroom without asking.  I’m so used to using it to hide when you’re not here.”

“It’s okay.  I’m not mad about it or anything.”  He nodded and picked up his bow and quiver, which he hung over his shoulder. “I was just worried something was wrong.”

“Oh no,” Liss blurted, and he jumped slightly. She was twisted around looking at her skirt.

“What’s wrong?” He dropped his things and rushed over to her.

“Nothing,” she said, throwing her hands behind her and backing up against the wall. She laughed, but he could tell she was upset.

He was torn between wanting to make sure she was okay and not wanting her to bite his head off, but he thought it worth the risk to ask, “You sure?”

Her eyes darted from side to side and settled on looking at the ground before her.  She sighed heavily, stiffened, and looked back up at him with a threatening expression. “Promise you won’t tell.”

“Promise.”

Liss turned slightly and  tugged at her skirt, revealing a small, yet noticeable stain that looked like blood.  At first he panicked, internally, about why she might be bleeding, but then realized what it was and settled down.

“Oh,” he said, blinking, unsure how else to respond.  

“Just ‘oh’? You’re not going to laugh, or tell me it’s gross?”

“It’s not funny,” he assured her, stepping closer and smiling, “Or gross. Actually, it looks to me like you just sat in something.”

“Nate,” she hummed affectionately and returned his smile, though she still looked upset. “I think it’s pretty obvious what it is. Ugh!  And I have to walk all the way to my room like this.” More tears though he could see her visibly fighting them. “Sorry, I just… keep crying. ”

Nathaniel stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, not really sure on the appropriate way to respond.  The entire situation was far outside his comfort zone, but he didn’t want to embarrass Liss by telling her so. She trusted him and he wanted to help.

“I have an idea,” he announced, closing the distance between them and examining the waist of her skirt more carefully. “Can you, I don’t know,  twist it around a bit?”

Her face brightened as she seemed to understand what he meant and pulled at the waist of her skirt until the stain was at her side instead of behind her. She examined the spot and frowned.  “It’s still very obvious, don’t you think?”

He grinned and offered his arm to her, playfully.  “Not if I walk by your side, my lady.”

The ensuing giggle that escaped her was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.  He wasn’t sure he’d ever made her laugh like that, at least not directly. She hooked her arm through his eagerly, and his chest swelled, but he did his best to stay calm.  

After all, this was no different than any other time they’d touched or hugged or walked arm-in-arm.  When they reached her room, the kiss she placed on her cheek to thank him was no different than any other time she had kissed his cheek.  Only it was different. Completely. Now, he noticed how her arm felt in his, the way her hair smelled, and how soft her lips were. It was misery and it wasn’t at the same time.  

Returning to his room, he grabbed his things as he intended before and headed to the archery range.  He welcomed the distraction even more than he had been before. If he couldn’t get past his feelings for Liss, he’d just ignore them, bury them in the hay target he filled with newly made arrows.  That should do the trick. It had worked for other feelings he wanted to not have well enough.

“Nathaniel,” a gentle voice called from the steps leading down to where he stood.  He turned to see the teyrna waving at him, the smile on his face as gentle as her voice. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

He nodded, knots twisting in his stomach at the thought of what could make Lady Eleanor seek him out.  He hoped he wasn’t in trouble.  

“Come! Walk with me,” she said, motioning with her arm, and he obeyed,  following her up the steps towards the battlements. The last time he’d walked the battlements had been when he’d received the news of his mother’s death. He hoped this time would be more pleasant.  “I just spoke with Elissa. She told me what you did for her.”

“What I did?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, that. ”

A grin spread across the teyrna’s face that made him nervous. It was too wise, too knowing.  It made him feel as if all his secrets were bared before her.

“I can’t say I would have expected a boy your age to act with that amount of grace and sensitivity.” She chuckled. “Fergus is older than you, and I know he certainly wouldn’t have.  I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” he answered, bowing his head to show respect.

The teyrna offered him another smile, this time with a sadness to it.  He got that smile from adults many times. It usually preceded an apology about his mother or followed discussion of something less-than-noble his father had done.  He hated that kind of smile.

“Your father is a respectable man, and a loyal ally to our family,” she began, looking out over the battlements, “But, for as long as I’ve known him, he’s been cold, harsh, and temperamental.  When Bryce told me off his wish to take you in for the summer, I quite expected you to be the same. You look so much like him.”

It wasn’t the first time Nathaniel heard that, but it still stung.  He wished he looked more like his siblings, with their soft features and pretty noses.

“But you’re nothing like your father,” she continued, “It seems like no matter what life throws at you, you remain thoughtful, gentle.  You have your mother’s heart. I know she would be so proud of you.”

“I…” His throat burned as he choked back the tears he refused to let fall. “Thank you.”

Lady Eleanor stopped, turned, and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.  “You care for my daughter a great deal, don’t you?”

Nathaniel’s face grew hot as he steeled himself, trying as best he could to conceal the embarrassment. “She is my friend, my lady, my best friend.”

“I am glad she has you,” she said with another knowing smile. He wished she would stop.  “I’m glad we all do. You’re a fine young man, and as far as I am concerned, you’re part of the family.”

Unable to conjure up words to appropriately express his gratitude, and with some amount of concern that he might cry in front of the dignified woman, he nodded and bowed his head again in response.  

“That’s all I wanted to say,” the teyrna said, patting him gently on the shoulder, “I’ll let you get back to your archery.  Who knows, maybe someday, you’ll be as good a marksman as me.” She raised her eyebrows playfully and disappeared down the steps.

Nathaniel lingered atop the battlements for a few moments longer, appreciating the cool breeze, and processing all that had just happened.  Just as Fergus’ words earlier that day, the things Lady Eleanor said to him meant more to him than he could put into words. For years, he had envied the Cousland family for their wholeness, when his own family was tattered and torn to pieces.  Yet, somehow, without even knowing it he had become part of it, something for which he would be forever grateful. Inhaling deeply, he headed down the steps and back to his target, an immovable smile on his face.

[timothytodd]

I’ll try not to delete this again

SO ITS COMING OUT DAY BITCHES

I always have a habit of panicking and deleting any posts about my sexuality and identity because they feel too personal and I’m never good with any of that BUT IM TRYING SO HERE WE GO

I’ve always struggled with sexuality and still am to this day at 22 years old and all I’ve figured out is I lie somewhere on the ace spectrum

I do have attraction on the rare occasion that’s why I say it’s confusing as hell.

