#and that the way that the dim light in the corridor catches in the sheen of sweat on your exposed throat makes his chest feel tight

[heich0e]

au in which touya ends up having to watch natsuo put his hands all over you because you took something offered to you at a sketchy warehouse party that has you panting and whimpering and burning up and his own hot hands can't provide you any comfort but his little brother's cool-quirked touch can

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 29 Chapter 29 | hymns and hesitations⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The walk through the halls of the palace felt longer than usual as you carried a water basin carefully in your hands while a fresh cloth hung over your arm.

The distant hum of the festival still echoed through the stone corridors, but it felt muffled here—removed. As if the rest of the world was still celebrating, and you had stepped into some liminal space where time moved slower.

Your thoughts were tangled, frayed at the edges.

Telemachus—his voice, the way he had looked at you when he offered his favor, the way your heart had betrayed you by answering before your mind could stop it.

And then her.

Andreia, standing poised and expectant, only for everything she anticipated to be pulled out from under her. And yet, instead of rage, instead of anything you might have expected, she had smiled. A calculated thing. A promise of something still to come.

You exhaled, shaking the thoughts from your head as you stopped in front of Telemachus' door.

For a moment, you simply stood there.

The flickering torchlight along the hall cast long shadows, making the wooden frame of his door seem taller, heavier. You hesitated—just briefly—before you finally raised your knuckles and knocked.

Light spilling from the windows along the hall caste long shadows, making the wooden frame of his door seem taller, heavier. You hesitated—just briefly—before you finally raised your knuckles and knocked.

A pause. Then, his voice—rough, hoarse from exhaustion, but unmistakably him.

"Come in."

Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the door open and stepped inside.

And there he was.

The scent of oil and earth still clung to the room, a lingering reminder of the battle he had fought. The golden light of an oil lamp flickered against the stone walls, its glow casting elongated shadows over the space.

Telemachus sat on the edge of his bed, his posture relaxed but still carrying the tautness of a body that hadn't yet let go of the fight. He was half-dressed, his torso bare save for the remnants of dirt and sweat smeared across his skin. Fresh bruises bloomed along his ribs, the deep purple and blue hues stark against the golden-brown of his complexion.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His chest rose and fell steadily, the faint sheen of oil from earlier still catching the dim light. The ridges of his abdomen flexed subtly as he moved, his broad shoulders rolling back slightly as he stretched out the soreness in his muscles. A loosely wrapped cloth was secured low at his waist, draped haphazardly over his hips in a way that felt far more distracting than it should have.

And gods, for some completely unfathomable, ridiculous reason, he looked even more disarming like this than when he was nearly naked on that battlefield.

You quickly looked away, breaking yourself from your trance before your thoughts could spiral even further. The last thing you needed was to let your already runaway mind take hold of your expression—if it hadn't already.

Shutting the door behind you, you pressed your lips together, determined to compose yourself. But the warmth creeping across your neck refused to subside, stubborn and insistent, as if it had embedded itself beneath your skin. You swallowed a little too hard, shifting your grip on the water basin as you quietly crossed the room.

The sound of your footsteps against the stone floor felt louder than usual, filling the space between you.

Reaching the small table near his bed, you set the basin down with more care than necessary, the cool ceramic a welcome contrast against your clammy fingers. You busied yourself adjusting the cloth draped over the edge, giving yourself just a moment to reorient your thoughts before speaking.

Clearing your throat, you risked a glance at him. "Does anything hurt too bad?"

Telemachus exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders stiffly as he shifted his position, scooting closer to the edge of the bed. The movement caused the muscles along his back and arms to ripple slightly, the tension in his body evident.

"Nothing much." He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck before giving a small, tired smirk. "Just some sore muscles. Took a few good hits, but I'll live."

Your gaze flickered to the bruises mottling his torso, stark against his golden skin, the deep hues of purpling flesh telling a different story. Nothing much was an understatement. The fight had been brutal, and it was clear that even though he had won, his body had taken its fair share of punishment.

You hummed softly, stepping forward until you were directly in front of him. His legs were slightly parted where he sat, the loose fabric of his loincloth draped over his thighs, but you forced yourself not to think about it, instead focusing on the task at hand.

Lifting your hand, your fingers lightly skimmed over his bruises, assessing the damage. The tension in his muscles was subtle, but it was there—tight, coiled beneath his skin as if your touch sent small shocks through him.

You swallowed again, moving your hand up toward his face.

His lip was split, the wound scabbed over slightly, and a dark bruise was beginning to form along the edge of his jaw. You cupped his face gently, your thumb ghosting over the sharp angle of his cheekbone as you tilted his head slightly, examining the extent of the bruise.

You nearly lost your nerve when his gaze locked onto yours.

Telemachus didn't say a word, but the way he looked at you—eyes unwavering, dark and heavy-lidded with something unreadable—made your breath catch. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to move.

Your heartbeat was far too loud in your ears.

Clearing your throat, you quickly stepped back, breaking the moment before it could spiral into something you weren't prepared for. "I'll clean off the dirt first. Then I'll heal what I can. It shouldn't take long."

Without waiting for his response, you turned sharply on your heel, moving back to the water basin. Your fingers trembled slightly as you wrung out the cloth, the cool water grounding you. Focus, you reminded yourself. I'm here to help him, not to get distracted by how unbearably close he is.

Behind you, you could still feel his eyes on you, tracking your movements with an intensity that sent another ripple of warmth through your chest. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to shake it off.

You had a job to do.

You turned to face him, inhaling deeply as you slowly stepped forward. Telemachus had shifted slightly, leaning back on his hands, his broad chest rising and falling in steady breaths as he watched you approach. His posture was relaxed, but there was something in the way his eyes tracked your every movement—patient, expectant, unshaken.

"Sit still," you murmured, kneeling beside the bed, your knees pressing into the cool floor. "This might sting."

His smirk softened into something quieter, something you couldn't quite name. "I'll try."

The lamp's glow flickered over his skin, casting warm highlights over the contours of his body—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the slope of his shoulders, the ridges of muscle. His hair, damp with sweat, curled slightly at the edges, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead. He was tired, bruised, and yet still—frustratingly—beautiful.

You forced yourself to focus as you gently pressed the damp cloth against one of the deeper bruises along his ribs. His breath hitched, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he remained perfectly still beneath your touch, his muscles tensing briefly before relaxing under the slow, careful sweep of your hand.

The warmth of his skin burned beneath your fingertips.

The room felt smaller now. The air thicker.

Your hands moved with practiced care, sweeping over the planes of his abdomen, over the streaks of dirt and dried sweat, wiping away the evidence of the battle. You tried not to linger, tried not to think about the way the heat of him seeped into your palms with every slow pass of the cloth.

But it was impossible to ignore the way his gaze never left you.

Telemachus watched, silent and unwavering, his expression unreadable. There was no teasing remark, no flippant comment to break the tension hanging between you like a drawn bowstring. Just quiet patience. Just quiet waiting.

You forced your gaze downward, clearing your throat as you dipped the cloth back into the basin, wringing it out once more. Anything to steady yourself. Anything to ignore the way your own breath had gone shallow.

Telemachus broke the silence first.

"You're good at this," he murmured, his voice low, casual—too casual. He was trying to ignore how close you were, how your fingers moved with care over his skin, how the cool touch of the cloth contrasted with the heat simmering between you.

You focused on your task, ignoring the way your eyes kept betraying you, flickering to the subtle shifts in his muscles whenever your hand pressed a little firmer against his stomach. The way his abdomen flexed and the sharp intake of his breath when you swept over a particularly tender bruise.

"I've been practicing," you said, voice steadier than you felt.

He hummed in response, going quiet for a few beats. By then, you had dipped the cloth into the basin once more, wrung it out, and stood up to wipe away the grime and sweat from his face. Your fingers cradled his jaw, thumb brushing just below a faint bruise blooming on his cheekbone. His skin was warm beneath your touch, the rough stubble along his jaw scraping against your palm.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His breath was slow, measured, his eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable.

You were suddenly aware of just how close you were.

You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight parting of his lips.

Then, voice softer this time, he spoke.

"Still," he murmured. "It suits you... Divine Liaison."

Your hands faltered briefly, a small pause, almost imperceptible—except to him. Your lips parted slightly as if to respond, but no words came.

Instead, you cleared your throat, looking away quickly. "Raise your arm," you mumbled, as if that could erase the moment. Your hand moved to his bicep, carefully wiping along the muscle.

He noticed.

His lips quirked slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. But he didn't tease. Instead, his voice dipped lower, quieter, as he finally said, "Congratulations, by the way."

There was weight to it—more than just formality, more than just acknowledgment of your new title. It was something deeper. Something more.

You didn't dare look at him.

You continued working in silence, focusing on the slow, rhythmic motions of wiping away the last traces of dirt and oil from his skin. The warmth of the room, the dim flicker of the oil lamp, the steady rise and fall of Telemachus' breathing—it all settled into something quieter, heavier. The weight of unspoken thoughts lingered between you.

And then—because you had to ask—you murmured, "Why... did you pick me?"

Your voice was soft, hesitant, but it cut through the stillness like an arrow finding its mark.

Telemachus stilled slightly, his body going rigid beneath your touch. He had expected the question, you could tell, but still, he wasn't fully prepared to answer. His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, as if weighing his words before finally speaking.

"Because it had to be you."

The simplicity of his answer carried a depth that sent a shiver down your spine. He said it like it was the only truth that mattered, like there had never been any other choice in his mind. His favor wasn't just a public declaration, wasn't just a symbol of alliance or admiration—it was personal.

Something in your chest tightened.

You didn't push for more. You didn't need to. His words settled in your bones, sinking deep, wrapping around something fragile and fluttering within you. Instead, you let a small smile tug at your lips, your fingers lingering briefly against his skin before you stepped back.

"I'm finished washing you," you said softly, reaching for the water basin. "Now hold still—I'll heal you next."

You reached for the water basin, setting it aside before slowly exhaling. You could do this. You had done this before.

But as you pressed your hands together, willing yourself into that trance-like state you had found when healing the cabin boy, nothing happened.

Your fingers hovered just above Telemachus' bruised skin, your palms warmed but did not glow. No divine whisper in the back of your mind, no guiding force pressing your movements forward. Just silence. Just stillness.

You tried again.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply, searching for that elusive connection, trying to mimic the steps you had taken before. You thought of light, of warmth, of restoration—but it wasn't working.

Your breath came out uneven, frustration creeping at the edges of your mind. Why now? Why was it so easy before but now—?

Then, as your gaze flickered downward, you saw the split on Telemachus' lip.

The bruises darkening his jaw. The purpling blotches marring his ribs. The scrapes across his knuckles.

You frowned.

You didn't like seeing them there.

Before you even realized it, something inside you snapped into place, like a key turning in a lock.

The air around you shifted, charged with something unseen, and the moment stretched into something surreal as a soft pulse of warmth surged through your fingertips.

A glow—subtle at first—began to trace the lines of his wounds, a delicate thread of light that followed the path of your hands. You weren't thinking anymore, weren't trying to force it. You were just... feeling.

The moment your palm brushed lightly over his jaw, Telemachus let out a soft gasp, his body tensing beneath your touch.

You hesitated for half a second, but the glow only grew stronger, humming against your skin like a heartbeat outside of your own. The light seeped into his wounds, closing them, easing the tension from his muscles. The bruises faded beneath your fingertips, vanishing like ink washing away under rain.

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you focused on steadying your breathing, on keeping the power tempered, controlled. It was wild, untamed, and yet—somehow—you felt like you could guide it. It wasn't like before.

It wasn't healing because you willed it.

It was healing because you wanted it.

Because you wanted him to be okay.

And that realization made your pulse hammer violently in your chest.

Telemachus remained silent, save for the occasional sharp inhale, his eyes flickering between yours and the trail of light that danced over his skin. He looked like he wanted to say something. Maybe he would have—if you weren't so close, if the air between you wasn't charged with something unspoken.

But neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

And as the last of his wounds faded away beneath your touch, you slowly, hesitantly, let your hands drop to your sides.

The glow faded. The warmth settled.

And the only thing left was the quiet, and the way he was still looking at you.

You shifted slightly, breaking the heavy silence as you asked, "Do you feel fine?" Your voice came out softer than intended, like you weren't entirely sure you wanted to shatter whatever fragile thing had settled between you both.

Telemachus blinked, as if pulled from deep thought, and glanced down at himself. He flexed his once-bruised arms, rolling his shoulders experimentally. His fingers skimmed over the skin of his ribs where deep purple had once marred him, now smooth and unblemished. His brows furrowed, not in confusion but in awe. "Yeah..." he murmured, turning his hands over as if trying to find a trace of pain that was no longer there. "I feel... incredible."

You smiled, satisfied with your work. "Good." You nodded once, letting your hands fall to your lap. The moment stretched a little longer than it should have before you inhaled deeply, pushing yourself up to stand. "Then I'm finished. I should be going."

You turned, ready to leave, but before you could take a single step, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist.

"Wait."

You froze.

His grip wasn't tight, wasn't demanding. It was careful—almost hesitant, as if he was unsure whether you'd pull away. You stared at the place where his hand met your skin, feeling the warmth of his touch spread up your arm like a slow-burning ember.

Telemachus cleared his throat, and when you glanced up at him, you found him looking... uncomfortable. Not in the way someone was after a battle, but in a way you had never really seen before—like the words he wanted to say were caught between his teeth, struggling to get out.

"I—about last night."

You stiffened.

His grip loosened slightly, as if he could sense the tension that rippled through you. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something almost like shame passing over his face before he forced himself to say it.

"I overstepped. I... lost control of myself, and that wasn't fair to you."

His voice was low, strained—like dragging steel over stone.

You didn't make him suffer. Instead, you exhaled slowly, nodding once as if to steady yourself. "I forgive you."

The words left your lips quietly, but there was no hesitation in them. You meant it.

But even as you offered him that reassurance, something stirred uneasily inside you.

He didn't know.

He didn't know he had been tampered with—didn't know that Eros had slipped a divine trick into his bloodstream at Aphrodite's request. He didn't know that what he did wasn't entirely his fault. That his emotions, his desires, had been stoked like embers into an uncontrollable blaze.

And yet, even as you reminded yourself of this, another truth lurked beneath it.

Aphrodite had told you herself—she had only nudged what was already there. She had not created something new, only amplified what he had been too cautious, too uncertain, to express.

That was what truly unsettled you.

Because even without the gods' meddling, Telemachus still would have felt those things for you.

The only difference was that he never would have let himself act on them.

And that—more than the love potion, more than the divine interference—was what left your heart racing in a way you couldn't name.

Then, without warning, a strange sensation flooded your mind.

A whisper of something not entirely your own. A shift in the air, subtle yet undeniable. It wasn't the lingering tension between you and Telemachus, nor the steady thrum of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears.

It was something deeper, something ancient.

Apollo's words echoed like a chime against your ribs.

"Guard your heart, little muse, and remember, not all that glitters in the moonlight is gold, not all who wander are lost, but all who meddle are not friends."

A shiver coursed through you. The warmth of Telemachus' hand still lingered on your skin, grounding you in the present even as something in the moment shifted. You blinked, steadying yourself, forcing air into your lungs. You hadn't realized how close you had leaned in, how your bodies had nearly aligned.

How much you wanted to believe in the sincerity of his touch.

Carefully, you cleared your throat, pulling your wrist away as gently as you could, flexing your fingers as if to shake off the lingering heat of his grip.

Telemachus' shoulders sagged slightly, his fingers loosening as he let go.

He didn't fight it.

But he watched you.

It was as if he was trying to figure out if that was really all—if you weren't going to reprimand him, if you didn't resent him for what he had done. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but for once, Telemachus—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never at a loss for words—said nothing at all.

The weight of the moment was unbearable.

You turned away, forcing your voice to steady. "Rest well, prince. I 'll see you at tonights feast."

Then, before either of you could ruin it—before you could question the depth of what had passed between you, before he could reach for you again—you walked away.

He didn't stop you this time.

But you felt his eyes on your back until the door closed behind you.

☆

☆

The remainder of the day passed in a blur of movement, voices, and music, but you struggled to feel fully present in any of it.

You had tried—gods, you had tried—to immerse yourself in the festival, to focus on the vibrancy of the celebrations, the energy thrumming through Ithaca like a heartbeat.

The streets were alive with the lingering festivities: children darting between stalls, their laughter ringing through the air, performers entertaining clusters of villagers with acrobatics and storytelling, the scent of roasting meats and spiced wine thick under the warm evening sky.

And yet, despite the distractions, your mind kept drifting back.

Back to the warmth of a touch that had long faded. Back to the weight of a gaze that had followed you as you walked away. Back to the words Telemachus had spoken and, more than that, the ones he hadn't.

You shook your head, exhaling softly, forcing yourself to push those thoughts aside.

Now wasn't the time.