I’m engaged to a woman but have been attracted to men (my first serious relationship was with another man and most of my celebrity crushes are men S O)

I struggled gender identity as early as I can remember and remember having a major crush on a female TA when I was younger and I began to learn (hearing it from adults and kids) the word ‘gay’ but it didn’t feel like that. I didn’t feel like I was ‘gay’ for liking women or, I guess girls since I was a kid myself. Shit got confusing for little young me who didn’t know “transgender” was a thing and couldn’t understand why everyone thought I was “gay” or something for saying I had crushes on girls. (What I thought we’re crushes anyway but I’ll get into that later)

So I’m now in the fourth grade, effectively being a loner because I’m done with humanity already at the age of like ... 9-10

A new student transfers in a couple months into the year and I was like “holyshitbeautifulhuman-“ well maybe not in those words but this human was gorgeous

He was a boy and here’s where everything got confusing again because the word “gay” came to the front of my mind but I pushed that word away because I started associating it with negativity. This meant I was straight right? I liked a boy as a “girl” so that equals straight

I was so very wrong. But I ended up failing that year (my teacher was a complete bitch and for some reason had something personal against me so yeah) boy crush moved up a grade ahead of me while I had to repeat that year. I made friends with another outcast who didn’t really have friends and I ended up confiding in him that I’ve had this crush for a long time (to me a year was a long time as a kid so 🤷‍♂️)

SO MY FRIEND GOES AND BACKSTABS ME AND TELLS EVERYONE INCLUDING MY CRUSH but I guess I should have figure he would do that since I was told later that .. let’s call my friend “S”, I was told S had a crush on me. Y I k e s

Anywho now basically the whole school knows who I have a crush on and it just feels like I’ve been outed and I basically hide the rest of the year and avoid socializing even more than I did before.

SO TIME JUMP HERE TO GRADE 6-7

I started getting even more confused because puberty now became a thing and my body was not doing what I had anticipated it doing. I had a lot of confusion and anger and anxiety at this time and I was sort of in a hyper feminine phase and people seemed to kinda like this person who wore makeup and carefully picked outfits every day. It wasn’t me and I think I knew deep down because I sTILL was online presenting as a male. It didn’t feel like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t when I was online and presenting with a male name and my dead name felt like the lie and mask I was wearing.

I stumbled across a YouTube channel where a trans man was tracking his transition and talking about his story and it felt like everything had clicked. There was people who felt exactly like me ... I had found myself. I came back to school the next year with a new name, hair cut, wardrobe and identity.

Now that I had figured out myself, I struggled deeply with sexuality again when I realized I still couldn’t figure anything out regarding who I was and wasn’t attracted to. I learned the difference between liking a person and being attracted to a person... and I didn’t fit into the attraction category when I couldn’t relate to anyone who would talk about how “hot” someone was. I didn’t get it at all when I couldn’t be physically attracted to someone and in the rare occasion I was, I figured out it wasn’t the same way someone felt when they were physically attracted to someone. I appreciated the way someone looked but never understood much more than that. Asexual wasn’t a term at all I knew when I was younger and felt like something was wrong with me?

There’s not much to say because I was and still am still pretty confused with my sexuality but it’s always discovering myself daily and still not wanting to slap a label on it.

But during all the confusion, I met my best friend and she’s now my wife who takes everything in stride and always tries to help me not get overwhelmed when I’m too lost in my head and questioning everything again.

[certifiedskywalker]

Night of the Roses - Margaery Tyrell

Anonymous said:

Hi! Could I get something fluffy with Margaery/ fem!reader where the reader is someone else's servant and treated horribly and Margaery takes them in and is really nice to them for the first time? Hi friends! I hope you like this one! There is some homophobia in this fic, so if that makes you uncomfortable or triggers you, you might not want to read this. I included it so that it would be more realistic to the Game Of Thrones world, where open sexuality is often frowned upon (not in Dorne though, woot woot for the Red Viper). There is also harsh, abusive language.

WARNINGS: homophobia mention, verbal abuse

King’s Landing was not renowned for its hospitality, but you had known that before your father had sent you off to live within its red walls. The tales of glory and the stories of squalor had reached your ears long before you were forced to call it home. The poor begging and dying in the streets, prostitutes slaughtered in bedchambers, all too common occurrences within the city. While the grime and vile happenings were horrific enough, there was yet another beast in King’s Landing that made your life there all the more terrible.

Cersei Lannister was a proud lioness, something you soon learned as her handmaiden. She refused to ask for help or aid, unless it came in the form of alcohol. A word of kindness never passed her lips unless it was in context to or with her children. Her green eyes would shoot daggers at you as you walked around the Keep, glaring for no good reason. You had been subjected to hearing grotesque rumor regarding yourself, started by the cold-hearted Queen. She was, quite literally, the worst person you had ever met.

Luckily for you, the lady of House Lannister was in an even more dreadful mood. Since House Tyrell had pushed back Stannis’ forces in the Battle of the Blackwater, the youngest members of the Tyrell line were stationed in the Red Keep. This included the lovely rose of the Reach, Margaery. You had heard of her beauty but, even from the great distance you saw her from, nothing could prepare you for seeing her in the flesh. 

Her long, wavy, auburn hair was laid down, framing her face perfectly. Her body was slim, curving beneath her gown, filling it out like a second skin. You had never seen such a beautiful woman in your life. Her ocean blue eyes sparkled in the torch light of the great hall, making you blush when you realized she was staring in your direction.

“Wine,” Cersei called, breaking you from your thoughts of the southern beauty. You quickly reached for the pitcher of Arbor Red and poured it carefully in Cersei’s claice. Her stone gaze fell on you, as if sensing your mind had wandered to sweet thoughts rather than tending to her every need and whim. “You like the Tyrells, don’t you?”

“They are our guests, my Queen,” you said coolly, refusing to hold her gaze. She narrowed her eyes at you, her lips pursed with distaste. “Hold an opinion, you weak little girl,” she sneered, “useless, you are. We are to attend a feast with them this evening. Try not to embarrass yourself, better yet…” Cersei stood quickly, facing you down with pure rage in her eyes, “don’t embarrass me.”

Throughout the rest of the evening, your thoughts were storming with worry. You had never been allowed to attend to Cersei during a feast, let alone one with such notable guests. House Tyrell, next to House Lannister, was an extremely wealthy house. However, the idea of being surrounded by people with that much influence was not what was daunting to you. 

It was the possibility of making a fool of yourself near Margaery that scared you half to death. You knew you would flounder being so near to her grace and aura, the one thing you feared was tripping over yourself further. Already you felt your feelings towards her as somewhat unnatural. You had heard that those that worship The Seven would hunt down people like you; women who loved other women. What if Margaery was the same way?

If you made her uncomfortable, she could have you exiled, or worse, killed. Resting all of that weight on your shoulders was debilitating. Cersei’s words before hand did not aid in alleviating it either. Now, you stood in the great hall, nervously waiting for the Tyrell’s to make their grand appearance. Biting the inside of your cheek as you stood, you tried your best to calm down. 

“Where are they?” Cersei growled, bringing the attention of her children and her father to her. Tommen frowned and looked longingly at the food laid out before him, unallowed to eat until the honored guests arrived. You pitied the poor blond haired boy. It had been nearly an hour now. Tywin, however, glanced at his daughter, giving her a stern look.

It was Cersei’s turn to frown then. You smiled to yourself, feeling a little better with Tywin also attending the feast. While he was harsh, cruel man, he was the only person that scared Cersei enough to silence. Joffrey grinned smugly at the exchanged look as well, but for reason twisted, beyond your own. The new King ran his pale fingers over the rim of his wine glass impatiently.

“Any minute mother, you know the Tyrells pride themselves on their looks. Especially Ser Loras, he cares more for-” Tywin cleared his throat, turning his cold gaze to his grandson. Joffrey, feeling the intimidating glare, silenced himself immediately. You turned around, smirking to yourself as you ready a new pitcher of wine. With your back turned, you could only hear when the door opened and the Tyrells filed swiftly inside.   

The head of the house, Mace, sat across from Tywin; Loras across from Tommen and Myrcella; Margaery across from Joffrey, placing herself neatly next to Cersei. You swallowed hard when your eyes fell upon her. She was wearing a lovely gown of light greens and soft, sky blues that made her skin look like polished porcelain. There was not a piece of lace or fabric out of place on her body, and her hair was equally as done up. 

“Welcome, Lady Tyrell,” Joffrey said, trying to charm her. Margaery, seemingly noting that the politeness was forced, smiled sweetly.

“Thank you, my King. I am dreadfully sorry that we are late. My father received word from my grandmother who demanded a rapid reply. You know how elders can be.” She smiled, then looked to Cersei, “Queen regent.” 

You curled your lips together to stop yourself from laughing at Cersei’s expression. Her jaw was clenched so tight you thought she might shattered her own teeth. Her green eyes burned like wildfire, as they were bright with pure anger. Margaery didn’t give her any attention for a moment longer, as she turned her head. Those soft blue eyes landed on you. 

She noticed your face, the hints of a smile on your lips and grinned at you. Warmth spread across your face as you turned around to hide it. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, pounding against your rib cage. Not only was she stunning, but her wit was as sharp as a freshly forged Valyrian dagger. 

“I do say, it is time for this feast to commence,” Tywin said above the din of friendly, and unfriendly, chatter. Tommen, who had been anxiously waiting to eat, dove into his meal, clearing his place in a mere few minutes. You rushed over and helped him prepare another serving.

“Hungry, my prince?” You said with a kind smile. Tommen grinned, food scattered around his mouth as he nodded. A cute giggle reached your ears from across the table. You looked up and past a few seats and found that Margaery was beaming at you. The blush you had fought returned when you held her gaze, and you quickly returned to your serving post. 

The evening was going smoothly after an hour or more had passed. The children soon retired, Tommen did so happily with a very full belly. The only people who remained at the table were Loras, Mace, and Margaery Tyrell, along with Cersei, Joffrey, and a tired Tywin. The younger Tyrells were only slightly buzzed, while Cersei was a bit more tipsy.

“More wine,” Cersei grumbled, lifting her chalice towards you once more. You started to walk towards her, but stopped when Tywin stood up. Cersei glanced over at her father, then turned back to face you. “Are you scared, slut?”

“I believe you’ve had quite enough,” Tywin said, leaning over the table to leer at his daughter. Cersei turned to look at her father once more, her eyes narrowed. Silence fell over the table, even the Tyrells grew quiet. Joffrey nervously glanced between his mother and his grandfather, waiting for who was going to make the next move.

“Pour...the..wine…” Cersei said to you, still staring at Tywin. The older man held his daughter’s gaze and shook his head. You looked up at him and waited for him to speak up. His light colored eyes bore knives at his daughter. Cersei speaking out was a blow of disrespect to his ego. She turned back to stare at you, “POUR!”

Her scream scared you so badly, you jumped, spilling the red wine across her lap. Some of the liquid even splashed against Margaery’s dazzling dress. Cersei scream again, this time is shock and rage. She stood quickly from her seat, raised her hand, and slapped your cheek. The strike burned like a flame; the impact rattled your jaw. 

“You dumb whore!” Cersei yelled, dropping her glass to the floor. She stormed out of the great hall, leaving everyone still seated there in complete silence. Mace looked up at Tywin, who wore the most disappointed frown you had ever seen. You held your bruised cheek, wondering if the sting would ever, totally fade away.

“My apologies for my daughter’s actions,” Tywin said, “please, finish your drinks. We will make more plans in the morning.” He pushed in his chair and walked around the table towards you. He met your gaze and rested a hand on your shoulder. “Go clean yourself up, girl. I will send someone else to take care of this mess.”

With that, that one spot of altruism given to by a Lannister, Tywin walked out of the room. You swallowed hard, glancing at the puddle of wine that had gathered on the tile floor. Mace cleared his throat and also stood away from the table. The sound caused you to look up, where you saw Margaery also standing. She was looking at you with a spark of something you didn’t recognize. In fear, you also ran out of the room.

You found yourself standing in the garden within the Red Keep courtyard. The smell of fragrant roses calmed your fried nerves. Birds of the night sang sorrowful songs that matched your mood almost too well. The cheek Cersei had struck still stung sharply. The idea of looking at it in any sort of reflection scared you. You just wanted to forget about it. 

“I was looking for you,” a soft voice sounded out from behind a grouping of bushes. You turned to face whoever was walking towards you and saw Margaery. She had changed out of her stained gown in exchange for loose fitting nightwear. Her hair flowed naturally like a fiery river of soft bouncy strands. She must have noticed you staring at her because she laughed quietly.

“Sorry, my lady, you caught me off guard,” you said, standing quickly. You suddenly regretted not going to your own chambers to change. “I’ll leave you be.”

“No, please stay,” she said, closing the larger gap between you. She sat down beside you on the stonework. “I wanted to ask you a few questions if that is alright.” You swallowed hard and nodded, finding your place beside her. Her warmth seemed to cover you like a blanket. 