At present, you were seated on a plush cushion, preparing for the night's final performances. The main festival had begun winding down, and now the last of the revelers were filtering into the open-air courtyard where the closing performances of the exchange festival would be held.

It was a breathtaking space—one of Ithaca's most beautiful.

The venue was nestled within a vast garden, surrounded by towering olive and laurel trees, their silhouettes swaying gently in the cool breeze. Small lanterns hung from every branch, flickering like captured stars.

The sky had begun its slow descent into night, the setting sun painting the horizon in streaks of amber and violet, the first stars peeking through the darkening canvas.

The stage where you sat was raised only slightly, framed by elegant curtains that concealed the instruments and materials for the various performers scheduled throughout the night.

The anticipation in the air was palpable.

People had begun finding their seats, settling on cushions or wooden benches arranged around the courtyard. Some still carried cups of wine, their voices hushed in pleasant conversation, the energy of the festival finally easing into something softer, more intimate.

And you—ever the performer—had put on an act yourself.

Smiling, poised, prepared.

The first performance of the evening was meant to be yours—a song to mark the transition from the day's revelry into the night's closing festivities.

As the last of the guests settled into their seats, the low hum of conversation began to die down, anticipation filling the courtyard like a held breath. The golden lanterns swayed gently overhead, their warm glow casting long shadows across the open space, illuminating the eager faces of nobles and common folk alike.

Then, Odysseus rose to his feet.

The murmurs hushed entirely as the king stepped forward, his presence alone commanding attention. He looked over the gathered crowd, his expression thoughtful before his lips curled into a knowing smile.

"People of Ithaca and Bronte," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the evening air, "we have spent this day in celebration—not only of strength and skill, but of unity." He let the words settle, scanning the faces before him. "For too long, our kingdoms have remained as separate as the seas between us. Today, however, we have not only honored our differences but embraced them. The trials of the day have been fierce, but through competition, we have found camaraderie. Through shared customs, we have found appreciation. And perhaps, if the Fates will it, this will be the first of many festivals to come."

A rumble of agreement moved through the crowd, some clapping, others nodding in approval.

Odysseus lifted a hand, his expression turning more serious. "But before we continue on to our feasting, our drinking, and the more—" his lips quirked slightly, "—lively entertainments, there is something rarer, something precious that we must first take a moment to appreciate."

He turned, his sharp gaze landing directly on you.

"A performance," he continued, "from Ithaca's very own Divine Liaison."

The shift in the atmosphere was almost tangible. You could hear the small collective intake of breath, the quiet, excited murmurs passing between guests. Some who had been leaning back in their seats straightened, their interest newly piqued.

You blinked, feeling a sudden wave of realization wash over you.

Odysseus wasn't exaggerating.

You had played for others, but it had always been within the confines of palace walls, inside candlelit halls where only a select few had been present. Here, however, under the open sky, you were surrounded by hundreds—if not thousands. Servants, warriors, nobles, townspeople alike. Ithacans and Bronteans, all gathered together, all waiting for you.

A feeling both exhilarating and terrifying.

"You are about to witness something that may not come again in your lifetime," Odysseus added, his voice lowering just enough to draw the audience in further. "The gift of music blessed by a god is not something freely given, nor something easily earned. But tonight, we are fortunate enough to hear it in its truest form."

The silence that followed was thick with expectation.

Then, Odysseus gave you a nod.

It was time.

Bowing your head in acknowledgment, you turned away from the audience and gave a small nod. A moment later, from behind the pseudo-curtains, Callias emerged, carrying your divine lyre.

Even in the fading light, it gleamed as if kissed by the last remnants of Apollo's sun, its strings shimmering like spun gold, the body of the instrument glistening with an ethereal sheen. It didn't just reflect the lanterns' glow—it seemed to absorb it, radiating something otherworldly, something not entirely bound to the mortal realm.

A collective murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.

Gasps of awe. Whispers of astonishment. Some of the Ithacan servants who had seen you play before awed expressions shifted to shock—while Brontean guests exchanged glances, their hushed words carrying curiosity, skepticism, and perhaps even reverence.

Callias grinned as he handed it to you, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Knock them straight into Hades' realm," he teased with a wink before stepping back, disappearing into the crowd to find his place among your friends.

For a second, as you sat there, lyre in hand, you allowed its weight to settle you.

It felt different than usual—not just because of the sheer magnitude of the performance, nor the eyes watching you, waiting. No, it was something deeper.

Something in the air had shifted.

The divine favor of Apollo hummed faintly through your fingertips as they hovered over the strings. The energy of the festival, the mingling of Ithaca and Bronte, the significance of this night—it all coalesced in your chest, filling you with something indescribable.

Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself.

And with practiced ease, you plucked the first note.

A single, resonant sound, clear as temple bells, cut through the murmuring crowd. It was followed by another, and another—a melody slowly unfurling like the petals of a flower in the morning light. The lyre hummed beneath your fingertips, the divine craftsmanship lending a richness to the music that no ordinary instrument could replicate.

You closed your eyes briefly, centering yourself, remembering Artemis' words. Apollo might be swayed by mortal affections, but do not think such affections hold weight without true reverence.

And so, on this night of unity between Ithaca and Bronte, you would do just that. Not just for Apollo—but for all twelve of the Olympians.

Your voice wove through the melody, clear and steady, as you began the first verse.

"O great gods upon high, where bright Olympus stands, Twelve thrones among the heavens, rulers of seas and lands. With wisdom, might, and fortune, you guide both fate and free, Oh, hear this humble offering, sung upon bended knee."

The words drifted over the assembled crowd like mist curling over the sea. Faces, lit by lantern glow, softened with reverence, heads tilted in quiet awe. Even the Bronteans—who were less inclined to grand hymns of worship—watched in enraptured silence.

You played on, your fingers moving instinctively over the strings as you let yourself sink into the music.

"To Zeus, who wields the lightning's wrath, the king above all kings, To Hera, ever watchful queen, whose justice fiercely sings. To Poseidon, lord of surging tides, and Hades, dark and deep, To Demeter, who calls the harvest forth, where golden fields now sleep."

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you felt the moment stretch into something more. Unbeknownst to you, as the last rays of sunlight faded into twilight, the lingering glow of the setting sun seemed to cling to your silhouette, casting you in golden light.

The people watched, their breaths caught in their throats, as the last warmth of the sun enveloped you. It was as if, for just a fleeting moment, you were something beyond mortal—a figure of divine reverence, bathed in the lingering kiss of the gods.

You didn't see it. Your eyes had long since closed, lost in the reverence of the hymn.

Your voice rose, strong and unwavering, as you moved into the final verse.

"To Athena, bright-eyed wisdom, and Ares, battle's cry, To Hephaestus and fair Aphrodite, who shape both fire and sky. To Artemis of the silver bow, and Apollo, sunlit grace, To Hermes, fleet and cunning, and Dionysus' wild embrace. And to Hestia, the keeper of hearth and flame, the silent thirteenth throne remains."

The last note trembled in the air, carrying with it something more than just sound—something ancient, something sacred. The people had barely breathed through the entire performance, fearful that any noise would break the spell you had cast.

And then—just as the final note faded into the vast night—the last glimmers of light disappeared entirely, surrendering to darkness.

Above, the first stars flickered into existence, winking down as though offering their silent approval.

The stillness held for a single heartbeat. Then another.

And then, all at once, the crowd erupted into applause, the wave of sound almost startling in its intensity. Hands clapped, voices cheered, and from somewhere in the back, someone let out a choked cry of wonder.

"Bravo! A voice blessed by the gods themselves!" "A hymn worthy of Olympus! Did you see the way the light held her?" "Never have I heard such reverence—such devotion!" "Surely Apollo himself stopped to listen!" "Sing another!"

You opened your eyes, blinking as the golden glow that had surrounded you moments before was now replaced by nothing but the soft shimmer of lantern light. The spell had lifted, but the awe remained, reflected in every face turned toward you.

A wave of emotion crashed over you—embarrassment, pride, exhilaration—they all tangling together, making it impossible to settle on just one feeling. Your heart thundered in your chest, your pulse drumming in your ears as the weight of what had just happened fully set in.

You had performed before, of course, but never had you felt something like this. Never had you stood beneath the open sky, before an audience of hundreds, and felt something greater than yourself stir within you.

The applause still thundered, a chorus of admiration and disbelief, but you couldn't stay there any longer.

Your feet moved on instinct, and in your flustered state, you barely remembered to dip into a curtsy. It was quick, hurried—almost clumsy as you stumbled slightly, your body still too light, too ungrounded after the performance.

You nearly tripped over the hem of your skirt as you headed toward the back of the stage where the rest of the performers gathered, face hot with a mix of embarrassment and lingering warmth from the performance's high. You weren't even sure where you were going—just away, somewhere to catch your breath, to think.

As you left, a new voice rang out over the festival grounds, carrying above the still-wild applause.

"And now, for our next act—behold, Bronte's renowed Flameborn Blades!"

The cheer that erupted in response was instantaneous, particularly from the Brontean spectators, who roared their approval loud enough that the very ground seemed to vibrate beneath your feet.

You barely had time to glance back before a group of performers leaped onto the stage—clad in dark leather, their faces painted with streaks of red and gold. In their hands, swords glowed with unnatural brightness, the edges set ablaze as they twirled them in hypnotic arcs.

The cheers grew deafening as the troupe began their act, tossing the flaming blades between each other with impossible speed and precision.

You exhaled slowly, using the shift in attention to slip away further behind the stage. Though your pulse was still erratic, the distraction was welcome.

At least now, you thought, pressing a hand over your chest, all eyes weren't on me anymore.

As soon as you stepped off the stage, the world around you spun—not because of your own unsteady legs, but because someone had grabbed you and twirled you straight into the air.

"Ahh, that was amazing!" Callias laughed, his arms looping around your waist as he lifted you effortlessly. The exhilaration in his voice made you laugh despite yourself, the energy infectious even as you flailed slightly in protest. "Knocked them to Hades, indeed."

"Callias!" you gasped as he spun you once before setting you back down on your feet.

The moment your shoes touched the ground again, you stumbled, the lingering effects of your performance still making your limbs feel a bit too light, your mind still caught between reality and whatever space you had been transported to while playing.

And that's when you felt it—the absence of something in your hands.

My lyre.

A flash of panic jolted through you as it slipped from your grasp, but before it could hit the ground, a hand shot out.

"Got it," Kieran said smoothly, catching it midair without so much as blinking.

Asta reached out to brace you properly. A breath of relief left you, but before you could thank them both, Asta clicked her tongue, reaching up to smack Callias upside the head.

 "Gods, Callias, you're really going to send her to the underworld at this rate," she scolded, shaking her head at him before snarkily adding, "Or is that the plan? Jealous, are we? Because you do sound like a harpy screeching over stolen spoils."

Callias gasped, clutching his chest with an exaggerated look of betrayal. "A harpy?! Me?" He turned to Kieran and Lysandra for backup. "Do you hear the slander I suffer?"

Kieran smirked, arms crossed over his chest as he tilted his head. "I mean... you do screech."

Lysandra hummed, pretending to think it over. "A bit shrill, really."

Callias groaned loudly, throwing his head back. "Why must I be surrounded by heathens?"

Laughter rippled through the group, and you found yourself relaxing into the warmth of it, the adrenaline from your performance settling in a more pleasant way.

"You were incredible," Kieran said, more genuine now, giving you an approving nod. "Your voice—gods, I swear the air itself bent to listen."

Lysandra nodded in agreement, her expression still tinged with something like awe. "It felt like... like being wrapped in something beyond," she admitted. "Like we weren't just listening—we were witnessing."

Your face felt like it were on fire, and you quickly looked down, murmuring a soft, "Thank you. That means a lot."

Before you could say anything else, your name rang through the air, cutting through the moment with quiet finality.

You all  turned, and there—standing a few feet away, eyes locked on you—was Telemachus.

Callias was the first to react.

"Right! Who else is in the mood for Ithaca's famous honeyed walnut pastries?" he announced, clapping his hands together far too loudly.

You blinked, turning toward him just in time to see him place his hands on both Kieran's and Lysandra's shoulders while nudging Asta with his hip, steering them all backward with practiced ease.

"What?" Kieran frowned, half-turning. "We just ate."

"Did we?" Callias feigned confusion, continuing to push them along. "I seem to recall a distinct lack of flaky, golden pastries in our hands, and that, dear friends, is an issue we must rectify immediately."

Lysandra raised a brow. "Callias—"

"Yep, pastry time!" he cut her off, now digging his heels in as Kieran attempted to resist.

Asta, ever the quick one, caught on immediately. She rolled her eyes before grabbing Kieran by the ear, yanking him forward with no care for his yelp of protest.

"Come on, highborn," she sighed, dragging him along. "We'll catch up with her later."

Lysandra muttered something under her breath but relented, and soon, all four ushered away, their voices fading into the background.

And just like that, it was just the two of you.

Telemachus stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. He stared for a few moments, his expression unreadable. Then, as if catching himself, he cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly.

"You, uh..." He faltered for a second, rubbing the back of his neck before forcing himself to meet your gaze. "You sounded amazing."

The sincerity in his voice sent warmth curling through your chest. But before you could respond, he seemed to panic, his words rushing out in a stammered mess.

"Not that you do''t always sound amazing—I mean, you do! I just—tonight was—" He exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing before he forced out, "It was different. In a good way."

A small laugh escaped you, the awkwardness almost endearing. "Thank you... Telemacus," you murmured, smiling up at him.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, his lips twitching as if he wanted to smile back but wasn't sure if he could. Instead, he nodded, shifting on his feet, like he had more to say but couldn't quite find the words.

The festival bustled around you, but in that moment, it felt like none of it mattered.

Before either of you could react, a sudden force yanked you both forward, pulling you into a warm, familiar embrace.

"My darlings!" Penelope's voice wobbled with emotion as she crushed you both to her chest. "You two—you two—have made this the best day ever!"

You barely had time to process what was happening before you realized just how tightly she was holding you. One of her arms was wrapped around your shoulders, the other curled around Telemachus, who had instinctively bent down to accommodate her height. But the result was that your face was now unceremoniously squished against his, noses nearly brushing, both of you completely enveloped in Penelope's grasp.

It was impossible to move—not that you could even think to, with how fast your heart was racing. Telemachus made a muffled sound of protest, but his mother only squeezed tighter, sighing dramatically.

"My son upholding Ithaca's pride, my sweet girl showcasing our kingdom's glory—Hades be damned, I couldn't be more proud!" she sniffled, rubbing circles into your back as though you had just returned home from a long war.

A low chuckle sounded behind you. "Penelope, my love," Odysseus drawled, the amusement thick in his voice. "Your image as queen is slipping. Shouldn't you at least pretend to be composed?"

Penelope huffed, her grip tightening as she turned her head to pout at her husband. "Image is nothing when it comes to spoiling my babies."

You let out a muffled squeak as she gave another affectionate squeeze, your forehead now firmly pressed against Telemachus' temple. You could feel the way his breath hitched, his entire body locked still.

From beside you, Telemachus' voice—slightly strangled from the sheer force of his mother's hold—managed to rasp out, "Did she get into the wine again?"

Odysseus let out a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah. I tried to stop her, but, well... I can't tell her no."

Penelope sniffed indignantly. "And you shouldn't! I deserve a little fun!"

Her voice was so stubborn, so matter-of-fact, that you couldn't help it—you laughed. Telemachus groaned but finally gave in, allowing himself to lean into the embrace just a little, his breath warm against your cheek as he exhaled.

And for a moment, despite the absurdity of it all, you let yourself enjoy it too.

Finally, Penelope released the two of you, her hands lingering just long enough to cradle each of your faces, her gaze flicking between you both with unabashed fondness.

"Ah, how could I not show how proud I am of my darlings," she sighed, eyes misty. "Just look at you! My son, my dear girl—what a sight you are! Truly, my heart could burst."

You flushed, attempting to step back, only for her thumb to brush against your cheek in one last affectionate caress. Telemachus, still slightly disheveled from the embrace, exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle.

Before either of you could compose yourselves fully, Penelope's attention suddenly snapped elsewhere.

You had no idea how she saw anyone in the crowded courtyard, but she did.

Her expression shifted—her eyebrow twitched, her lips curled into a smile that was just a little too sharp to be warm.

"Oh, look, Ody," she mused, her tone laced with something you couldn't quite place. "There's Mistress Melisande."

Your gaze followed hers, landing on a noblewoman draped in fine Ithacan silks, her arm looped elegantly around that of her husband as they strolled leisurely across the courtyard.

Even at this distance, the woman carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who was very aware of her status, her dark curls pinned back with golden filigree, her movements deliberate.

Before you could even begin to process the significance of this, Penelope gave both you and Telemachus a small, unexpected pinch on the cheek, flashing a dazzling, entirely insincere smile.

Then, with the precision of a seasoned queen, she swept around you both in a swirl of fabric and regal purpose, making her way toward the unsuspecting noble couple.