“Does that happen often?” She asked, gesturing towards your cheek. You shook your head, hanging it shame. Cersei had hit your hand before, but never to the point where you had seen stars. Not like this time. “You’re Y/N L/N, of House L/N?” You looked up at the mention of your house.

“I am, my lady,” you said softly, “not many know of my house.” Margaery smiled and gazed down at her nimble hands that rested in her lap. 

“To be honest, I know little of your house, but I do know of you. I had heard my father speaking about you being Cersei’s handmaiden. He felt that it was a low movement on your father’s behalf. After what I have seen tonight, I truly agree.” “My lady, what are you trying to-” before you could finish, Margaery lifted a hand to the untouched side of your face. The gentle skin of her palm tickled your skin as her finger pads traced over your cheek bone.

“Sorry, Y/N, you are just so lovely,” she whispered, “it pained me to see you abused like that.” She pulled her hand away slowly, a smile on her petal pink lips. “Which is why I suggest that you become my handmaiden. It can be easily arranged by my father and Lord Tywin. And it would keep you out of harm's way. I would never let her hurt a hair on your head ever again.” 

You were speechless. Not only was the Beauty of the Reach speaking to you herself, but here she was, offering you a spot as her handmaiden. You longed to lean in, tell her yes, give her a kiss of relief and joy. The only thing that stopped you was the thought she might not feel the same. It was hard to tell how exactly she felt. You had never seen true kindness before, but, you believe, Margaery was the human embodiment of what it might look like. 

“Y-yes,” you replied nervously, but not nervous fear. Nervous joy; a feeling you had never felt before. Margaery smiled and stood swiftly. She leaned down and pressed a gentle peck to your bruised cheek. A dusting of pink flushed over your face at her action. 

“Very well, my darling,” she said sweetly, “I’ll tell my father now. I do believe this is a start of a wonderful relationship.” She leaned down once more, placing a kiss to your forehead. Her hand rested against your head as she pulled away. “Your stares did not go unnoticed, I thought I should mention. If this is to continue, we will have to perfect your subtly of love.”

“Sorry, my lady, I-” She silenced you with a kiss on the lips.

“You may call me Margaery when we are alone, and that is nothing to be sorry for.”

[peacefulwriter88]

One That Got Away - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Proceed With Caution

Universe: Marvel Canon

Rating: M for Mature (Language, Sexual tones eventual)

Previous Chapter 

“Is that her?”

Bucky’s voice is calm but there’s a tinge of eagerness behind each word as he looks from your moving form back to Steve. Steve gives a slight nod, his eyes unmoving from watching you as you cross the room, make it to the bar.

“Then ask her out for drinks! My god – she’s perfect for you.”

“Bucky,” Steve flickers his eyes over to his longtime friend, who is watching him with amusement.

“No.”

“What? Why!?”

Steve stays in silence and Bucky sighs, crossing his arms. Knowing that if Steve wasn’t going to open up about it he’d get nowhere fast and quite frankly he was too tired to fight with his former 5’3 friend; it had been a long week.

“Because he’s afraid she’ll say no.” Sam chimes in and the idea causes Bucky to roll his eyes.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Let it go Bucky…” Steve sighs, his eyes flashing over to where you stood at the bar. It doesn’t take long before you’re flanked by Ellie and another man, both curious to know where you had gone.

He tries to focus on something else, the conversations others are having about the art, but it’s hard not to eavesdrop when his body was trained to pick up something dropping for miles off and while he feels intrusive dropping into your conversation, he knows that it can’t be helped. Just like Bucky equally can pick up on the words that carry over the large sound of the room.  

“Aria,” Ellie’s voice is light and giggly, clinging on to her friend as she places her empty glass down on the bar, “Where have you been? Nel’s been quizzing me and you know I don’t care for this art crap. Let’s go home, or get some drinks in a sketchy bar and play a game.”

“That’s fine.” Ariadne’s voice doesn’t fluctuate as Nel gasps.

“Oh that’s it. You’re not going to address where you’ve been gone for half an hour after you walked off with that handsome piece of chocolate and probably found the world’s next best portrait.”

You give a deep sigh, looking over at him. Unamused.

“You’re the art curator. I’m just here for the free drinks and moral support.”

Nel narrows his eyes.

“Then support me. Who’s Mr. Chocolate man and where did you go?”

Ellie looks up from where she’s resting alongside Ariadne’s bosom, her eyes caging her as she wraps an arm around her body.

“You went off with a man and didn’t even tell me?”

There’s sadness tinged in her drunken voice, though she’s amused and Ariadne’s sighs, rubbing her back. It was interesting to see your maternal instincts kick, strong despite the sassiness you exuded earlier,

“It wasn’t like that.” You assure her.

“Then what was it like?” Nel and Ellie chime in together and he sees how you stiffen, can see the way you play with the empty glass in your hand. You shrug, pulling out the remaining olive and biting into it before nodding over to his and Bucky’s direction,

“See for yourself.”

Ellie and Nel work effortless together, heads swinging back before Ellie’s gasps and Nel giggles, both turning to you,

“You have to invite him out for drinks!”

Everyone waits for your response, Steve and Bucky included as you finish your olive, keep your eyes trained on the window that allows you a glimmer of the cold, rainy evening. Seconds later, olive freshly swallowed you keep silent, eyes trained on the outside.  

The silence saying it all.

“See,” Steve doesn’t want the pain and disappointment to show. “Not. Interested.”

He turns back to the photo, back to Sam who turns to him.

“So you asking her out for drinks?”

He can see Bucky’s hand twitch, knows that the super soldier wants to hit him against his head but decides against it for a second. Not because he decides in that moment to be a good person, to take a second to reflect and understand why Sam was restating the obvious for Steve to live through again. Not because knows the action in of itself will frustrate Steve.  It’s because the sound of your shoes clicking against marble drives his attention. You’ve ignored your friends as they yell out to you, ignore Bucky as you eloquently move past his questioning eyes as you clear your throat, gaining the attention of Steve and Sam.

“So eager for seconds?” Bucky teases, though his eyes are gleaming with amusement like they were before. You nearly choke on your laughter, rolling your eyes as you return them to Steve’s. It’s the intensity of the stare that causes you to falter, to cause you to bite down on your lips and Steve frowns, instinctively placing his hands in his pockets.

Trying to relax his nerves.

Lips shouldn’t be as succulent as yours.

“Steve,” your voice is sure and collected, feels different against his ears, “Would you like to join me and my friends for drinks?”

There’s a slight moment of silence, he can hear how fast your heart is beating, your fingers falling on top of the other as you fidget with them.