Odysseus followed behind at a leisurely pace, letting out another long-suffering sigh—but this time, there was an amused smile tugging at his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners as though he already knew where this was going.

Just as they moved out of earshot, you both caught Penelope's smooth, honeyed voice. "Oh, Melisande, a pleasure as always. That shade of blue—so bold." A beat. Then, effortlessly, "Menas carried himself well in the trials. You must be so proud."

Melisande let out a polite, brittle laugh, but the slight shift in her grip on her husband's arm did not go unnoticed.

Telemachus groaned beside you, dragging a hand down his face. "She's going to destroy that woman."

You let out a weak chuckle, still processing what you'd just witnessed. "Who knew the queen knew how to play the game of nobility so well?"

Telemachus huffed out a quiet laugh, glancing over to where his mother was now effortlessly engaging Melisande in conversation—her voice smooth, her smile perfectly regal, but her presence a silent, looming force. His lips quirked in something fond, but distant.

"I like to think she's always been like that," he admitted, shaking his head. "But now, with my father back and everything as it should be... she can just enjoy herself." His voice softened slightly, his gaze lingering on his parents for a beat longer than necessary. "She... they deserve a bit of normalcy."

Then, he exhaled, shifting on his feet. "Speaking of normalcy," he started, his tone more deliberate now, as if preparing himself for something, "as per tradition, the chosen—" he cleared his throat, "—the one who accepts the tournament winner's favor... they, uh, they have the final dance of the night."

Your breath caught.

The meaning behind his words—behind that hesitation—hit you instantly, and suddenly, everything felt much too real.

You blinked, your heart hammering unexpectedly against your ribs.

Telemachus stood there, shifting awkwardly, his hands flexing slightly at his sides as if he didn't quite know what to do with them. His head was dipped just enough to where his hair obscured part of his face, but you could see the faint dusting of red creeping up his neck, the way his fingers twitched, the way he wouldn't quite look at you directly.

He was nervous.

He was nervous about asking you.

And suddenly, you were nervous, too.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, fidgeting against the fabric of your skirt. You swallowed, blinking rapidly, looking anywhere but at him.

Gods, why was this so difficult? Why did the air feel thicker? Why did your heart feel like it was trying to betray you?

It just didn't make sense. You had shared far more intimate moments before—words exchanged too softly, glances held too long, the heat of his hand lingering your own. And yet, somehow, this—this simple hesitation, this unspoken question—felt far more dangerous.

Because this kept between just the two of you and a space of privacy.

This was public.

This was being seen.

And gods, did they see.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, fidgeting against the fabric of your skirt. You swallowed, blinking rapidly, looking anywhere but at him.

Movement caught your eye, and you quickly realized—others had noticed, too.

As people moved about, preparing for the next phase of the night, you caught sight of a group of girls (and a few boys) lingering nearby, whispering excitedly behind their hands as they pointed in your direction. Their faces were bright with interest, eyes darting between you and Telemachus, their expressions painted in unmistakable awe.

Your stomach flipped.

Kissing your teeth, you feigned a roll of your eyes, sniffing lightly before tilting your chin up, closing your eyes with exaggerated nonchalance. "I suppose if it can't be helped," you sighed dramatically, crossing your arms. "Wouldn't want the tournament's winner left lonely on the dance floor."

Telemachus exhaled a quiet chuckle, but he didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he took a single step closer—so close you could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin. You barely had a moment to process before his hand reached out, fingers brushing against yours before curling around them in a gentle grasp.

Your breath hitched.

The touch was soft, careful, as if he were afraid you might slip away. You swallowed, pulse jumping in your throat as his thumb ghosted over your knuckles—a fleeting, almost absentminded movement that sent a shiver skittering up your spine.

When he finally spoke, his voice was warm—soft in a way that felt like it was meant just for you.

"It's a dance," he murmured, his eyes lingering on your face, tracing over your features as if memorizing them. Then, his gaze finally locked with yours, deep and unreadable, and your breath caught all over again.

And then—just as quickly as he had come—he was gone.

He gave your hand one final squeeze before stepping back, turning, disappearing into the shifting crowd.

You barely noticed the excited squeals that broke out from the girls nearby—the way they whispered, eyes sparkling as they pointed between you and where Telemachus had vanished.

Because the only thing you were focused on...

Was him.

Your fingers curled slightly where his warmth still lingered, and before you even realized it, the words left your lips, quiet and breathless.

"It's a dance."

A/N: ahhh love when my writing comes together ❤️ y'all have been spoiling me with the comments and i'm (selfishly) love looking at y'all go crazy for this so i couldn't stop myself from uodating. i know i'm getting redundant, but thank each and every last one of you, even the ones who stan andreia while everyone else roots for her demise (i stan/love her too, but don't know why im shocked my most fav andreia and aphrodite are hated when im out here writing a whole makima!reader 💀 we're the issue stannies). see y'all soon~

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog

[bekkarific]

Playing With Fire

Chapter Eleven - Out of the frying pan

Chapter Masterlist

Pairings: Frontman/In Ho x Fem OC

Ji Ah had not slept, the very idea of it eluded her.

She had seen neither the Frontman nor Jun Ho since their clandestine encounter. The Frontman's absence was a double-edged sword; while his physical presence had always been intimidating, his sudden disappearance left a void filled with uncertainty.

It felt odd in a way, having become used to his presence over the last few days. The air seemed to thicken whenever he was near, her senses attuned to his every movement, every breath. Ji Ah shook away those thoughts, knowing that path only lead to destruction.

As she prepared herself for the day ahead, she felt that feeling again, that ominous cloud lingering over her, telling her that something was going to go very wrong.

Making her way to her small wardrobe, preparing again to do battle against which part of her body she was willing to sacrifice, Ji Ah had no choice but to now accept the most revealing dresses as that was left.

With little choice left, Ji Ah selected a dress without looking, resigned to her fate.

The dress was an exquisite trap. Black, sleek, and unyielding, it clung to her body like a second skin, leaving little room for modesty or movement. The fabric shimmered faintly under the dim light, the sheen catching every curve and exaggerating it. The neckline plunged daringly, drawing the eye to the hollow between her collarbones before trailing lower, where the material gathered at a small gold clasp just above her navel.

The skirt was no reprieve; it hugged her hips so tightly it felt like she had been sewn into it, the hem ending just above her knees and slashing into a high slit that revealed far more leg than she would ever willingly show. The dress was designed to command attention, to flaunt confidence, but as Ji Ah turned to the mirror, she felt none of those things.

Not wanting to stare at her reflection any longer Ji Ah, set about getting ready hair first, pulling it into a simple high ponytail. Makeup next, black mascara lengthening her lashes, red lipstick adding an air of danger she had not sensed before. Her cheeks already flushed, needed no powder, hidden behind the mask that she pulled tight against her head.

Ready at last she gave her reflection one last look, not quite recognising the person staring back.

A knock broke her reverie, jolting her back to the present, as a voice called through the door.

“Number 13, it’s time to go to work” was all that was said as her door was unlocked.

Taking a deep breath Ji Ah headed toward the door, feeling that something was definitely going to go wrong today.

————————————-

The VIP’s were extravagant as ever, dressed only in their bathrobes and gold masks. They lounged in their own private chairs, heads pressed against the bosoms of painted women.

Ji Ah tried to not look repulsed as she took in the sight. But then like a magnet her eyes were pulled toward the edge of the room. Toward him.

Stood at a podium, hands fiddling with controls, solely focused on his task. The Frontman, dark and enigmatic as ever.

Ji Ah took the opportunity to study him, he seemed off. His movements too stiff, handling the controls with too much force, his head downcast not scanning the room as he normally did. He looked annoyed, Ji Ah summarised, but about what?

Following the rest of the servers, she headed into the little hidden corridor at the side of the room where all the refreshments were kept. Grabbing a tray off the shelf, she headed to get her glasses.

Robotically following her routine, she was surprised when she was surprised when she was suddenly pulled into the walk in freezer, a hand coming over her mouth to silence any noise.

She struggled, trying to wiggle her way out her attackers grasp, her panicked eyes making her way to his face.

Jun Ho. He stood there in front of her hands out in a calming motion, like he was trying not to spook a horse.

She breathed her heart still pounding, torn between wanting to punch him and hug him at the same time. Her eyes glanced over him, taking in his clean lines of the black waiters suit.

“Where -“ she stopped herself mid sentence her eyes dropping to the unconscious nearly naked man tied up the corner “oh that’s where” she added.

It didn’t matter though, they were together again, they were going to get out of this hell hole.

“What’s the plan?” Ji Ah asked, every confidence in her partner.

“Evidence” he said showing his phone he had slipped up his sleeve, its screen set to record. “And then we leave. There is an escape hatch in the frontman’s quarters, down to the sea” he said firmly, hands coming to rest on rest in her shoulders.

Evidence. Escape. Freedom.

It is all Ji Ah had hoped for this last few days. But one thought gnawed at her.

“What about the players?” She asked her eyes hopeful her partner had a plan for them also.

Jun Ho’s face became grim “I can’t help them, not if we want to leave this place alive”

Ji Ah’s heart sank.

“But Ji Ah” he started, hands coming to gasp her cheeks, gently pulling her head up to meet his eye “with this evidence, we can shut down this place for good, make sure these people are punished for what they did. So no one is there victim again”

Victims. That is what the players where to her, now they where her sacrifice. She is not sure she would ever be able to scrub that stain from her soul.

“Okay” she whispered, not convinced by her own words “what do you need me to do?”

“Distract them” was Jun Ho simply ordered

She nodded looking at her friend in the eye, but all she could see is the image of Gi Hun’s smiling face burned in her memory.

————————————

Ji Ah tried to breathe as she took her position at the side of the room, chilled whisky glasses balanced on her tray.

Distract them, she thought, she could do that. Her mind more confident and than she felt.

No one even seemed to notice she was gone for as long as she was, the VIP’s talking among themselves about which’s player had the best odds.

She watched as Jun Ho made his way around the room, his face now hidden behind a back mask with curved edges. Every fibre of her being praying that the Frontman does not look too closely at his employees. Well other than her for some reason.

Speaking of the dark masked man he had still not looked up from the controls, tension still set in his limbs.

Something was definitely wrong, Ji Ah could feel it. He normally made a point to look at her, to let her know she was in his grasp. But now, she may as well have been a ghost. Ji Ah was unsure whether to be comforted by this.

“God dammit, just tell us about the next name” blurted out the Texan, his ire directed toward the frontman “how long are you going to sting us along” he hollered, making sure he was heard.

The Frontman’s quietly sighed, as annoyed by the whole affair. Ji Ah watched with interest, she had never seen him express his emotions so outwardly, it almost made him human.

“Very well” he replied, resignation mixed with annoyance in his tone “allow me introduce the next game” his hand reaching out to the left, unveiling what appeared to be a model glass bridge.

“What’s that thing” a VIP questioned sitting forward in interest, the rest them following.

“The glass bridge you see in front of you gentleman, was designed from the game stepping stones” the Frontman informed, pointing to the model “each step is made of two types of glass. The tempered glass will hold the weight of two people, the normal glass will hold none.” He moved closer placing a chess pieces on the glass. “The players will go an order and make a choice, choose wisely and they will advance to the next glass. However choose poorly……” he demonstrated knocking the piece off, plummeting to the depths below. The happy sounds of the VIPs filling the room.

Ji Ah’s watched on in revulsion, ‘so much for fair’ she thought bitterly.

“I almost feel bad for the sorry bastard who goes first” the Texan laughed, throwing his head back.

Ji Ah’s and Jun Ho’s eyes locked from across the room, both reflecting their disgust and utter resignation. Jun Ho carefully tilting his wrist, his camera capturing the room.

Ji Ah lost in the actions of her colleague, had almost forgotten the frontman was even there, his voice cutting across the room. “Gentleman, choosing is about to begin” the screen coming to life behind him.

He stepped away from the podium, heading right toward Ji Ah.

The sudden movement caught Ji Ah off guard. Her breath hitched in her throat as she saw the Frontman approach. The air between them, thick and oppressive, felt charged—every step he took sent a shiver down her spine, pulling her attention completely to him, her mind flitting back to their moment in his quarters.

For a moment, the room faded away. She wasn’t surrounded by the VIPs or the sounds of their laughter, the noise of the game beginning, or even the Jun Ho in the corner. It was just her and him.

His tall, imposing figure loomed in front of her, his dark mask a constant reminder of the distance between them, even as he came closer. Ji Ah’s heartbeat drummed in her ears, and her fingers tightened around the tray, though it was no longer a matter of keeping control. Her breath came a little faster as his presence engulfed her.

“Number 13,” his voice was low, his words soft yet carrying an undeniable weight. It was a command, an acknowledgment, but there was something else buried beneath it—something just for her.

Ji Ah's throat went dry. She felt the weight of his eye, hidden behind the mask, bore into her, gaze dragging over her form.

His is hand reached out slowly, almost absentmindedly, brushing against the her skin as took the glass closet to her. The touch was brief, but it ignited something deep inside her—something she fought to ignore.

She was leaving, she was going to be free. She reminded herself.

Her mind raced, trying to maintain composure. She knew the stakes, the mission, everything depended on her staying focused. But the more he stood there, the harder it became to breathe normally.

His gaze never left her, his fingers brushed over the rim of the glass hand, swirling the liquid inside.

The space between them felt like it was closing in, the tension thick and heavy. Ji Ah couldn’t look away from him, even as she knew she should. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, and every instinct told her to step back, to regain control, but her body betrayed her, remaining rooted in place.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The Frontman straightened, his gaze lingering on her one last time, before he turned and walked back toward the podium, his presence leaving a lingering warmth in the air.

Ji Ah's chest rose and fell as she exhaled a shaky breath. Her heart was still racing,

but she knew she couldn’t let this affect her. She wouldn’t. Not now. Jun Ho needed her.

“You fuckward! Piece of shit!” The Texans voice reverberated around the room, breaking out of her ravine. He eyes snapping back to the screen showing player 096 take the 1st place bib from Gi Hun. A part of her feeling relief at that, even it if was wrong.

The Texan continued his tirade much to the amusement of the other VIP’s

“Now the game will begin” spoke the Frontman, voice cutting through the noise of the room as he pressed a button, unveiling the real scale glass bridge.

Ji Ah’s heart sank seeing this, thoughts intruding into her mind ‘could she really do this? Could she really leave them?’

She watched unable to take her eyes away, watching as scared players were ushered onto the platform, focusing on Gi Hun’s fluffy hair at the back.

“Scumbag” growled the Texan, watching player 069 go first. “Hey you” he called making Ji Ah’s eyes snap up - as did Frontman’s.

“Come sit next to me” he called his gaze on Jun Ho, patting the space next to him.

Ji Ah could only watch as Jun Ho made his way reluctantly over, facing the same fate she had to the handsy Texan.

Turning her head back the bridge, she caught the frontman’s looking at her again. Posture rigid, giving away no thoughts behind his hard cold exterior.

Needing to focus, she lifted her eyes back to the bridge, watching as player 096 plummeted.

“Well that’s it’s for 96” a VIP taunted.

Ji Ah felt sick, as she watched the next player step up, unable to take her eyes away.

It felt like hours, watching player after player plummet to their deaths. Looking at the timer, she was reminded that Gi Hun has yet to take his move.

She watched with bated breath when movement caught the corner of her eye. She watched as the Texan lead Jun Ho out of the room, boasting that he was ‘going for a different kind of fun’

Ji Ah’s stomach dropped, this was it.

She agreed to give Jun Ho a 3 minute head start, she looked at the timer over the bridge, counting down.

A distraction, she needed a distraction in order to leave the room.

The game was keeping the VIPs entertained, maybe she could just slip out? No that was stupid, considering the one person who barely lets her leave his sight. Her gaze flicking to man in question, as he scanned the room, stopping at her for just a moment.

She could faint? No, she already did that and the bastard carried her out personally.

She needed to be sent away.

Watching the clock tick down she was left with one option, which was either stupid or brilliant.

Ji Ah’s heart raced as she carefully balanced the tray, filled with whiskey’s, moving towards the VIPs, under the pre-tense of refreshing their drinks.

The room felt suddenly stifling, the weight of each gaze pressing down on her. Like they knew what she was planning.

The drink on her tray shimmered in the dim light. It was now or never.

She shifted her weight, pretending to catch her heel slick floor below. Time seemed to slow as she staggered, the tray tilting dangerously in her hands. The glass of drinks tipped over the edge, spilling in slow motion.

The cold liquid splashed violently across her chest, the droplets scattering across her exposed skin, soaking into the low-cut fabric.

The heat from her flushed cheeks only intensified as the drink clung to her skin, the sensation of the cold liquid dripping down her chest setting her pulse into a frantic beat. She froze for a split second, eyes wide in shock, acutely aware of how the room had fallen into a stunned silence. It had worked?