“You can even bring your friends. Even you’re rude ones.” Your eyes flicker over to Bucky who guffaws and you give a subtle wink before your irises are bearing back into his own. There confident, cool, collected – measuring him and he wonders if they’d look that collected with his cock ramming into you.

The idea shakes him, the knowledge of having the pleasure of your mind and body if just for a night, so he smiles as he responds,

“I’d love to. I’ll just tell the art gallery owner I’m heading out and can meet you at the entrance?”

“Perfect.”

You smile at him, not the sweet one he’s become accustomed to but something more seductive, teasing as you turn on your heels and return to your friends.

“You are in trooooubbblleee,” Bucky sings lowly and Sam laughs, slapping the back of Steve as Bucky continues. “I don’t know if you can handle all that Steve but I’m willing to risk the rest of my evening to see.”

“When do you jump into being third wheel?” Sam guffaws and Bucky shrugs, his eyes flickering back to the group.

“Oh, I have my reasons.”

By the time Steve joins Sam and Bucky outside, they’ve been left alone at the side of the curb and for a second Steve thinks that he’s been played, that you’ve been pulling his finger all night and he was left being the joke. Instead Sam looks up, a smile on his face as he says,

“Ariadne just texted me the bar. It’s a few blocks from here but easy ground to cover by foot.”

Steve furrows his eyes as he zips up his blue bomber jacket, getting in stride with Bucky as they follow Sam.

“Ariadne texted you? You have her number?”

Sam snickers, looking over at him as Bucky groans.

“Steve, really? You’re going to get jealous over Sam? Sam? Of the two of us he’s the least competition.”

“Hey!” Sam says though he chuckles and nods his head, “Though he’s right. Ariadne is far from my type and I’m sure I’m far from hers.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head,

“I don’t know Sam. I’m sure she thinks you’re handsome. It’s just your sexual preferences that might throw her off.”

The two jump into mild banter as Steve falls back into his mind. He knows that Sam isn’t a threat – that he wouldn’t purposely try to swoon you even if he was straight. He also knows that the banter he had observed between the two of them had been light and playful, falling more on the scale of brotherly and sisterly then romantic. You just made him second guess things. Kept preoccupying his mind, taking over his instincts.

It was regret. Bucky had laid it out simply when he had walked into Steve’s studio, seeing the same image of the same woman over and over again. Sam had filled in the little details he had already picked up and immediately berated Steve.

Of course he was curious. She was a mystery to Steve. Hadn’t fulfilled his itch of either being someone he wanted to know or someone he wanted to fuck. Either way, Steve was going to continue down this pathetic road of obsession until someone new distracted his mind or he ran into you again.

Steve knew that he was then, in the most limited of words, fucked. Women normally didn’t capture his attention. Not anymore – not like that. Sure, sometimes he had physical needs and those needs called for him to sometimes go out and connect with a woman. But it was purely just that – physical. He didn’t want to be emotionally invested, didn’t want the baggage of a relationship. He had explored that once in this decade with Sharon and that had turned out great. He was still convinced he had a scar from where she damn near almost shot him in the head. Of course, he could have chosen to break up with her in private, not while they were on mission trying to take down a group of Soviet terrorists.  

Either way, he didn’t understand what was happening to him – couldn’t pinpoint why you were haunting his mind. Sure you were attractive. He liked the curve to your hips, your plump ass, the way your cleavage accentuated your breasts. You had plenty of features that he looked for in a woman. There was something more. You intrigued him, kept him on his toes, wasn’t afraid to push back. To see him.  

He liked that in a woman.

Sam directs them to a bar eight wet blocks later, and they follow him down the dark set of stairs before walking through a worn red door.

The other side – like all things in New York – was different and came to be a surprise. Sure it was one of those kind of bars where you have low conversations and good laughs and the drinks are strong and the food is subpar but jazz played in the space, high and sultry as stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. It had the kind of speakeasy vibe that was hard to truly replicate in this century and Steve likes it already, likes that you can get caught in the smoky darkness. Likes it more that it’s a place you’ve picked out.

“Not what I expected.” Bucky says, looking over at Steve who’s looking for you. He finds you easily, the shawl you’ve been wearing across your shoulders now hanging off the back of the large booth you’re in as you lean over the table with Nel and Ellie, looking at the cards in her hand. There’s a few waters in front of you as you sip yours slowly, laughing along with your friends. It’s the most relaxed he’s seen you, he likes you like this, unguarded and he’s not quick enough to look away when you look up at the door, catching the three of them awkwardly standing there and waving them over.

“If you don’t ask for her fucking number Steve I swear, I swear to you, I will kick your ass during tomorrow morning's training.”

Steve chuckles as he flickers his eyes over at Sam who’s eyeing him down.

“Understood.”

“Okay dad.” Bucky chuckles, breaking up the tension though he nods, “Though I might hold you down while he punches if you don’t. I mean it Steve-O, you fight aliens…you can handle one dame that’s into you.”

Steve returns his attention back to you as you all move in the booth, adjusting yourself so they can sit down. You’re sandwiched between Ellie and Nel, dead set in the middle and Sam makes a move to slide in beside Nel – Bucky beside Ellie. He’s left with grabbing a chair and sitting across from you, able to get a full look at the low dip in your top, the way your cleavage teases his eyes as you pull your hair up in a bun.

“You boys are just in time to buy us a drink.”

Your voice is light and flirty and though you address them, you’re looking directly at him. You’re mood has shifted a bit, holds a bit more confidence though you flicker away from his gaze after a few seconds as you look over at Bucky.

“Bucky you could buy Ellie’s drink on my behalf. You know, for being so rude to me earlier.”

Bucky shoots you a sly smile, eyes flickering over to your smaller friend who is just shades red, already under the influence of his friend. Not like Bucky can notice. He’s too busy looking at everything but, responding back to you,

“You’re a demanding one. But if it means I can get you’re beautiful friend a drink….why not?”

“Oh boy……” Ellie’s voice is low as she grabs her water, taking a long sip as you move to signal the waitress.

“In the meantime,” Nel says, eyeing the four of them. “I’m Nel. Dearest friend of Ellie and Ariadne and fellow curator at a nice little art museum downtown otherwise known as The Met. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that my beautiful friend Ariadne tells me you’re quite the artist Captain.”

Your hands are quick as you jab his arm, causing Nel to furrow his eyebrows together and mutter, “Ow” under his breath.

“Did she?” Steve’s eyes flicker back to you as you shrug, keeping your eyes trained on the waiter.

“Don’t be surprised Steve,” a moment where your eyes flicker back to him. “You heard my thoughts on your painting, I can’t deny that. It really is good…..I enjoy it. I think others would too.”