The VIPs, caught off guard by the accident, stared. Some gasped, others snickered, and a few leaned forward, their eyes greedily tracing the trail of liquid that clung to her skin. But it wasn’t their reactions that made Ji Ah’s breath catch—it was the sharp, calculating gaze of the Frontman.

He stood frozen, his gloved hands tight on the podium. Though his mask hid his expression, she knew he was watching her, every inch of her exposed skin under his scrutiny. The weight of his gaze was almost unbearable, heavy with something she couldn’t quite name.

A rush of heat rose through her body—not from the humiliation, but from the intensity of his focus.

The air between them thickened, a tension that sent a shiver down Ji Ah’s spine. As his gaze lingered for what felt like an eternity.

Ji Ah’s heart raced, but she didn’t dare break the silence. She stood frozen in place, holding the tray with trembling hands, trying to steady herself. She was painfully aware of the droplets of liquid sliding down her chest, clinging to the curve breast. The room felt even hotter now, the oppressive atmosphere closing in.

The Frontman finally moved, his gaze still fixed on her, his voice cold and controlled with a hint of something she could not name.

“Number 13,” he said, the weight of his tone commanding the room “Clean yourself up.”

He nodded toward the door, his hand sweeping to indicate her exit. It was almost dismissive in the way he allowed her to leave, but the undertone was clear—he was giving her permission to retreat. There was no question in his voice, no hesitation.

Ji Ah could only nod, her throat dry as she forced herself to move. She kept her eyes trained on the door like it was going to disappear at any moment. This was it, her way out.

Ignoring the lingering gazes of the others, but she couldn’t escape the sharp, weighted stare of the Frontman. His presence followed her even as she turned away, his eyes a silent command that held her in place even as her legs carried her out of the room.

With every step, the tension in her chest tightened. She needed to leave, to get away. And as much as the distraction had worked, as much as she was now excused to change, her mind raced with the knowledge that the clock was ticking. She had to be fast. She had to get out.

But for just a moment, as she turned the corner, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Frontman was watching her every move

[gobboguy]

**Chapter 40: The Unseen Threat**

Fiugla, a bustling medieval town, thrummed with life as its cobblestone streets echoed with the rhythm of hooves and the cheerful banter of townsfolk. Wattle and daub houses, adorned with colorful tapestries, stood testament to the town's prosperity. As Duke Fiu's carriage entered the town, the air buzzed with excitement. The townspeople, with faces lit up in admiration, gathered along the streets, their voices rising in joyous welcomes.

"Long live Duke Fiu!" they cheered, waving enthusiastically at their beloved ruler.

Elara, dressed in a somber black dress, observed the spectacle with a mixture of awe and curiosity. The genuine popularity that Duke Fiu enjoyed among his people intrigued her. The way they cheered and smiled, as if he were their savior, was a sight to behold.

Seated beside Duke Fiu in his ornate carriage, Elara couldn't help but voice her observations. "You're quite popular among your people," she remarked, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Duke Fiu nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. "Respect and loyalty are earned, not bestowed," he replied, his gaze fixed ahead. "A ruler must be seen as just and strong, for it is the people's trust that builds a realm."

As they approached his mansion, the atmosphere shifted from the lively bustle of the town to the imposing grandeur of his estate. It was a grandiose structure or dark brick with towering spires and ornate balconies. The opulence of the mansion was a stark contrast to the humble surroundings of the town below.

Elara stepped into the foreboding mansion, her senses immediately assaulted by the heavy aroma of aged wood, mingled with the faint scent of burning candles. The entrance hall was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows on the ornate wallpaper, depicting scenes of battles and ancient legends. The air felt dense, almost suffocating, as if the very walls held their breath, waiting for secrets to be unveiled.

The floor, once polished to a high sheen, now bore the scars of time, covered in an intricate pattern of rugs that seemed to muffle every step. Elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals catching the dim light and refracting it into prismatic spectacles that played across the walls.

The walls themselves were adorned with imposing portraits of stern-faced ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow Elara's every move. Dusty curtains, once rich in color, now hung faded and heavy, casting a ghostly pallor over the room. Occasional gusts of wind would cause them to sway, creating an eerie dance of shadows that seemed to breathe life into the ancient hall.

Elara's footsteps echoed as she ventured further, guided only by the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the tall, narrow windows. The mansion seemed to stretch endlessly, its corridors twisting and turning like a maze designed to confound intruders. Curved staircases led to unseen heights, and hidden doors whispered promises of concealed chambers, shrouded in secrecy.

In the heart of the mansion, a grand ballroom stood frozen in time. Dusty chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals dull and lifeless. Tattered curtains billowed as if exhaling ancient secrets, and the once-polished marble floor bore the scars of forgotten revelries. Elara could almost hear the faint echoes of music and laughter, memories of celebrations long past.

As she explored, a sense of foreboding settled upon her shoulders, the mansion's history seeping into her very bones. It was a place where shadows lingered, where whispers of the past intertwined with the present, and where secrets hid within the cracks and crevices of its aging walls. Each step she took felt like a descent into a labyrinth of mysteries, and Elara couldn't shake the feeling that the mansion was watching, waiting for her to uncover its darkest truths.

With calculated purpose, Duke Fiu led Elara towards the back of the mansion, where they encountered something that left her utterly perplexed. In a pen stood a creature she had never seen before—an immense, grey/green-skinned being, almost twice the size of a regular man. Its skin, once vibrant, now bore the scars of time, its muscles atrophied and weak, its posture defeated. Small pointed ears, tusk like lower canines and a stubby nose gave it a peculiar appearance, human and yet totally unlike humans.

"What is it?" Elara asked, her eyes fixed on the enigmatic being. The creature looked at her stupidly, as if it had never seen something as small as her before. There was only a limited intelligence behind those eyes; an intelligence forged in brutal nature, where higher level thinking was unnecessary in the face of survival.

"They call themselves Orcs," Duke Fiu said, his disdain palpable. "A race that poses a threat to our lands, a menace that must be controlled."

Elara felt a sense of responsibility settling upon her shoulders. "And you want me to find a way to control them?"

Duke Fiu's gaze bore into her, his determination unwavering. "Indeed," he affirmed. "Our people rely on our vigilance. We cannot allow these creatures to overrun our demesne."

Elara nodded, the weight of her new task sinking in. As she contemplated the challenges ahead, the whispers of the town's people praising Duke Fiu's wisdom and strength echoed in her mind, reminding her of the trust they had placed in their ruler, and now, in her.

[erodasfishtacos]

HSLOT HOUSTON

Okay, I’m actually so happy with this one. Come talk about it with me in my inbox! 😌

warning: smut

please like, comment, share, rec!

🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠

It was a bit of a shock, well a lot of a shock when YN is scrolling through her instagram time and it becomes flooded with a gif of her husband passionately kissing a gorgeous blonde.

The trailer for Don’t Worry Darling had dropped out of nowhere and now there was a nasty feeling on jealously, insecurity, and possessiveness in the pit of her stomach.

She knew it was irrational, they were married for fucks sake, but those emotions weren’t always rational.

YN watched it, over and over, until she tossed her phone onto the side table hard enough that it slides off and falls harshly on the ground.

Harry and crew were downstairs, it didn’t look like the Houston show was going to happen because of the storm.

She felts ridiculous and immature for the tears welling up in her eyes. It’s not like she was upset or mad at him.

She was proud of him for his acting abilities and all of his hard work - that’s why she was mad at herself right now.

YN knows Harry is expecting her downstairs to help figure out details, what to do for the fans, etc.. because she was a major part of the production crew.

But she nearly felt like she was going to throw up.

Could you blame her?

Who on earth would want to see their significant other making out passionately for the world to swoon over?

YN scrubs the tears from her cheeks, hadn’t even realized they were falling.

She does the worst thing ever, pulls it back up and starts ready comments, especially from their friends - it almost felt like betrayal. Jeff, Glenne, Lambert, Gemma.

A message appears at the top of the screen.

Bunny 🐰: come on darling, need you down here. meeting is about to start 😗

Her fingers hesitate.

yn: be down in five

Bunny 🐰: is everything okay? where’s my kiss? 😗😗😗😗😗😗😗😗😗😗

She sighs, she feels bad because it’s not his fault.

He had been offered the role, came home and instantly told his wife that if she wasn’t comfortable with him having romantic scenes - he’d turn it down.

YN wasn’t like that.

When she was being logically she would never want to stand in the way of Harry persuing his dreams.

It was acting and she had even been on set a few times when there were heated scenes but it just felt different - uncomfortable.

YN throws one of the bunny merch hoodies, a pair of cropped leggings, and black nikes before heading down from their suite to the conference room.

Harry had purposefully kept the seat open for her, right next to him, and she slips into quietly as they continue to talk.

There were a lot of higher ups in the room, from the venue, the touring company, his team - deciding on what they should do about the weather warning.

He instantly tugs her as close of possible to him with a long arm wrapped around her shoulder and a subtle kiss to the side of her head.

They’re talking about the people standing outside in the rain for GA, they all get quiet, and Harry nudges his wife, “Darling, they’re talking t’you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can you repeat the question?” YN asks, eyes a bit wide in embarrassment at all the stares on her face.

A venue manager speaks up, “How do you think the fans will react and how can we ensure them of another show here. We do not want to lose the business of this concert.”

“Obviously upset. People have flown in for the concert - so maybe if you reach out to some of those fans and reimbursement their flights, they’d be more likely to come back and that would look good on you guys,” YN offers, tense and trying to ignore Harry’s concerned expression - he could always tell.

“Jamie, get on that,” The man orders with an executive nod that he liked the idea and Harry squeezes her shoulder lovingly.

The meeting goes on, she would normally wait for Harry to wade through all the people wanting to speak to him but she zips through the maze of bodies and back down the corridor to the elevator.

She about there when she hears someone running to catch up with her, knows exactly who it is when he pulls her back into his strong chest.

“Wha’s wrong?” Her husband murmurs in her ear, lips brushing softly and his arms keeping her as close as possible.

“It’s nothing, I just need some time alone,” YN sighs, stepping out of his warm embrace and turning to face him.

“Did I do somethin’? Baby, c’mon,” He coaxes, frowning as he studies her face, “Talk t’me, please.”

“I’m just - I’m being dumb,” She chuckles with no humor in her tone, tears welling again and she is quick to cover her face in her sleeve because fans are being to notice them.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get y’upstairs,” Harry replies, guiding her towards the elevator and throwing his arm around her to block her - it would look playful in the fan photos.

The crowd gets irritated when Harry refuses to stop and sign things, take pictures but his bodyguards quickly block them from getting to close.

Once in the elevator, alone, Harry cups her face gently, “Baby, y’gotta tell me what’s going on, m’confused.”

“The trailer, it came out and -“

Harry is perplexed for a moment, “Is that why everyone’s blowing up m’phone?”

Then he’s pulling it out, swiping a few times, and the short ten-second trailer is playing across his screen and he knows instantly.

“Sweetheart,” He sighs, tucking it back into his pocket, “M’sorry-“

“No, no. Don’t apologize,” YN interrupts him, eyes frantic as she speaks, “I’m not - It’s not your fault. I just wasn’t expecting it and it threw me off. I am so proud of you -“

“But y’a bit jealous, huh?” Harry smirks, rubbing his thumb against her bottom lip lightly, tugging to tease a bit.

“You’re my husband. Of course, I don’t want to see you do that with anyone else,” YN replies, watching as her husbands eyes meld into something fiery and golden.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks, voice deepening into what YN likes to call his sex voice and it really does work - makes her stomach flip.

“Harry, you don’t have to try to make me feel better. I’m re-“

Harry hits the red stop button on elevator, pausing the movement - it was a single elevator to the penthouse so it wasn’t effecting the rest of the hotel guests.

“Let me tell you a secret. The day we had to film tha’ scene, when I had to kiss someone who wasn’t you over and over again. When I had to act like I would fuck someone other than you,” Harry’s teeth are grazing her jugular dangerously, his breathe minty and cool, “You remember that one night on the balcony?”

“Mm,” YN agrees shakily, she remembers that night a few months ago well.

-

Harry had come home from set with a mission.

He hadn’t disclosed what happened that day and YN had completely forgotten to ask later on.

When he stormed through their master bedroom and swung open the balcony doors, his eyes fall hungrily on his wife who’s reading a book on their balcony. ***

Her skin was glowing on the dim fairy lights and reflection of the moon, it was late- nearly midnight when he’d finally gotten home.

She was lounging on the sofa, sprawled in a silk pajama set that was simple but so sexy in the way her natural breasts lay without a bra - nipples poking at the fabric.

It had only taken him a moment, he’d been hard the whole ride home thinking about his wife, and when he saw that, he was striding over and murmuring, “You know your safe words, right baby?”

-

It was him eating her out hungrily, ridding her of her clothes and him still fully dressed as he nipped and sucked at her clit.

-

Then he had bent her over the balcony railing, overlooking the Hollywood hills where surely their neighbors could have seen if they squinted.

His fingers were digging harshly into her backside, thrusting and having her tits sway with the force as he praised her on how well she took it.

-

And it ended with back on the couch, her legs soaked from her multiple releases, skin smattered in bruises and love bites, and Harry kissing her roughly as he pinched her clit and released inside her.

-

“The reason I wrecked y’tha’ night was because doing all that shit on set made me want to come straight home to m’wife,” Harry whispers like there’s other people in the elevator with them.

“Harry,” She mutters shyly, avoiding eye contact and looking down to the marble floor.

“No, look at me, baby. All I could think about were how much better your mouth feels, how no one can ever compare to how fuckin’ sexy y’are,” He rumbles, his hand is slipping underneath her hoodie and palming at her belly.

“Love you,” YN replies, reaching up to press their lips together and whine when his tongue automatically finds it way into her mouth.

“Been with you since I was fifteen. Y’know tha’? There’s a reason for that, s’because nobody gets to me like you do. You always make me crave more. The reason I put that rock on y’finger and y’name on m’bank account.”

“Bunny, please.”

Harry smirks against her lips, “Please what?”

“Fuck me, c’mon,” She begs desperately, his hand teasing at the waistband of her leggings but not giving her anything.

“Gotta give it t’you when you ask, s’my husbandly duty,” Harry kisses her again, hands moving to tug them down.

“Yes, be a good husband,” She scolds, getting on her tiptoes out of instinct as he slips two fingers up into her.

“M’tryin’,” He gruffs, hissing at how wet she is for him as he curls his fingers towards the front her wall to hit her spot, “Only one f’me. Never want anyone else, been an love-struck idiot for you since I was fifteen.”

-

After they finish, Harry presses the button to restart the elevator and they’re both panting, with a light sheen on sweat.

When they step into the foyer of the penthouse, Harry cups her face and makes sure he has her full attention.

“I love you. If this movie or me acting with other people romantically is too much for you. Please tel me, m’job is never more important than m’marriage,” He says seriously, face still splotchy from coming in the sticky, hot elevator.

She shakes her head, “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable - well, not when I’m thinking logically. I’m proud of you, I can’t wait to see the movie.”

“I love y’so much, sunflower. Y’my soulmate, the reason I have the courage and confidence is because of you.”

[fific7]

Dangerous and Divine - Part 11

Billy Russo x Reader

Summary: Billy Russo is an itch you don’t want to scratch. But he’s all over you like a rash.

A/N: This does not follow canon, it’s mainly fluff & lemon zest 🍋 The GIF is from Exposed, unreleased pilot show in case you’re wondering 😌... Billy vibes.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW due to sexual content including oral and unprotected* sex between consenting adults. Some voyeurism. Some drinking & swearing.

*Irl, please don’t go wild in the country without protection.

(My GIF)

Wanting to turn round and get the hell out of there, Madani found herself rooted to the spot. It was like car crash TV... she just couldn’t bring herself to look away. So, she stood there and just watched.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, she just stared at the scene in front of her. The room door was at her back and she went along with it involuntarily as it swung closed behind her. Coming to rest against it, she drew in a long breath.

Her eyes were glued to that damn cute ass of Billy’s. Watching it... relentlessly, hypnotically moving up and down, up and down, up and down. Listened to his breathy moans and low grunts as he pounded in and out of her. Uhh, uhh, unnhhh, unnhhh. Caught glimpses of his balls between his legs, snapping backwards with each thrust. A sheen of sweat visible across his shoulders and back. Saw one hand making its way down to where their bodies were joined, his other running gently along her thigh.

Her! she thought venomously. It should be me... he should be on top of me in that bed!

But still she watched. And watched. It was really dim in the room, and she realised the curtains were almost fully closed. She found herself craning her neck forward slightly to get a better look.

She watched as he kept on thrusting, then she noticed the muscles in his ass eventually tense up. Another three or four shorter thrusts, then she heard Billy cry out. Heard him breathe her name, saw him lowering his head to rest on her shoulder for a moment before bringing it up to her face; she just knew he was kissing her now. “I love you,” Madani heard him say, and more kisses followed.

The breath she’d taken in left her lips in a long hiss. This was just so not fucking fair!

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You reached up off the pillows to kiss Billy’s beardy chin above you, but a sudden movement near the door caught your eye. You let out a small shriek as you saw a shadowy figure standing there and Billy leaned back immediately, looking at you anxiously. You pointed towards the door and his head shot round in that direction. A snarl appeared on his lips and he roughly grabbed the bedcovers, quickly pulling them over the two of you. He leaned up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder at the intruder.

“Madani!!!” he yelled, “You... you fuckin’.... Get the fuck outta here!!!”

You heard the door slam, and raised your face from where you’d hidden it against Billy’s chest. You hadn’t been able to make out who it was in the low light. “That was her?” you asked him, and he nodded, throwing back the covers and sitting up against the pillows, running both hands through his wayward hair. “Yeah,” he replied, “yeah, it fuckin’ was. That crazy fucking bitch.”

You also sat up, bringing the sheet across you and under one arm, “What the hell was she doing in your room, Billy?” You were glaring at him, and he quickly put his hand on your cheek, “I have no idea, angel... truly I don’t. Please don’t be thinkin’ this was some kinda hookup, cos it wasn’t! I’m gonna fuckin’ strangle her.... urrrhhhh!!” You could see that he was absolutely furious.

Reassured, you softened your gaze. He carried on, “We’re not due to meet up with her for another half hour. She musta been given a pass key and for whatever reason, came chargin’ in here.”

You ran your fingers up through his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead, “Billy, I swear I’m gonna nail Agent Madani’s ass to the wall when all this is done!”

“You and me both, sweetheart,” Billy said grimly.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Billy had got up and showered (with you) after that, then he’d unpacked his black tactical suit and got into it. While you were busy admiring how he looked in it - like, really damn sexy - after a long and passionate kiss, he’d left you in the room, telling you to doublelock the door and not to open it for anyone except him.

You’d been made to promise on the lives of everyone you held dear that you’d stay there, until he got back. He didn’t know exactly when that would be, which you had to admit pissed you off a bit but you understood he couldn’t give you a precise time and why. It’s just you didn’t like the thought of being cooped up in the room all day.

Oh well, you had the TV, the movie channels, the mini bar... and room service. Your eyes lit up. Room service!!

Eager to get ordering, you started looking for the menu in the pile of hotel stuff on the funky reclaimed wooden desk, which was underneath a huge ornate mirror. You caught sight of yourself in it as you did so. Ohh... okay, you’d better lose the “I’ve Just Been Fucked Senseless” look before the room service guy arrived, otherwise you might just give him the fright of his life.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Dinah Madani had stumbled out of Billy’s room, letting the door slam behind her. She took off along the corridor at a cracking pace, face flaming red, heading for the fire exit stairs. She smoothed down the fabric of her jacket with her hands, then ran them down onto her trousers, trying to calm her breathing as she went.

She replayed the vision of Billy’s naked body in her mind, of him having sex, blocking out the inconvenient fact that he’d been in bed with someone else.

Damn, she was aroused. She could feel how damp her panties were as she walked. How was she supposed to get the handsome big bastard out of her head now, after seeing that display? In her head, she transposed herself into that bed, underneath him. She could almost feel him inside her.

And every time she looked at him from now on? Yes - she was going to be imagining him naked. And it wouldn’t be to give herself more self-confidence in front of a bunch of people, like they taught you to do in those self-help courses.

As she started making her way down the stairs, she mentally shook herself - she’d better get her head back in the game or this could all go horribly wrong.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Billy had taken the same route down a couple of floors to the room being used as the base of operations. He was still fuming about Dinah’s little voyeuristic visit to his room. What the fuck was she thinking, coming into his room unannounced? If he hadn’t been otherwise engaged he could’ve shot her! And just how long had she been standing there, watching him make love to his girl?

Weird bitch, he thought, but I’ll settle the score with her once this is all over.

He knocked once on the door, saw an eye appear in the spyhole and then the door opened. Frank and the rest of the Anvil team were already there, along with Madani and her Homeland agents. He glared at Madani but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Frank winked and grinned at him, fully aware of the ‘operation’ Billy had been on prior to arriving. Wait till he told him about Madani’s latest little stunt!

They got down to business, running through the details of the op and all the ‘what if’s’ and Plan A, Plan B, Plan C scenarios once again. Everyone was given their positions, tasked with certain duties, told to make sure their earpieces were in and working. The two teams started leaving the room and dispersing to their designated locations. The undercover agent remained to get a further briefing from Billy, Frank and Madani, then he too left to go to his room where the meet would take place.

That left the three of them, plus the Homeland agents who’d be monitoring all the comms and security cameras. Billy marched right up to Madani, towering over her and glaring so furiously at her that it was a wonder she didn’t catch on fire. In a very low voice that only the three of them could hear, he bit out, “I’m sayin’ nothing right now about what happened earlier, Dinah - we need to be totally focused on this fuckin’ op - but we’re gonna be having a conversation about it at some point.”

He caught sight of Frank’s puzzled face but just gave him a small shake of the head. “Right,” he said, “c’mon Frankie, let’s go and check the perimeters.”

The two of them left, leaving Madani to pace the room and watch the CCTV screens over the shoulders of her agents. She hadn’t said a word directly to Billy or looked him in the eye during the entire briefing.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Billy strode along the corridor so quickly that Frank had to really hurry to catch him up. “Hey, Bill! What’s up with you and Madani now?” Billy shook his head, “Dunno that I should talk about it, Frankie, I’m still fuckin’ furious with her, and I really gotta concentrate on all this shit that’s goin’ down today.” They reached the stairs, Billy opening the fire door and they started down the steps.

Frank grabbed his arm and they both stopped walking. “Don’t forget I know you better’n you know yourself, Russo. If you don’t get this off ya chest, you’re gonna explode. And that ain’t what we need right now.”

Billy leaned his back against the wall and sighed, “Yeah, you’re right.” He broke eye contact with Frank, saying, “She’s got a master key for the rooms.” Frank said warily, “Yeah, I know she does... and?”

“Came crashin’ into our room, when I was... we were...” Frank’s eyes got huge, “havin’ sex. Stood there for fuck knows how long watchin’ us, till we finally noticed her after... after we finished, an’ I yelled at her to get out.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Frank said through gritted teeth, “What the fuck’s wrong with that woman?!”

Shaking his head, Billy shrugged, “I dunno, Frank. She’s got issues, that’s for sure.” He turned and started down the stairs again, “C’mon, let’s get this shitshow on the road.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You’d ended up having the most pleasant day to yourself. Leisurely soak in the spa bath, several room service orders (repairs having been carried out before the waiter’s first visit), several little trips to and from the mini-bar for G&T’s. You’d finished the gin now, and had moved on to vodka & coke. Not your favourite but beggars, choosers etc.

You’d been on one of the big movie channels, and so far you were three fantasy films, two rom-coms and a heist movie into their list. In fact you’d started drifting off to sleep as you got towards the end of the heist movie, and made yourself sit up to make sure you didn’t doze off. You gazed back at the massive wall-mounted TV and tried to pick up whereabouts you were in the plot. Oh right - bank robbery.

The bad guys ran into the bank, firing shots into the air and getting everyone to lie down on the floor. But there was that one hero security guard, who drew his gun and tried to shoot the bad guy gang leader. Cue good guy getting shot, up rolls a police armed response unit, cue gun battle, various dead good and bad guys, oh and here’s the car chase as a couple of baddies got away.

Hey hang on, the gun battle’s still going on, but neither the cops or the bad guys are shooting at each other as they’re too busy doing handbrake turns and screeching round corners.

It dawned on you the gunfire you could hear was in your freaking hotel. Leaping up and zipping over to the window, you saw various black SUV’s parked randomly in the middle of the street, blue lights flashing and doors wide open, but apart from crowds of the general public running for cover, there was no-one in sight round the big cars.

You could still hear the rattle of gunfire, and then all of a sudden it went eerily quiet.

Breathing unsteadily, you had a nasty feeling in the pit of your stomach and your hand wavered towards the doorhandle. The temptation to open it was huge. ‘No!’ screeched the sensible part of your brain, ‘for just once in your life.... Do. What. You’re. Told.” Your hand went back to your side. Okay, you win, you told your brain glumly.

You walked back over and sat on the bed, ended the movie - the bad guys were probably either A) going to get away or B) get caught - so you could live without seeing the end of it. Starting to flick through the programme guide, you finally found a news channel, but they had nothing about the hotel or ‘shots fired’.

So you spent the next thirty minutes sitting on the bed for 3 minutes then getting up and pacing, then sitting on the bed again for another 3 minutes, then pacing again... hit the repeat button on that scenario until there was a big knock at the door.

You headed over to the door but didn’t put your eye to the peephole, having seen a film once where someone got shot in the eye that way. Yes, you did watch a lot of movies, what of it! So you just called out, standing to one side, so you wouldn’t get shot through the door either (yes, yes, saw that in the movies too), “Who’s that?!”

Billy’s voice said, “It’s me, sweetheart. Can you let me in? And don’t get upset but I got grazed a coupla times by bullets so I’m bleedin’ quite a bit.”

Don’t get upset? you thought, he’s gotta be joking hasn’t he? You hastily unlocked and pulled open the door, and you saw a very pale-faced Billy leaning on the doorframe, blood on his face and on one of his arms. You could see ripped fabric on the sleeve of his tactical suit where the blood was coming from.

“Oh, Billy,” you said, worried, dragging him into the room and slamming the door closed.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

@blackbirddaredevil23 @galaxyjane @omgrachwrites @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead

[visceryl]

The Great Dragon Rescue

This is the bang @montdiarts​ and I worked on together! The lovely comic art belongs to @montdiarts​ while the writing belongs to myself. @hphmbang2020​

---------------------

“Are you sure about this, Charlie?”

Barnaby’s voice echoed down the cracked stone halls weathered with age as the boys traveled by torchlight down the seldom used corridor. He gripped his wand tightly in a fist, green eyes shifting behind to ensure they weren’t followed.

“I saw it myself, Barnaby, a real life dragon egg,” the red-headed boy hissed back. He picked his way around the corner bending left, unbothered enough to forgo looking down the other adjoining halls. As far as he was concerned, that was what Barnaby tagged along for.

When he’d first stumbled upon the egg, it had been fate. It started with a prodding dream to study for his OWL’s, and after waking up covered in a fresh sheen of sweat, he had set to work scouring Hogwarts for the best place to study between classes without anyone finding him. That, of course, meant going where he wasn’t supposed to. 

Charlie sniffed out nearly every inch of the expansive castle, resulting in the common practice of people and creatures chasing him from newly acquired positions. He dared not tell Barnaby his previous run-in with Hagrid’s puppy.

As far as the Slytherin knew, this was a top secret mission to save a dragon’s egg from great peril. Loneliness. 

It wasn’t about the knowledge that they were doing this during a time both were supposed to be nose deep in books for their classes. Or that of all classes currently running, Snape was still a credible obstacle that roamed the halls. Barnaby was a defend first and ask questions later type of guy, which made him the perfect fit. 

“Okay, I get it's a dragon egg but do you even know what kind? What if someone notices it missing?”

“It’s been cruelly locked behind chains and left to rot alone!” Charlie defended. “I’m going to save it and set it free. This chance is once in a lifetime, it depends on us to ensure it's not a captive its whole life!”

A low chuckle rolled from Barnaby’s chest and he sent his elbow into the Weasley’s arm. “You’re kind of crazy, you know that?”

Charlie leveled the Slytherin with a knowing look, teeth shining brightly behind freckled features. “It runs in the family, what’s your excuse?”

“... Same here.”

Hesitation glued Charlie’s feet to the ground and his gaze lingered on his friend, scouring for any emotional fluctuation in Barnaby’s expression. Family was sensitive, he didn’t joke about it often. But there was no further comment. He’d already moved on with a roll of his shoulder, pushing ahead.

The two boys continued in silence for the remainder of the walk. Torches lit along the walls on either side, a lone painting rousing with suspicion in passing. It muttered to itself, talking of the no good boys causing trouble in its halls. 

It was ignored as Charlie took them up a flight of stairs tucked away neatly behind a wooden door. The knob was slightly rusted with underuse and the staircase led only to a hatch in the ceiling, sealed tight with a lock. 

Barnaby loomed over Charlie’s shoulder as the redhead touched down to palm the lock in hand. It twisted and turned with examination. 

“Mm, this could be a problem.”

“How did you get it open the first time?”

The dragon enthusiast’s cheeks burned a fiery red. “It wasn’t locked before. But it doesn’t matter, I can still open it.”

He took the lock further in his grasp and drew his wand. “Barnaby, give me a bit more light, please?”

The Lumos spell started as a pinprick of light in the dark room before its glow illuminated a near thirty foot area around them in dim lighting. Coming into the stairwell, they had abandoned a path of torches for secrecy. By the looks of the moss eaten cobblestone and the water stained cracks jutting up the walls, nobody was supposed to be here.

“Thank you,” Charlie breathed with a forward sink of his shoulders. He was relieved to have at least partial vision restored. 

He gave a wave of his wand and muttered the incantation for unlocking beneath his breath. As his wand turned, he could hear the rusted gears of the lock creaking open before… snap!

The hook of the lock popped open and he quickly scrambled to tear it off the hatch. It bounced unsteady in his hand, sliding past the grip of fingers. Barnaby made a pass at it, swiping to catch it before the first dreaded clink of it echoing off the stone staircase. 

To no avail.

The lock evaded both their grasps and tumbled down each individual stair before hitting the bottom with a final crack.

Charlie recoiled with tension, features pinched with horrified strain as a palm smooshed over his face, rubbing out his worry and frustration. “Don’t worry about it,” he insisted with a low hiss. 

His attention turned back to the hatch, flattening his palms on its underneath and pushing. Dust rained down on the two, clouding Barnaby’s normally brown hair in a layer of spotted gray. Both were immediately sent into a coughing fit, Charlie’s hand raising over his mouth as he ushered for the other to shine his wand up inside. 

“Don’t worry about it? Charlie have you actually ever been to this place? I don’t think anything comes up here!”

“Shh!” The Gryffindor snapped his gaze back, grasping his friend by the shoulder and giving an assuring squeeze. “I promise you, I know what this is. Please, Barnaby, just shine your light.”

Reluctantly, Barnaby did as he was told, straightening beyond Charlie to loft his wand into the room shrouded entirely in darkness. His Lumos spell lit it with ease, and as green eyes keenly made it around the room, Charlie scrambled up past him. 

The wood floor of the seemingly abandoned attic space cried shrilly beneath the boy’s weight. This space either hadn’t been used in a long time or was made to look that way. The walls and far end of the room were lined with junk. Textbooks, boxes, old potion bottles, broken brooms. It’s initial appearance gave off nothing more than an old storage room, which is exactly how it’d caught Charlie’s eye to begin with.

Secure and secluded. 

But it was what rested to his left that sparked him with the overwhelming sense of duty that led him to tuck tail and run for backup. Charlie was in no way deterred by his task or incapable of doing so, but sneaking a dragon egg through Hogwarts required tact and a lot of help. 

Sat atop a pedestal of marble, an egg-shaped form loomed in the cascading shadows rippling off of Barnaby’s wand. Charlie advanced, curving his fingers into the white linen sheet when a noise sent the Slytherin behind him scrambling. 

A crack.

Barnaby whirled, pointing his wand threateningly at empty space and his teeth grated together. “I don’t like this.”

Charlie waited a moment longer, listening out into the silence, and proceeded. He threw the sheet off and set his sights upon the rich brown egg covered in a deep tiger pattern and scaled surface. Giddiness shot through him.

“Come on, Barnaby! Look at it,” he hissed out, wildly waving his friend over. “It’s beautiful!”

Barnaby shuffled over, the light following him as he moved. He examined every end of the egg, circling around it before a frown sunk his features. “I think it’s dead, Charlie.”

“What?!”

He raised out a hand, slowly turning the back end of the egg to face the Gryffindor where a giant crack split across the back. “That doesn’t look healthy for it, at least.”

For but a moment, Charlie sank in hopeless defeat, jaw dropped slack. He pressed his hands to either side of the egg, cupping it until his forehead lowered to its top. “I should have known,” he whispered.

Then another crack. 

Something smashed back against Charlie’s forehead and he wheeled back in shock. Both boys latched their attention on the egg that writhed and shuddered on the pedestal. A small hole poked through the hardened shell and from within a deep red eye peered out.

“It’s not dead, Barnaby!” Charlie shouted all at once, lurching forward to grab the egg again. “It’s hatching! We’re going to see it hatch!”

The little dragon within the shell struggled for several minutes, chipping and biting away at its confinements. At some point, Charlie stepped in, breaking away a few small pieces to make a larger exit point. By the end of fifteen minutes, a wyrmling crawled out, knocking several shell pieces to the ground where they splintered against the wood. 

It spanned out a paper-thin wing, small serpentine tongue lashing out to lick away excess nutrients that clung like a soft film to its body. 