Steve eyes don’t deviate from you as Nel says,

“Ariadne has quite the little eye and I trust when she’s impressed by a piece. Takes a whole lot to impress her.”

Another quick slap by you, but it doesn’t dissuade Nel.

“So how about it. Can I buy your little masterpiece to display in my gallery?”

Steve shifts, his eyes flickering back to you as you give a relieved smile. He focuses on the waitress’s feet bringing her over, the sound of Ella Fitzgerald over the loudspeaker, the way you move your hand around your water glass. Nel’s waiting for an answer as Sam watches in amusement and you do everything but make eye contact with him.

“I’ll think about it.” He finally says, looking over at Nel. “I don’t normally care to get my stuff out in the public ….you know I like displaying them in places they’ll be forgotten. But I’m sure the right person could persuade me.”

You falter in your movement, hooded eyes looking up at him as he turns right on cue as the waiter asks,

“Ladies and gentleman you have company tonight. Handsome company,” she winks at Sam before asking, “What can I get you?”

You all order with ease, the waitress easily taking your orders and leaving before Nel wraps an arm around you and smiles,

“Well Ariadne – work your magic,” his eyes flicker back to Steve. “I don’t know by what means you wish to be persuaded, but my dearest friend does have a talented way with that tongue of hers I’ve been told.”

You jab your elbow into his rib cage, hitting him hard between bone and muscle as you say,

“Actually, I thought it’d be fun if we let Ellie do a tarot card reading.”

“Fucking hell….” Nel groans as he bends over and rests his head on the table, Ellie breaking her eye contact from the Bucky as she stammers out,

“What?”

“You bought your tarot cards,” you say, taking another long sip with your straw. He hated that Nel had brought attention to your mouth, he can’t help but be distracted by the way it envelops the plastic device, your tongue moving the straw up and down as you delicately sip up water.

Oh boy.

You might ruin him for 100 years more.

“Sure.” He says, returning his eyes back to your own. “Sounds like fun.”

The cards don’t last long. Ellie starts off with Bucky, upon your insistence and they get caught up in a slow back and forth. This causes Sam to steal Nel’s attention, babying the man’s aching ribs as they dive into conversation. It leaves him staring across at you as you drum your fingers against the table, your chin cupped in your hand.

“You promised a tarot reading.” He finally says and it causes you to laugh and shrug as you point over at Ellie and Bucky, who have moved on from the cards entirely and were deep into whatever topic they were on.

“Blame her.”

He laughs and nods, wishing he was closer to you. Jealous of his colleagues advantages.

“I would but I don’t want to get on your bad side.”

You smile, your eyes teasing as you slowly start to grab the cards from the ruffled deck Ellie has spread out in front of her, not driving any attention to yourself.

“Well….we’re stuck in the middle of two intense conversations and my martini is starting to flow out of my veins so I’ll uphold this promise and see what the cards read for you Mr. Rogers.”

You shuffle them in your hand, biting your bottom lip again and he wonders if it’s a nervous tick or something you do when you’re concentrating on something.

“I’m not as good as Ellie.” you say, flashing your eyes back up to him and he smiles at you gently, shifting his drink a bit so he can lean over to the table. Closer to you. He can capture your perfume you again, soft vanilla that emits off the pulse point of your neck and he chokes down the groan that wants to escape out of him.

He’d love to taste that smell.

“I doubt that. You are very impressive.”

You flicker your eyes back up at him,

“You have a bad habit of thinking you know people. How do you know how impressive I am?”

He shrugs, leaning into the table more. Wanting to get closer to you,

“What do you know about tarot cards?”

You look up at him carefully, your hands never moving from the shuffling movement,

“Not a lot……Ellie’s uses them because her grandmother uses them and so on and so forth. I looked into it and while it was originally used to play trionfi, an older Roman game, it was much later that they used it to how we use it today….” You look up at him as he gives you a short smile and you roll your eyes, reaching over the table to playfully push his shoulders. He likes the movement that you’ve relaxed enough to kid with him.

“Okay wise guy I’m a journalist – I research things all the time. It’s my job. I like to learn and understand the things that I participate in. Sue me.”

“It wasn’t meant to offend.” He says softly and you look up at him, your eyes softer.

“I know,” you both pause, staring at each other and he wonders if you would mind if he could spend the next few hours, days, months….years allowing him to stare into your eyes. “So…..what I’m going to do….I think…is find my inner energy.”

He watches as you knock on the cards, giving a deep breath before you spread it in front of him. You furrow your eyebrows before raising both and look up at him,

“Okay, what Ellie always tells us is that we choose the cards we are drawn to.”

“Is there a certain amount?”

You think about it before shrugging,

“No. Sometimes I want to pull one. Sometimes seven. Just depends on my mood that day. What the universe is calling to my spirit.”

He raises an eyebrow and you laugh, taking a sip of your martini.

“What!? C’mon – choose your cards.”

He chuckles, his hand dancing across the deck until he pulls one. You look over at it and smile,

“Great I know this one! Swords…hmmmm I know this has to do with power and courage and ambition which makes sense as you are Captain America.”

He nods, his fingers grazing another and flipping it over,

“Ok…..I feel like Nel gets this one a lot,” you bite your tongue and he notes that it’s a concentrating tick that you default too. He likes its. “The high priestess. It means you’re in touch with your feminine side,” you wiggle your eyebrows and he laughs, “really, this is reversed so it means that you might be shielding yourself from it. Disconnected, secretive. Denying yourself something. Ring any bells?”

He furrows his eyes looking at, thinking to himself and you laugh, pushing him lightly. The movement causes him to watch your hand as it falls on his shoulder, the way it lingers there before he looks over at you,

“I actually see what it means. Steve Rogers needs to stop taking himself so seriously.”

Your voice is mocking, teasing and he shakes his head, moving into you. Liking that your opening up.

“Ok…..one more,” he grabs a card and you look down, nodding your head trying to read it.

“The cups….ummm….I think this is….”

You’re leaning in closer, scrutinizing it and he was sure that if minds moved like a clock, ticking endlessly he could hear yours as your martini sloshed in its glass. Your close enough he can feel your hair tickle his forehead, has a vantage view down your shirt and he turns to look away in time to see Ellie’s eyes widen. He thinks that it’s her realizing that maybe he did happen to glimmer a bit of your breast before deciding to look away and he can feel his face heat up in shame as she says,

“Ooo Steve, the two of cups! That’s special,” she moves away from Bucky, much to his displeasure as she looks over his deck. “hmmm you’re complicated Steve Rogers. You’re hiding a lot but also…I think there might be a bit of hope for you. And you obviously want to invite light into your darkness. Two cups represent the flow of love between two people……or to put it frankly, the blossoming of a new relationship. Which feels appropriate considering…”

Her eyes flash between the both of you, a large grin on her face as you and Steve eye each other. From this angle he can see how your dimples dig into your face, as your eyes flicker downward, playing with your glass.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You say suddenly, placing it down and pushing at Ellie who furrows her eye together.

“We both do…..we need to go to the bathroom. We’ll be back.”

The look on your face is different and he’s worried he’s offended you, that you had genuinely only invited him as a friend as you bully Bucky to ease out of the booth, pushing Ellie out as you glide out, grabbing her hand and moving through the crowd.

“…..you couldn’t figure out how to charm her for another ten minutes. Ten minutes and I could’ve gotten Ellie’s number.”

Bucky’s voice is annoyed, irritable and Steve sighs, placing his head in his hands.

“I didn’t do anything but draw some stupid cards! Ellie was the one who exposed me!”

“Don’t blame Ellie because you couldn’t follow up afterwards and come up with some cheesy fucking line.” Bucky crosses his arms, taking a seat looking over at Sam and Nel who are watching in amusement.

“I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself Steve. Ariadne never reads anyone’s cards….she wouldn’t even do Ellie’s and mine for a long time and she was more than willing to jump into yours. Alcohol or no…I think she’s just freaked out more that you…..pull out a different side of her.” Nel finally says and Steve looks over at him,

“You think?”

Nel shrugs,

“Maybe….or maybe not. Who knows, I’m drinking gin and sometimes I say shit that doesn’t make sense when I have gin in my system.”

Sam laughs, causing Steve to groan and Bucky to roll his eyes,

“I’m kicking your ass tomorrow anyways. For ruining my chances of getting a number.”

Steve doesn’t say anything but sits back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. Part of him wanted to escape, to get up and leave and forget this exchange has ever happened. But he already knows that the moment he leaves, that the moment that he walks out of the theater his mind will already flash to this moment. To what your face might look like upon realizing that he’s left, abandoned you and he wondered if disappointment would etch your features or relief.

That kind of possibility, that little floating idea of what if, that was something that would hurt Steve more than the actual knowledge of knowing if you reject him.

He doesn’t have a chance to second guess himself, again, because just as soon as you and Ellie have left you’ve returned.

“Ok, well I drank too much and I have a long day and I gotta work tomorrow so I’m going to head home.”

You say it all as one sentence, breathy and heady as you flash your eyes over at Steve before returning them to the group. Nel furrows his eyebrows, disappointment dripping in his voice as he says,

“Noooooo”

“Really drama king,” you say, grabbing your shawl as you wrap it around you. “Stay. Drink. Really, don’t stop on my behalf.”

Ellie’s biting her lip, her eyes flashing between you and Bucky before she sighs and nods,

“Are you sure. I could leave….” She looks over at Bucky one last time and you give her shoulder a squeeze before saying with a smile,

“Stay El. I’ll see you at home. Have fun – it’s been a long week. You deserve it.”

Nel sighs as he grabs your purse, throwing the tarot cards inside before grabbing your phone and handing them back to you before looking at Steve. He knows what those dark irises are saying. Take the opportunity idiot and walk her home. It’s what he was thinking of course, he wasn’t going to let you walk home alone, but there seems to be something more attached.

“I can take you home.”

Steve’s voice echoes among the table as you pause, your hand freezing from placing the phone in your bag before you say.

“Ok.”

It’s colder when you both step out into the Harlem air, and you instinctively tighten the shawl around you, the light material doing nothing for the shiver that spreads across your arms.

“Here,” Steve says, taking off his jacket. “Take this.”

You’re already shaking your head,

“It’s cold Steve and I was the fool that didn’t bring a heavier jacket.”

He smiles, pushing the last sleeve off before he’s placing it over your shoulders, his arms brushing against your own,

“I’m a super soldier. My blood tends to run warm, whether I care for it or not. I insist you take it. Besides,” he stuffs his hands into his pockets, “I’m trying to be a gentleman. Don’t ruin it for me.”

You laugh but nod, burrowing yourself into it more much to his pleasure.

“Well you don’t have to take me all the way home. It’s not too late to take the subway and I’ll be fine.”

Steve furrows his eyebrows together, looking down at you,

“I’m not going to let you take a subway, after the sun has set, alone from Harlem to Queens.”

You scoff and look at him,

“Okay Captain America. I’m a big girl. I’ve done it plenty of times and will do it plenty of times after. I survived then and I will probably continue to.”

He can’t help his jaw from setting, the way his hands dig deeper into his pockets as he follows you silently down the few blocks to the subway. He doesn’t notice the speculative way you watch him as his mind digs deeper into itself, curious to understand what would make any woman brave or stupid enough to take the subway so late from one part of the city to the other.  

“Listen you can silently pout or whatever but I don’t get the luxury like most women to have men like you offer to walk me home every time I go out. And listen I’m smart and safe. I carry a taser and mace and don’t make eye contact and go to kickboxing twice a week. You don’t need to….eternally beat yourself up for it.”

It’s your voice that cuts off his thinking, watching you scurry down the subway stairs with ease.

You. You were the kind of woman who would jump into danger without a second thought.

“I’m not pouting,” he says after you, catching up with you with ease as you walk to the turn stalls, “I’m trying to understand the kind of woman who would be stupid enough to invite danger into her world.”

He can’t ignore the offended way you scoff at him, before playfully pushing into him,

“Says the man who was always starting a fight. I’ve read your biography at the Smithsonian. You were always the one starting something before you got all that super juice pumped in you. And now you’re even more stupid because you’re damn near invincible. Who willing goes to fight aliens, ALIENS, without thinking twice? Good of humanity or not, there should be some second thought that runs through that handsome noggin of yours. But nope, not what I’ve heard from people. You just jump in, feet first, consequences be damned, your life be damned for the sake of good. So don’t sass me about stupid choices Captain Rogers.”

You swipe your card, walking through and he furrows his eyebrows, grabbing his card and doing the same. You raise an eyebrow and you shrug,

“…..though you gain some points for carrying a metro card.”

He laugh as he walks beside you again, slowly before you both make it to the train platform. The E was behind, he could tell by the restlessness stirring in the air with the few people waiting for it so he returns his attention back to you,

“Sometimes you gotta jump in. Because if you don’t, people get killed. People who can’t’ defend themselves from things that most humans wouldn’t have to see. From things that you only read about. And if I have the power to change it…why not?”