Barnaby crept behind it, a finger waggling against its sweeping tail that coiled and uncoiled as it lounged. “Hey, it’s kind of cute,” he murmured.

“Kind of?” Charlie stood back in awe, a glimmer of excitement in his soft honey brown eyes. “This is a Ukrainian Ironbelly! Look at its color and how thick those scales are!” His knees bit into the unstable wood flooring as he threw himself before the pedestal, coming eye level with the dragon.

“It doesn’t have its spines yet, but said to be the largest of all the dragons. Can you imagine the luck!?”

Barnaby had to hand it to Charlie, he liked animals as much as the next idiot, but never to the degree Charlie liked dragons. Nobody doubted what he’d become when he left here, or where he’d go. He was someone with a dream to study and learn from some of history’s greatest beasts. 

The Slytherin inhaled and moved to clap his friend on the shoulder. “Alright then, use that brain of yours to rework the plan. I was supposed to carry an egg, not a baby dragon. How do we hide it until we get out?”

“...Well like I said before, Penny has some potions we can use to sneak out of the castle. The only problem is.. Now that it’s hatched, I think we need to go to Hagrid.”

“What if he tells Dumbledore? Or worse. Snape.”

“No way, Hagrid loves us. And he’ll love this little guy. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”

Barnaby was about to open his mouth to reply when the baby Ironbelly leapt from the pedestal, little wings snapping out. It glided for a split second before crashing against Charlie’s shoulder, letting its claws tear and grasp at his robes for purchase. A panicked cry squeaked from its chest.

The dragon enthusiast all but melted, shaking hands roping up around its body and hugging it to his chest. “Easy, easy little guy,” he soothed. 

Another squeak chirped from the Ironbelly and its plated head rubbed to Charlie’s cheek, a soft pink tongue dampening his skin with saliva. 

“...Okay you win. Can I hold it?” Barnaby quickly sputtered out, watching the baby dragon in his own glistening wonder. It took only a second for Charlie to inch himself side by side with the Slytherin, helping the wyrmling hop into his arms and onto a shoulder. It’s teeth immediately latched onto his ear, tugging with a less than threatening growl.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. “Hey!” He scooped a hand under the Ironbelly, drawing it aloft in front of his face, detaching it from his ear. “Those little teeth are still sharp.” The dragon chirped again, a soft puff of smoke lifting into the air from its parted maw. 

“Here’s the plan,” Charlie purred, scratching beneath it’s chin. “We take turns tucking it beneath our robes and find our way to Penny. She’ll supply us with the potions needed to sneak out and find Hagrid. From there, hopefully he’ll know what to do with releasing it.”

At that, Barnaby promptly wrangled the little wyrmling beneath his robes, letting it attach to his shirt, where it’s little nose picked up the lingering scent of treats. It shuffled, snuffing about before pressing its nose into the front chest pocket of his button up, clawing out a delicious pet snack.

“...I’ve got it, but it just ate the treats I saved for the Niffler!”

“Better the little thing travels full anyways.”

The plan was destined for failure. Too many open variables, too little done to prepare for carrying a baby dragon out of Hogwarts. Charlie and Barnaby set off down the halls once more after climbing from the hatch and skipping down the winding staircase. 

Barnaby struggled to calm the wyrmling’s shuffling as it fought tooth and nail to peek its head out from his collar. Eventually, a hand pressed to the top of its head through the fabric and came away with a yelp, the skin blistering red from tiny little puncture holes. 

“Charlie, it bit me!”

“Shhh, we just have a little bit further.”

“A little bit further for what?” 

The new voice had both boys jumping. Charlie whipped around to come face to face with Felix. His arms were folded over his chest expectantly, hair pulled back into a tight mini-ponytail. 

Barnaby refused to turn towards his Prefect, clutching the Ironbelly tighter to his chest as he boasted a nervous laugh. “Felix! We didn’t expect to see you here, Charlie and I were just trying to find Penny. She was going to help us out with potions.”

An impatient little squeak came from his robes and Felix raised a brow.

“Help you out, or help your little friend? What did you sneak in this time, Lee?”

Charlie slipped himself between the Slytherin Prefect and his friend, flashing a much too wide smile. “You know, it’s probably best you don’t know. That blasted Barnaby, always bringing in magical creatures. Well you know, Felix, I caught him in the act and I’m helping him sneak it out to return it!”

“What?!” Barnaby couldn’t stop himself in time, the rush of embarrassed shock warming his cheeks. “I mean.. Yeah! I just wanted a bit more time with the… the Niffler. I’m sorry, Felix, won’t happen again.”

Felix narrowed his gaze on the two, clearly not buying it as he waited impatiently for the truth. His foot tapped the ground. One, two, three times. It attracted the attention of the wyrmling smothered in Barnaby’s robes and with a last push for freedom, raced down the Slytherin’s leg.

In an instant it was attacking Felix’s shoe, teeth digging into the black leather with a determined growl as it shook its mighty little head.

Wide eyes blinked down at it, the prefect’s face twisted with horror at the audacity of the two boys. “Oh no. You have got to be kidding me. CHARLIE. You have one minute to convince me not to blow the whistle. This is a dragon. In the school.”

Charlie grimaced, quickly going down to sweep the dragon back up into his arms, letting it settle before just barely concealing it behind his robes. It could peek its head out, red eyes blinking out curiously at all the winding halls and movements. 

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “But Felix, please, you can’t tell. I found it alone up in one of the attics. It just hatched! I was only trying to get it out of the school to begin with so it could be freed.”

The Prefect either wasn’t buying it, or was quite good at hiding his true feelings. After a moment of silence, his jaw tightened with tension. Footsteps echoed down the right wing of the hall. 

“Dammit, Charlie. Go around the hall, now!” Felix suddenly lashed out. “I had a meeting with Professor Snape. That’s him. Go.”

“What about the dragon!?” 

“Just get it out of here, I’ll distract Snape.”

Before they had time to argue, Felix curled his fists into their clothes and shoved them around the corner. Just in time. His fingers combed through his hair to smooth back any messiness and rounded to meet Snape. 

“...Felix,” the man greeted with an exhale of annoyance. 

“Professor Snape. Did you want to go back to the classroom to talk? Or maybe the common room?”

As if a bloodhound for mischief, the man crinkled his nose like he’d smelled some foul odor. His sharp gaze ran the length of the halls before drifting back down to his Prefect. “Now, I do hope you haven’t gotten mixed up in anything. So eager to leave. I believe here is as good a place as any.”

Felix grimaced, avoiding looking in the direction he sent Barnaby and Charlie. “No, of course not, Professor. Here is fine.”

“Wonderful.”

Snape began to walk towards the hall, letting Felix trail after in panicked steps, trying to deflect his attention. It spurred him on faster. The Head of House ripped around the corner with a scowl already spanning his face as if ready to scold on a moment’s notice. 

“What are you doing, Weasley?” His voice lashed out accusingly.

Charlie had been quick on the ball. Sat on the ground with his back resting against the wall, he flipped through pages of a book, scribbling down notes between the lines with his quill. As soon as Snape’s voice met him, he glanced up shyly. “Professor Snape. Sorry, I was just doing a bit of studying.”

“With Lee?”

Barnaby was on the other side of Charlie, head knocked to the side with a line of drool dribbling down his chin. Unbeknownst to any of them, the wyrmling had wriggled its way free, bounding away behind Snape at full speed. 

Save for Felix.

He caught sight of the runaway dragon and a cold tension coiled up in every muscle. Quickly, he wracked his brain for a way out of it. 

“Oh no!” the Prefect suddenly exclaimed. “I just remembered, Professor! There is a reason why I’m a bit jumpy. I was meaning to tell you, but I saw one of the first years stuffing contraband under their mattress.”

“What?” Snape whirled, momentarily keen to forget the other two’s very existence. “Why are you waiting until now, Felix? Who.”

“I’ll show you. Just follow me.” 

The gamble paid off. 

Felix’s normally stellar behavior and hard earned trust with Snape eventually led the man off with nothing more than a cruel warning to Charlie to stay out of trouble. Purposefully led in the opposite direction of the baby dragon.

And as soon as they were gone, Barnaby sprang to action. Faster than Charlie, the big lug tore down the hall after their new friend. “Hurry, Charlie! Grab it!” 

He skidded with his shoes against the deep maroon runner streaking down the hall, wrinkling the rug in the process. The Ironbelly weaved, dodging under a table. Barnaby nearly sailed right over it, crashing in front and rolling to starfish overtop of the dragon. It pinned beneath his arm briefly before popping free and bolting once more. 

Ready to make a break for it, only Charlie remained. 

His gaze locked on the wriggling wyrmling as its serpentine body weaved down the rug. And with a soft sigh, he sank to the ground, clapping his hands together to gather its attention. “Hey little guy, you don’t have to run,” he urged.  “How about we take you to get some yummy food?”

It stopped. Craning its tiny head around to look back at the redhead. A soft squeak bubbled up from its throat.

“That’s it! Yeah, see? Come back to me, little one. I’m going to keep you safe.”

Whether it understood or not, staring into Charlie’s warm gaze eventually had the dragon tucking tail and bouncing back over to its new friend. With a chirp and a hop, it leaped up into his arms, nuzzling at his chest. 

“Good… You’re a handful,” he chuckled, stroking his fingers over cool scales. “Now come on. I made a promise. Let’s get you out of here.”

Charlie rose from the ground with the wyrmling swathed in his arms. It crawled to rest its head upon his shoulder and he swung around to offer a hand out for Barnaby. 

The Slytherin gave an unceremonious grunt, turning his green eyed gaze upwards before clasping their fingers. It took a lot of pull to get the large boy onto his feet. He promptly took to smoothing out his robes with a laugh. “Can’t believe Felix helped us out with Snape.”

“He’s full of surprises at times.”

Getting to Penny only took them ten minutes despite the struggled wait in timing the stairs to swing perfectly towards the Potion room. She was ecstatic to see the Ukranian Ironbelly and doted for as long as possible before handing over two potions of invisibility. Needless to say, the dragon was also showered in an array of treats plucked from her snack bag, ranging from a turkey cut of a sandwich to a cheese cracker. 

From there, it was an uninterrupted and straight shot path towards Hagrid’s Hut. With most students still in their classes, Barnaby and Charlie snuck soundlessly out through the front doors. Not even Filch seemed to stumble across their path. 

Hagrid’s Hut was something that was heard before it was spotted. A hotspot for creatures magical and not, several birds scattered as Charlie hopped up the cobble path. Fang lounged on the porch out in front of the doorway. His dark, wrinkled face pressed into the wood deck, snores lifting up from a pressed snout before the approaching boys stirred him.

A deep bark rattled from the dog’s chest and he stood, walking over to sniff at Charlie’s robes. 

“Hey Fang,” the boy purred. “Hagrid home?”

Another bark. 

“Aye! Fang what’re ya on about now?” Hagrid’s voice raised from within the hut. There was a shifting creak of wood and the door swung open for the grizzled man to peer out. Immediately his gaze fell to Charlie and Barnaby. As well as the little moving mass hidden within the redhead’s robes. “Well aren’t yeh two sights fer sore eyes! What’s this 'bout?”

Charlie stepped forward and drew his robes down cautiously to reveal the little dragon. “We found him in the castle. I know we’re not supposed to be doing this, but Hagrid we need your help to release him.”

Hagrid took a single look at the wyrmling and his features twisted with exasperation. “Yeh two boys realize I can’t jus overlook this, ay?” 

“Well you could,” Barnaby replied sheepishly.

“No.” Charlie looked back to his friend then down at the dragon who settled back in his arms. “We understand.”

“Then get yerselves inside. Let’s figure something out for the wee thing.”

[airthatkills]

Kiss?

Inside the hidden corridors of the house, you shuffle uncertainly around for a few moments, trying to get your bearings.     It's not total darkness, there's some light coming  from small intermittent bulbs fastened to the ceiling and walls.   You try not to think about any spiders lurking in the webs dusting the corners.  

You see the repaired wall where Brahms broke through the mirror and remember where you are.   At the next brick chimney breast, you swing right up a small set of stone steps.  The door to his lair lies open.  

Inside it's lit with string lights and amber lamps; creating a soft dim glow.  It's as you remember that time you took a mad rush through here; the small kitchen area, bathroom, cluttered living space.   Stuffed animals peer down at you  from the walls and units.   A battered old fox with moth eaten ears; birds and small mammals.  A large tawny owl with eyes so liquid and bright you think for one mad moment it's actually alive.

Tentatively, you walk to the middle of the room and glance around.   There's no sign of Brahms.

His cot bed is neatly made.   No sign of your erstwhile girl doll.  There's a shelf of books filled with leatherbound classics.   Children's books.  Poetry.   Some titles you recognise as more contemporary, George Orwell, John Grisham, Dan Brown.   You smile when you see the paperback spines of a whole set of  the Game of Thrones series.

Gazing in wonderment at a whole wall of taxidermy implements and notions, you don't see the child until you're almost upon it.   Its eyes gleam at you in the dim light, and for a split second your heart lurches.   It's not a child.   It's the doll.

"Brahmsie..."  you breathe.

He's sitting on a work bench, legs splayed, hands in his lap.   The porcelain face is cracked into a mosaic of damage but beautifully mended.  You peer closer, remembering the pristine beauty of  that bisque face.   Now, it's marred and scarred, the features altered; somehow looking more adult than before.  

He's dressed in his black trousers, shirt and tie under a dark sweater.  You reach out, almost affectionately, to stroke the soft real hair then track down to the cracked face.   The urge to pick him up once more and hold him close is almost overpowering.  But you're afraid you may break him again.   You stand awhile, smiling down at the doll.   If not for this simple toy, this surrogate child the Heelshire's nurtured by proxy, you doubt you'd ever have formed a bond with the real Brahms.   This doll was the medium through which Brahms was able to communicate himself to you.   And now it feels precious to you both.

You move this way and that through the room, touching a small Millefiori paperweight here, a thread worn  teddy bear there.  This place feels so intimate it's almost unbearable.  The first time you came here you were an intruder.   Now, you've been invited.

He catches you unawares, and so unexpectedly, you jump.   There, in the darkened corner by the fireplace.  An immobile, statuesque shadow.  Brahms.

As you catch sight of him, he moves forwards. There's a feline grace to him; a furtiveness that reminds you of a cat about to take a bird.  There's always that uncertainty with Brahms...the not quite knowing what he'll do, how he'll behave, or what he's thinking.   You freeze, unable to do much else but stare helplessly as he approaches.  

The doll mask seems now so much a part of him, it barely bothers you.    You have the insane thought that if you removed it, he'd be exactly the same underneath.    You smile shyly up at him.

"Brahms?"

He does that thing where he stands close to you, both arms by his side, his head thrust forwards and down as though he's trying to inhale your essence through the crown of your head.  You remain motionless, eyes closed, longing for him to touch you.  Slowly, he circles your body in his arms and pulls you to him.  This is the physically closest you've ever been, and it feels like home.   You press the palms of both hands against his back, feeling his heat through the thin tee shirt, then rest the side of your face against his chest.

For an interminable time, you both stand there, locked together.   You wonder what he's thinking.   What he'll do.   You don't quite know what to do yourself.   Your fingers find his bare flesh, warm and firm, at the top edge of the tee.   The desire to pull the garment up and over his head is overpowering.  But Brahms has to do this his way.   If any way at all.

The dull thump you hear is his heartbeat, the rhythm neither fast nor slow.  You breathe in his scent, unique to him.  You wish you could stay this way forever.

You're aware of the ridge of the hard, cold mask against the top of your head.  His rib cage expands and contracts with each breath, each inhalation above you quiet and measured.  Now, you raise your head, break the contact.   You see those eyes staring down at you, and his voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper.

"I want to kiss you, Y/N."

He pulls away, holding you at arms length.   Outside the house, somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.  At his request,  you nod dumbly, unable to look anywhere but at him.    You never realised how strong his magnetism  is, for it holds you, now, totally in its thrall.  Your hands hold his elbows, you don't want to let him go.   But he disengages, retreats to a corner of the room.   He's holding something in his hands.   You stare at the soft strip of cloth, understanding.

"We can turn off the lights," you tell him.  "It will be totally dark in here."  But he shakes his head.  

"I need to see you."

More thunder.  This time closer.   Perspiration sheens your skin.   You're wearing a thin scarlet singlet with no bra beneath, and a long wrap around skirt.  The humidity that's been building all day remains unrelieved now that evening's here.   Above the house, storm clouds condense.

"I won't hurt you, Y/N.   It's just a kiss."

Brahms comes closer, then behind you.  He touches the mask to the hollow of your neck, just above the clavicle, his breath hissing behind it so close to your ear that  your eyes close involuntarily, nipples tightening.

You allow him to tie the blindfold, so gently, around your eyes.  Deprived of vision, your other senses surge to compensate.   You can hear him moving around.  His body heat is gone, so you know he's moved off.   Vulnerable and lost, you reach out with both hands, not daring to step forwards or back.    A thunderclap rents the air, and you almost cringe.

"Brahms!"

"It's OK, I'm here."

His voice sounds different.   Clearer, deeper, more distinct.  You realise he's removed the mask.

Fingers touch yours, strong and long, curling around your hands.  They slide up your arms, questing to the shoulder where they linger at your throat.  You tilt your head back to accommodate him, lengthening your neck, exposing your vulnerability to him; your trust.  There's a whisper of his breath on your jawbone, the caress of a curl as it brushes your cheekbone.   His face is close to yours now, inches away.  

Where's your mouth?   you want to beg him.  Give me your mouth...

He's pressing closer, the  prickle of beard grazes your lips, and you open your mouth and gasp, inclining your head towards it.  But you can't find him.   He's playing with you.  Tormenting you.  The storm seems overhead now, the aftermath of each thunderclap vibrating through the house.    Brahms seems unperturbed.  You don't even notice.  All you can feel is him.

Over your right ear now, the heat of his skin is palpable.  Your breathing is becoming laboured.  Now, down to your cheek, where he lingers.    Oh, God, I can feel his eyelashes, your mind clamours.  And the brush of them as he closes his eyes  is the most erotic sensation you've ever felt.   You're  just about  to gasp, "Brahms..." when his mouth on yours smothers his name.

You breath in so sharply, you actually suck some of the air from his lungs.   You taste the warm slightly Peppermint taste of him as his lips brush yours.  You push your face closer to his, in the same way he'd done with you an age ago when you told him the mask hurt your mouth.  

Brahms is exploring you.  Touching you with small kisses that send the nerve endings on your lips into sensory overload.   Because of the blindfold, you can't anticipate where he'll land or when, and this gives him total control over you.

Each breath you inhale is rasping now, as though you've run a marathon.   Your heart pounds.  The thunder crashing above makes your ears ring.   With a moan you let your head loll back.  He's kissing your throat, the soft pecking of his lips as they travel round to the opposite ear feels like something God devised.  And all the while, your imagination rages like a tortured thing wondering what he looks like.  

You feel his hands stroke your shoulders, gently pulling the thin straps of your red singlet down so that they drape over the top of your arms.  It's not enough to expose your breasts but the action is so loaded you feel your face suffuse with blood.

Through all this; this prolonged and magical kiss, you want to reach out and touch him.  But you don't because that might break the spell and destroy what he's weaving around you.  You wish it could go on forever.  Oh, you wish...  

There's a pause as he breaks the connection.   You wait.  Expectant. Your pulse banging at wrist and jugular.     In this moment, you belong to him.  You've always belonged to him, and he to you.  Lightning crackles, filling the sky with ozone. You hear the windows of the Heelshire mansion rattle in the storm's wrath.   Has he gone?   Is he finished?

You reach up to remove the blindfold, but his hands stop you, gripping each wrist.  He pulls you close; so close you feel the play of muscles on his belly.   He holds you cruciform, so that you can't touch him, or feel for his face.  This time his mouth takes yours with no hesitation.   There's no child inside anymore.  This is Brahms the man.  The storm reaches a crescendo above you.  

[kyouryokusenshi]

Hotel California

My MUCH MUCH belated 50 states fic has arrived.

Summary: Mulder and Scully stay in a swanky California hotel in the Bay Area. Set sometime after Plus One, but before Rm9. “A Map of Us: 50 States of Sex” challenge by @viceversawrites and @softnow

Tagging some other folks: @baronessblixen @danceswithcybermen @kikocrystalball @cultureisdarkbeer @fragilevixenfic @suitablyaggrieved @today-in-fic

A/N: I am soooo sorry it took this long for me to get this out. I’ve been in a major writing rut and life has just been crazy. As you may have guessed, the title was inspired by the song Hotel California. I also don’t own any rights to it, of course. :) 

Shedding her coat was one of the first things Scully had done upon exiting the plane at SFO. The tight proximity of the plane cabin on the six-hour non-stop flight had her feeling nauseous and claustrophobic in addition to her usual airborne anxiety.

“You alright, Scully?” Mulder asked as he gently palmed her shoulder.  

She could feel his gaze soaking up the entirety of her, carefully analyzing in case he found her answer less than satisfactory.

Scully regarded him carefully as he smoothed a lock of stray hair behind her shoulder while they waited for their luggage. She opened her mouth as she considered her words.

“I, uh...hot flashes,” she let out a chuckle. “I guess I should give up and join the AARP club.”

Mulder shook his head as he placed his hand on the small of her back. “Well, at least, I’ll no longer be flying solo in that club.”

Scully looked at him in shock. “Wow, you never fail to surprise me, Mulder.”

“Hey,” he rebuked. “Sooner or later, we’re gonna retire, remember? Those discounts will come in handy. May as well start saving now. I’ve been out of work for over a decade, remember?”

Scully smiled. “You have a valid point.” She couldn’t help but admit that this new frugal Mulder was turning her on.

“Well, what can I say, those online couponing groups are also pretty useful.”

“I must admit,” Scully started as they reached for their luggage as it came along on the conveyor belt, “I’m excited to see this swanky hotel you put us up in and how on Earth you managed to get it by Skinner.”

Mulder smiled. “I was taking more of an ‘act now and ask questions later’ approach.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully sighed, resigned. “I guess some things never change- which is oddly comforting.”

“Just think of it as a belated birthday gift, courtesy of yours truly, the Hoover Building, and Big Orange.”

-----

Once they retrieved their things and walked out to the pickup area, Mulder pulled up the Uber app and requested a ride. Sure enough, a friendly driver by the name of Jose pulled up to the curb in a red Nissan Versa.

The gentleman who appeared in his mid- to late- thirties rolled down the window. “Bob?” 

“Yes,” Mulder remarked quickly before the younger man hopped out of the car to assist them with their luggage. 

Mulder exchanged a quick glance over at Scully, who was, indeed, raising her eyebrow in amusement. “Are you having an identity crisis, Mulder?”

Jose reached for their suitcases-- to which Mulder happily obliged as the driver placed them into the trunk of his car.

“You try explaining Fox for the millionth time,” he quipped, palming her shoulder as she reached for the door to the front passenger seat. “It does make for some interesting conversation.”

With Mulder in the back seat and Scully in front, they admired their coastal surroundings and bustling of the city. Several electric Bird scooters lay tossed haphazardly upon the sidewalk as they passed through some great and not so great parts of the city.

“So you’re from D.C., huh?” the driver mused from behind his shades. “What brings you out here?”

“We’re FBI Agents,” Mulder provided as the driver’s eyes went wide. 

“No shit?”

“We’re not really here on business, though-- at least, not exactly. My partner here just had a birthday last week.”

“Oooh, well happy belated birthday. I must say, though, the hotel I’m taking you to is pretty swanky. You won’t be disappointed,” he said, glancing back at Scully.

“Is that so?” Scully said, catching Mulder’s gaze in the mirror.

-----

Minutes later, after some sightseeing suggestions, they pulled up in front of a highrise building that was smaller than many of the others that surrounded it. Once the driver retrieved their luggage and bid them farewell, Mulder opened the Uber app and left the guy five stars with a generous tip.

Scully happened to catch a glance at the screen. “Is Skinner paying for that, too?”

Mulder smirked as he pocketed his phone. “Go big or go home, Scully.”

She sighed as they entered the building. “Well, we’ve already come this far.”

As they entered the lobby, they were greeted with an abundance of boutique decorations that were modernized mid-century style. Scully turned to look over her shoulder at Mulder and nodded in amusement. 

“Wow, Mulder, you really outdid yourself.”

“I try,” he purred, slipping his arm around her shoulders, steering them towards check-in. “I try.”

If the lobby decor was anything to go by, Scully should have been prepared for the boutique designs that had awaited them in the room. The room itself wasn’t huge, but it was clearly a recent design with a mid-century modern flair. The walls were an orange-ish red to contrast the wooden flooring. A king-sized bed lay in the middle as a large heart-shaped jacuzzi tub was just opposite of the room.

The urge to rid Mulder of his clothing right then and there was extremely tempting. 

Mulder turned back towards her, clearly reading her thoughts as he closed the space between them. “Now, I know what you’re thinking, Scully; I’m thinking the same thing, but I made a dinner reservation that’s a half-hour from now. Let the anticipation build some, hmm?”

Scully startled as Mulder placed one arm around her and the other at her thigh, and in one swooping motion, she was dipped backward as his lips fell onto hers. “Oh!” She closed her eyes as she allowed him to support her weight, returning the kiss with fervor.

“Mmm,” Mulder moaned as he felt her tongue slipped between his lips. He hardened involuntarily against his slacks, brushing against her thigh in the process. 

Scully moved into the kiss further, tasting him as she placed an arm around his shoulders. 

Mulder reveled in the taste of her before breaking the contact. “Jesus, what you do to me, woman,” he breathed heavily. 

“Who needs seafood for dinner when I can have you?” Scully rasped, a teasing glint in her eye.

“Mmm… as amazing as that sounds, Scully, the kid-sized peanuts and pretzels for the past seven hours—courtesy of the airline staff-- doesn’t quite do it for me.

“It had better not disappoint, Mulder.”

----

They somehow managed to collect themselves over the next several minutes before Mulder had called for an Uber on his phone. They were nearly running down the hall to the elevator once they realized the driver was less than a minute away already.

“Chasing Ubers can be like chasing monsters, I guess,” Mulder remarked on the elevator ride down. 

Scully rolled her eyes as the door opened before rushing out into the corridor. 

The trip itself wasn’t long, but a good portion of it involved them sitting in traffic as per usual in the East Bay Area according to the driver. Mulder looked over and smiled at Scully. She met his gaze and returned his smile at the driver’s choice of music and lyrics from Hotel California began to play.

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair

Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light

My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim

I had to stop for the night.

There she stood in the doorway;

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

'This could be heaven or this could be Hell'

Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor,

I thought I heard them say

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place (such a lovely place)”

Scully turned to look at Mulder, it finally having dawned on her the significance of this song. In her tone-deaf voice, Scully sang, softly.

“Such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel California. Any time of year, any time of year, you can find it here.”

Mulder chuckled. “I thought you couldn’t sing.”

“I can’t,” she scoffed, gazing out the window at the immaculate view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the tranquil blue waters in the distance. Her lips curved upwards, “But, it’s the Eagles, how can you not?”

Mulder looked over at her, struck suddenly by those blue depths as he often was. He leaned forward and Scully met him halfway, her lips connecting instantly with his. God, he couldn’t get enough of her. 

Until recently, he didn’t want to get his hopes up that she’d want to rekindle what they’d had together for so many years. He was uncertain if the night at the St. Rachel motel was more than a desire to combat the loneliness he that plagued them both.

“Hey, don’t take it any further back there, alright?” the Uber driver warned.

A few minutes and several discarded Lime scooters along the street later, they arrived at their destination for the night; a restaurant along the Pacific Ocean's cliff. The sun had just started to set, crimson melting into the sky as the sun cast its final sheen onto the water’s surface. 

Once they were inside, a busboy asked if they had a reservation, to which Mulder provided the name Bob once again.

He smirked knowingly as Scully cast him another look.

The interior of the restaurant was as fancy as the hotel Mulder had reserved; although, they were surrounded by double-paned windows instead of walls that provided a breath-catching view of the ocean outside.

“Oh, Mulder, you shouldn’t have,” she teased as they sat down. 

They were just short of beating the evening rush as several people began to pour in shortly after. A server stopped by to offer a selection of wine and Scully eagerly claimed a bottle of red that the younger gentleman had boasted was local to Napa.

Mulder raised a toast to Scully before watching the way the red liquid touched her lips and the way her tongue claimed the excess as she set the glass down.

“Scully, did you know over ninety percent of the wine in the United States is produced in California?”

“Considering I spent some time in this state, I could have easily guessed,” she remarked as she took another swig of wine.

“Hey, I gotta keep you on your toes,” he retorted as he playfully lifted his eyebrows.

Scully opted for a plate of seafood pasta, with the seafood being locally sourced, as Mulder opted for prime rib.

Scully cast a glance around the spacious interior of the restaurant, looking at tables filled with people and chatter as the sky darkened outside. Mulder had rid himself of his coat and she couldn’t help but notice the scent of his cologne permeating through the air between them. He must have put it on in their mad dash to ready themselves for dinner. She wished she'd have thought to pack a small vial of perfume for this trip.

Their dinner arrived within twenty minutes, most of which was spent in silence as they admired the sunset and colorful hues of the sky outside the vast windows. Once Scully finished her food, she hoped she wouldn't have any issues keeping it down.

After they managed to finish off a bottle of wine, Mulder paid the bill, much to Scully's chagrined reluctance and they meandered their way outside to the patio, which was surprisingly empty. As the brisk air passed over them, they could see why.

Scully shivered as they gazed out at the now darkened sky, rubbing warmth into her arms. Mulder seemed to take note of this an instantly shed his coat and draped it around her before she could offer a rebuttal.

"Remember how I told you about the stars, how they're billions of years old?" Mulder mused.

Scully couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "How could I forget? At one point, I thought you were among them," she explained.

Mulder turned towards her as a moment of melancholy settled between them.

"I spent thirty minutes talking to Skinner about souls and starlight."

To her surprise, they both let out a chuckle. 

"Good. Now, he can pay it forward," Mulder chuckled.

Scully didn't seem to catch on to this last statement as her gaze traveled up and down Mulder's well-tailored suit, which was snug in all the right places.

While a ways from being drunk, she was feeling euphoric effects of the buzz she had going. 

"Scully?" Mulder promoted, making her realize she had been quietly staring at him for a good few minutes.

"Huh?"

"Did you want to take a little walk?"

"No, I actually think I want to go back to the hotel and, erm, make use of the facilities you paid so much for."

Mulder eyed her for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

Twenty minutes later, they were back at the hotel and Scully opened the drapes to reveal the iridescent lights of the city before them. It was a breathtaking view.

"So, I was thinking we could walk around the city tomorrow; check out Pier 39, walk around the Golden Gate Bridge or heck, take a boat ride to Alcatraz… "

"You know, Mulder," Scully interjected from the bathroom, "I just realized there's only one bed."

Mulder felt like a deer in headlights. He still wasn't quite sure where they stood, but after that case with the twins and the fact that Scully was at the house regularly, he figured it odd to be sleeping in separate rooms at this point.

He scratched his head nervously. "I, erm, well, I can… take the couch."

Mulder was wholly unprepared for what came next. Scully exited the restroom, having shed her blouse down to reveal a lacy black bra.

A shiver of anticipation passed through him at the sight. If it was cold before, the room suddenly felt extremely hot.

"I'm kidding, Mulder."

"Oh, I uh...um…"

He turned away, not wanting to make any further assumptions. They both had had plenty to drink, though most of his buzz had tapered off already.

"So...any of those sound good to you?" He asked nervously.

"Think," she mused playfully, "we can figure out something.” Her sultry tone was not lost on him.

As she moved closer, he turned toward her, feeling himself harden in response and unable to look away as his gaze traveled up and down her body. 

Mulder seemed to be asking a silent question with his gaze, to which Scully responded by reaching to unbutton her skirt and allowing it to all but drop to the floor in a haphazard heap. 

Mulder could feel his heartbeat quicken and thump against his chest at the sight. The next thing he knew, his hands were moving on their own accord to free himself from the confines of his pants.

As he did so, Scully crossed in front of him and playfully pushed him back onto the bed before assisting him with stripping his pants the rest of the way down.

Mulder let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he stared up at the intricate contemporary artwork on the ceiling. He allowed himself to be at Scully's mercy, letting her have full control over how far she wanted this to go. The next thing he knew, the warmth of her mouth enveloped his length, moving up and down, sucking him into the back of her throat with a hum. 

She took her time in pleasuring him, savoring the taste of him like a popsicle.

"Oooh, I'm not going to last long at this rate, Scully," he moaned, feeling himself throb inside the sheath of her mouth.

Scully pulled back then, licking her lips and savoring the taste of him before crawling onto the bed on her hands and knees and straddling him between her legs.

As she neared, Mulder was entranced by the sight of her voluptuous breasts as if he was privileged to see them for the first time. Other than their recent encounters a few weeks back while investigating the doppelganger case, they hadn't been intimate for a few years, and it seemed like an eternity.

As Mulder reached for them, Scully's hand found his, guiding it to her chest. As she moved to unclasp her bra, Mulder’s hands were covering hers as they both worked to free her from the contraption.  He could swear they seemed slightly fuller than before, but maybe it was his imagination.

Scully let out a small gasp at his touch as his fingers explored her breasts as she moved on top of him. "Oh, God," she moaned.

Mulder gently nibbled on the small bud, the sensitivity shocking Scully to her core. Gently, he released her nipple as he allowed his tongue to slowly draw circles around her areola before trailing upward to her neck and jawline.

Scully leaned forward, pressing her lips against his ear and biting down slowly, gently nibbling on his upper ear before moving downward.