“Because,” you sigh, looking over at him. “It’s reckless. Reckless.”

He looks at you pointedly, before looking around the subway.

“Riding the subway at this hour….damn near midnight by yourself with god know what perverts doesn’t feel reckless to you as a single woman?”

You sigh as you dig your hands into his jacket pockets, pulling it closer to you,

“What do you want me to say? That sure I’m a journalist, a really good one I'd argue but I still gotta have a roommate because real estate prices in this city are goddamn ridiculous and sometimes you have to sacrifice safety for groceries and paying the light bill and so you do stupid reckless things in exchange for livelihood and pray for the best? Because being a brave badass just sounds better in my book.”

Your voice is low as you look down the large passage to where the train should be, he can feel the shame in each word, the embarrassment and he realizes that he subconsciously hit a nerve. You’ve got your guard up again, he can feel the walls being built and he walks toward you, cupping your face and tilting it toward him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…..I shouldn’t have pried you’re right. I know it may not seem like it, but I wasn’t always this….you know Captain America who was friends to one of the richest men on the planet. I get it….I get doing things in order to be able to survive. But the thought of you making this kind of commute, alone….it tears at my core. Because you deserve safety every day of your life.”

Perhaps it’s the hour, the tension that’s been building up for hours that lends way to this honesty. He feels embarrassed immediately after, like it was too personable to say to you in the first place, that he should have respected your distance. But he also didn’t like the idea of knowing that you were okay with risking your life in order to get by.

You were worth far more than that.

Time stops again, the both of you looking at the other before the train speeds away, causing a huge gust of piss smelling warm wind to also fly by along with the sound of metal on metal as it screeches to a stop. You both scrunch your noses, before you blink and pull away from him, moving to find a seat inside the metal compartment.  The first part of the ride is spent in silence as he sits near you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he side eyes the patrons on the car. When you both switch to the D line, you’ve both relaxed a bit and end up laughing about the wildest things you’ve seen in a subway, talking about the first time you commuted alone in the big city, Steve talking through what it felt like to walk through it now.

He almost forgets that he’s taking you home before he finds himself walking beside you down a quiet block, old houses peppering the long, narrow street.

“I miss streets like these.” He says quietly, his hands back in his pockets. You’ve hooked your right arm in his left, he doesn’t know when but he likes knowing how near you are, that you’ve found safety in him.

“They’re still here. They just look a lot differently.”

“Yea,” his voice is quiet as he sighs, “It’s just not the same. Doesn’t capture that spirit of family unity. Different people who all have different paths that are just trying to make it. Building community. Now it's Starbucks and ballet workout studios and those hipster guys with their vegan restaurants. Cheap homes built after cheap homes sandwiched between the two.”

You laugh, the sound resonates in the air and pierces into the faint sound of the city as you nod,

“Yea…this decade kinda bites.”

You’re both silent as you finally pull him off course, toward a small family home. The grass is green in the small lawn you direct him to despite it being autumn and there’s a large maple tree that’s littered its leaves on top of the greenery. The driveway holds an old car, a Chevy though he can’t make out the year in the dim lighting and the porch light is on though the rest of the house sleeps in darkness. The weathered mat on the top of the stairs reads, “Oh Shit Not You Again” and there’s a Halloween wreath on the door.  

It’s clean and organized and looks like the kind of place Ellie and you would live in.

“This is me,” you say as you hesitantly pull from his embrace, move up the few stairs to the small patio. He stands at the bottom, watching you as you turn, fidgeting with your keys, “Thanks for walking me home. I know sometimes I put on a big flare of being a big girl but…it was nice feeling safe getting home for once.”

He nods, watching you carefully. This was the part where he’d normally say something classic and cheesy, sweet enough to convince the woman to let him in. And god does he want you to invite him in. The porch light is hitting you perfectly, shadows hitting all the best features of your face as your eyes glisten down at him, innocent and nervousness intertwined in one. Those lips are so plump from your constant biting, all he wants to do is taste you. But he knows if he allows it, that he caves into his desires he’d lose something more important from you. He wants more than just a night with you. He wants the possibility of all the nights with you.

That realization causes him to sigh to himself, to keep his hands in his pockets as he responds lamely instead,

“It was nothing. Wouldn’t be Captain America if I didn’t walk a beautiful lady home.”

You smile at him, one that’s all teeth and tugs your right dimple to dig deep into your cheek as you nod,

“Okay well then…..good night.”

He’s sure that you’ve both froze time staring at each other tonight, trying to get a read, to make a move and it’s you that finally mutters,

“Fuck it all.”

He has fast instincts, his body typically can react to movement without a beat but when you press your lips on his cheeks, cold and chapped from the wind hitting them he freezes for just the smallest seconds. It takes his mind a minute to register before his hands find your hips and you pull away, your hands skimming across the broadness of his shoulders and he feels his breath hitch.

Fuck you were trouble.

And he knows if he doesn’t do something, he’ll regret it.

He’s lived in regret too much to have to live it in again.

“You wouldn’t mind if I asked you for your number, would you?”

He hates how weak the question comes out, that his voice is shaky and uncertain and he thinks you’re going to say no.

But then you smile and nod, your voice low as you ask,

“Yes, of course. Let me see your phone.”

He furrows his eyes together and you chuckle and laugh, nodding.

“Right. You probably don’t carry a smart phone with you…..or any phone?”

Your voice is uncertain as he shrugs, laughing as he takes one of his hands away from your hips and throwing it behind his neck,

“Sam and Bucky and Tony keep badgering me about it but…..my flip phone does its job. I can put it in there. When I get back to the tower….”

Now he understood why this could be embarrassing for this type of situation. All those years from Tony’s badgering and finally it clicks. Great.

“You’re right, you can,” you say in agreement as you dig in your bag, grabbing one of the free tarot cards floating around and finding a loose pen. “So I’ll just write down my cell phone number and I’ll look out for a text. Or a call. Or whatever it is you do.”

He doesn’t realize until much later, when he’s smiling to himself in his room, trying to figure out where to take you out to first that it’s the same card that drove you away.

Two silver chalices that gleam with your name and number.

Tag List:  @ssweet-empowerment@capsofwinchesters@tacohead13@harleycativy@pietrotheavenger@francezka10@papichulosebastian@obsessionsofmynerdheart@melaninmarvel@avengedqueen26@nasteaxluvgal@winterbuttmunch@nys30@buckyslongasshair@ohlumi @wellthirsted @gifsbysimplysonia