Mulder slipped his free arm underneath Scully in the process and the moment his fingers touched her folds, he could immediately feel the wetness seeping between them. He pushed inside, making a come hither motion with his index finger, causing her to yelp.

"Fuck me!"

Scully bucked against him involuntarily as he moved to tease her clit.

"Happy to oblige," he moaned.

Their mouths found their way back to one another and Scully felt her walls spasming against his touch.

He removed his finger and slipped it into his mouth, savoring the sweet tang of her before offering it to her. Realizing he couldn't wait much longer, he surprised her by shifting slightly as she parted her legs and slipped inside.

"Oh, Scully," he moaned.

The feeling of him inside her was welcoming as they began to work in tandem with each thrust. Mulder's hands supported her hips as she reached out to grasp the headboard. 

"Oooohh fuuuck!" she nearly screamed. In that moment, she couldn't have given a fuck less if anyone overheard them.

Mulder threw his head back as he picked up the pace. He could tell she was close as he was. 

"Yes, MULDER. YES!"

As he felt himself spill inside of her, he felt her walls ripple against him before feeling her release. With a heavy sigh, Scully relaxed against him. The moment was euphoric even though everything went so fast.

Mulder moaned as Scully shifted to move beside him, her hands finding their way down his chest, her fingers taking delicate care along the way. Neither wished for the moment to end. Scully felt Mulder’s hand find its place on her lower back as she moved closer to his face, teasing him with her bottom lip until their mouths connected.

Closing his eyes, Mulder moaned into the contact, his tongue moving in sync with hers, relishing the taste of her mouth and the softness of her breasts pressing against him. Scully finally pulled back with a gasp, allowing the air to seep through her lungs as she lay on her back. It was as if she had forgotten to breathe.

Mulder smiled in spite of himself, allowing a moment to pass before he moved to sit beside Scully as they faced the opened window that overlooked the city lights.

“Talk about an afterglow,” Scully said as she rolled over onto her stomach. “Were the curtains open this whole time?”

“Yeah,” Mulder chuckled. “Good thing we’re on the top floor, huh?” he said with a chuckle.

Scully hummed as she moved to wrap herself inside the warmth of the top comforter. 

“You planned all this didn’t you?”

A smile pulled at Mulder’s lips as he leaned over, brushing her hair aside as he nuzzled her neck with his nose. “Well, I am a dark wizard, Scully.”

“Mmm, is that so?” she moaned, lifting her brows suggestively as he pulled away. Their lips found one another again and they closed their eyes, savoring the moment.

Opening her eyes, Scully looked at Mulder and a sly smile tugged at her lips. “Well then, I can think of a few more things that could use some...magic,” she whispered as she lifted the comforter.

“Oh, now you’re talking,” he said suggestively as he dove under the covers with Scully squealing in delight, enjoying the contact. She could feel the heat of his mouth as it neared her center, sending a gentle shiver up her spine. Mulder’s tongue slowly began to tease her clit and she writhed underneath him as she yelped out in excitement.

“Ohhh God!”

Mulder stopped only momentarily, grinning to himself. He knew exactly what he was doing to her and how she was instantly putty in his hands. He continued diving into her warm core, savoring the taste of her.

Slowly but surely, they would make their way back to one another. It had been set into motion since they first went back to the FBI together. The stars seemed to align more perfectly than ever before as they got back to their bread and butter.

END

[josiewinters1999]

When Ice Melts: A Loki Fic

When Ice Melts: A Loki Fic

Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 1

Contains: Mentions of blood and injury, post endgame Loki, original characters

Summary: After stealing the Tesseract in 2012, Loki finds himself stranded on a planet of intense gravity, blistering heat, and red people. He is taken prisoner by the natives, only to find the chieftess of this civilization is oddly familiar...

A/N: This will be the first chapter in what I hope will be a long slow burn fic. It’s kinda short but I don’t want to bombard you guys with too much at once lol. Luckily I already have a few chapters ready and I hope to continue writing. The chapter art was done by myself and I would really like to make something new for each upload. Hope you all enjoy!

Yet another boring day in court, Willie thought to herself. As she sat upon her throne of red stone, expertly crafted thousands of years before she was born, each carving intricately detailed with care, she stares off into space, faking her attention on the people in front of her. Can they not take care of anything by themselves? She wondered, her large headdress feeling heavier with every passing second.

She shifts in her seat, the long red robes dragging the stone floor as she does so. The Galfreskan chieftess is pulled from her thoughts as one of the representatives from the farming district gives her an almost loud look for approval.

Only half paying attention to what he had said, she waves a tired red hand to him, “Yes, yes,” she mumbles in her native tongue, “rotate the wheat. If you don’t the fields will dry up.” He nods, wringing his hands and looking down nervously. “I don’t really understand why you felt the need to come to me with this issue,” Willie groans, “I made sure you were more than capable and intelligent enough to manage the fields.”

He bows slightly, his own robes swaying as he does so, “I’m sorry Miss. Forgive me for wasting your time.” He stands, “I’ll see to it as soon as possible that crops are rotated for the next planting.”

Resting her cheek on her propped up palm, Willie sighs, “Yes, now please leave. Your company is growing tiresome.” Straightening himself, the man scurries out of the throne room, through the stone archway into the corridor beyond.

On his way out, a familiar face speed walks in, worry and confusion plastered on his face. The dim lighting of the various candles and torches in the room allow Willie just enough lumination to see the features of the approaching figure. Sitting up she smiles and lets loose a relieved sigh, “Ah,” she exclaims, “Voorsha! My sweet apprentice, what brings you to me at this time of day?”

Voorsha is a young man standing about six foot tall with the same atheltic build and red skin of his leader. The only things that differentiate their physiques are their hair color- the chieftess having a golden blond and Voorsha having long, dark brown tresses.  

He, covered in a thin sheen a sweat, something common for a planet with an average temperature of 100 degrees, pants, struggling to get his words to spill to the chieftess before him.

Catching on to his nerves, Willie’s smile fades, and she leans forward more in her seat, not yet getting up, “Voorsha? What’s wrong?”

He looks up at her, chin tilted down to swallow the lump in his throat, “Miss, I’m not sure how to bring this news to you…”

A feeling of slight fear clutching both her hearts, Willie is now on the edge of her seat, feeling herself beginning to perspire, “What?” she demands desperately, “out with it kid!”

Clenching his fists, the man, clad in traditional warrior clothing, the intricately tied belt around his waist signifying his loyalty and servitude to the chieftess, takes a deep breath, “We’ve captured a prisoner.”

Furrowing her brow, Willie’s tense shoulders fall slightly, “A prisoner? What type of prisoner? A Galfreskan  prisoner? Because, truthfully boy, that’s nothing to bother me with I trust your judgement-”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head, “A foreigner. A white man. I don’t know what he is, but he’s not human or Galfreskan .” There is a moment of silence between them, Voorsha studying his master’s face and Willie wracking her brain to think of the possible unexpected guest her guards have just captured.

“However,” Voorsha continues, “He speaks English. I heard him.” Taking another deep breath, he goes on, “When I was out along the canal, making the inspections you ordered, one of my men claimed he heard a voice from the treeline. We go to investigate and find a man with white skin and black hair stumbling around like he couldn’t walk.

“Seeing that, I knew he had just arrived and isn’t accustomed to the increased gravity yet. I ordered my men to stay hidden but alert as I watched him. He was grumbling angrily to himself. Finally, he noticed me. He shouted and began attacking. He didn’t wield any weapon I had ever seen before, not even on our visits to Earth.

“He held a glowing blue box, and I could sense the power from it was immeasurable. I ordered my men to shoot his hand, to get it away from him. They did as they were told and he became powerless. From that point, it was fairly easy to apprehend him. After knocking him unconscious myself, my men and I brought him back here and he should be in the dungeon by now.”

The events of Voorsha’s story only made Willie even more confused, it was simply too much information to process in such a short time. “I don’t understand. Why is this so hard to tell me?”

Swallowing one last time, Voorsha closes his eyes before uttering, “Before he lost consciousness, he yelled at me. None of the other men understood him but I knew his language. He said, 'Do you have any idea who I am? I’m Loki, son of Odin'.”

All the color from Willie’s face drained immediately and she almost felt herself faint. Loki was a name that, for the past almost decade now, she had only heard in her dreams. The grip on her stone armrest instantly loosened as her face filled with even more confusion, words not bearing to pass her lips.

“I’ve heard enough of your stories, Miss,” Voorsha continues, “that even I know who that is and what he means to you. I wanted to be the one to personally deliver the news to you.”

Shooting her head up and snapping herself from her daze, Willie pleads to him desperately, “Take me to him.”

Nodding quickly, Voorsha steps back as Willie emerges from her throne, long, regal, red robes flowing behind her. “Yes, Miss,” he says, “as I said before, I made sure he was taken to the dungeon.”

Without another word, Willie pushes past Voorsha, him hot on her heels, as she races down the Great Temple’s corridors. He wrapped feet slap against the stone, the wind created by her swiftness shaking the flames of the torches behind her.

Dashing through the temple and occasional stairs, Willie’s mind races, mostly with fond, romantic memories of her long lost love. How she yearned to even see him one more time, if for nothing else than to have her last vision of him be a pleasant one and not of him lifeless on the cold floor of a spacecraft, neck snapped in two.

For once in your miserable life woman, listen to me and stay hidden. I’ll be back for you. His last words to her echo in her head, the feeling of his bloody hand gracing her cheek making her eyes water.

She nearly trips on her robes running down the final set of stairs to the dungeon. Catching her headdress before it falls, she regains her composure. Taking a moment to breathe before passing through the final arch to the dungeon’s main room, she pauses. Voorsha finally catches up, himself also slightly out of breath.

Noticing the chieftess’ nervous state, he places a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “You can do this Miss. You mustn’t let yourself fall in front of your people.” She nods at his words, finding the courage to make the steps into the darkness.

In the black of the dungeon, she sees a light by the former preparation area for sacrifices. Since the discontinuation of that practice, the space had lain bare. Approaching the light, Willie sees him, her mouth falling slightly open.

He was on his knees, two guards with large spears holding him to the ground by his shoulders. His hand was clutched to his stomach, bleeding through the bandages the third guard off to the side has presumably put on him.

The prince wears his typical green and black armor, something it seemed he never took off. The coolness of his clothing and his pale skin contrasts much with the warmth of the room and the red of everything around him.

Sensing the chieftess’ presence, all three guards straighten themselves. Loki seems to not notice anything happening as they speak to her in a language he can’t understand. “Your honor, he was injured in his apprehension. The wound is still bleeding but he should be fine.”

She nods, remembering Voorsha’s story of him being shot in the hand with an arrow. Willie steps forward, a small pebble beneath her rolling forward and making just enough noise for Loki to notice.

He looks up, wincing in pain and covered in sweat from the intense heat of the planet he found himself on. “Who’s there?” he asks to the darkness, unable to see the two people before him, “Show yourself.”

One of the guards shoves Loki to the ground hard and he grunts loudly. Sitting back up, he watches a woman emerge into the dim light. She was tall, fairly muscular, her build showing even under her loose robes. Her red skin and strong facial features matched those of the other natives he had seen thus far. However, her golden hair, as well as the large thing adorning her head, indicated to him she was special.

“Who are you? The queen of this kingdom?” He asks with cynicism lacing his voice, once again wincing in pain after he spoke.

Willie’s heart drops. He doesn’t recognize me. Stepping back into the darkness, she hears him complain as she gathers her thoughts.

In the events with gathering the infinity stones through time and space, Willie remembers Steve Rogers telling her that Loki, a Loki from another time, took the Tesseract from that world and left without a trace.

Since that day in New York, she had changed so much. She looked absolutely nothing like she used to. She is taller, more tan, has gained weight, and simply just older. It was no wonder he didn't recognize her, even after all their time together. However, it didn't diminish the pain.

Her eyes dart to the third guard to the left of the prisoner on the floor. He holds a blue box, the light it gives off illuminating his face full of confusion. She then looks back to Loki. Young, full of anger, a fire in his eyes she hadn't seen in him in ages. Since that day in New York.

The pieces begin to slowly fall into place. This wasn’t her Loki. This wasn’t the Loki who knew this aged, war torn, face. This wasn’t the Loki who grieved the loss of his mother and vowed he would make her proud. This wasn’t the Loki she got the privilege to see change into a better man. It wasn’t the Loki she got to fall in love with for a second time.

This Loki was angry. This Loki knew only betrayal, lies, and a need to prove himself to a father he felt abandoned him. This Loki was from a different time.

“Don’t you speak English woman?” He shouts through gritted teeth. He demands, “Answer me! Who are you?”

Taking a deep breath, Willie steps back into the light, knowing what she must do, “The better question” she answers in English, “how did you get here?”

He sighs, slightly relieved there is some communication going on, “Thank the gods, you people can speak English,” he looks up, still clutching his bloody hand, “If I knew how I got here, I wouldn’t have come.” Looking around he notices he never figured out exactly where here was.

“Speaking of which,” he says venomously, “Where am I?”

Raising her chin and looking down upon him, the headdress clad woman answers, “This,” she starts slowly, “is The Great City of Galfreski, a place nearly impossible to find if you aren’t invited. So needless to say, your arrival is very concerning.”

Loki raises a brow in confusion, “Galfreski? How is that possible? Galfreski was destroyed over a thousand years ago.”

The chieftess chuckles, gesturing around her, “It would seem that it is indeed still here.” This Loki wasn’t there to hear her tell him she had found it, miraculously and inexplicably back from the dead, and she planned to return home. That had happened in another time.

He shifts on the cold, dry, stone, “In that case, there is someone I would like to speak to.”

Swallowing and using all her willpower to keep her composure, the woman almost stutters, “Who would that be?”

Through sweat soaked black hair, he spits, “A woman named Willie. She is of this planet and I’m sure she will kill you where you stand for doing this to me,” he gestures to his injured hand.

Thinking for a moment, Willie speaks, “She has no jurisdiction over me .” If she wanted to change Loki the way he had changed in the other timeline, the chieftess had no choice but to pretend she wasn’t herself. She continues with pride, “You have no right to complain about getting an arrow through your paw, either. My men told me what you were accompanied with.” She looks to the tesseract then back to her prisoner.

“Then you should know how much power that thing has and it belongs in my hands,” Loki barks, “none of you possess the needed power to wield it.”

She scoffs, “And you do? I know exactly what that thing is and I also know exactly who you are, Loki of Asgard.”

He is taken aback by her words for a minute then he smiles, “See, that is where you are wrong. You know nothing of me you cruel wench. I’m not of Asgard. I’m-”

“Yes, you were born in Jotunheim but raised by the allfather,” she interrupts, waving a hand in dismissal, watching the shock on Loki’s face with a smug smile, “Again, Loki Odinson, I know exactly who you are, and what you’re capable of.”

Looking to his hand once more, she notices the blood pooling on the ground around his knee, “You should be lucky my men didn’t kill you. Had it been my call, I would have ordered it.”

Stepping towards him, he scoots back, stubbornly clutching his wound. Willie squats, “Let me see it,” she holds out a red hand to him.

“Why?” he asks, smugness dripping from his simple question, “You want to see me die.”

Biting her tongue at the mere thought of seeing that again, the chieftess sighs, “I don’t want to have to burn your body when you're gone. So for the time being, I’ll keep you alive,” Thrusting her hand toward his pale one, she demands, “Let me see it.”

He cautiously gives his bandaged hand to her. She just as cautiously removes the bandages, occasionally looking up into his beautiful green eyes. More than anything, she wants to throw herself into his arms and weep tears of joy. It had been so long since she’d been this close to him and her body ached to touch him more.

Removing the last bit of fabric, Willie sees what damage had been done. A small hole goes straight through his hand, an entry and exit wound allowing light to pass through. Feeling guilty for causing him this much pain, she bites her lip.

“Voorsha,” she calls to her assistant, switching to their native language. “Go fetch one of the healers. It’s bad.” She looks up to the guard that originally cared for Loki, “You, go get some water and clean this out once more,” she looks back to all the blood, it beginning to coat her own hands, the reds mixing together in one big mess, “You’ll need more bandages as well.”

Switching to English to speak to her prisoner, Willie raises her head to make eye contact with him, “I’m sending for some people to treat this.” Standing to her full height once more, she steps back, “After your cell is prepared, I’ll have some food brought to you as well. You must be very weak after losing all that blood.”

His eyes widen, “Cell?” he scoffs, “you can’t expect to keep me here. I demand you call my father and have me sent home.”

Willie shakes her head laughing, “That won’t be happening my dear. You’re staying here on this planet until I feel you’ve repented for your actions against Earth.” She leans down slightly, staring him down with vengeance, “I know what you did Loki and don’t think you won’t pay for it.”

With that, she flicks a hand, her guards knowing exactly what she wants done. They pull Loki to his feet, them now being eye to eye with one another. His knees go weak and they have to hoist him up again. He frantically looks between the large red skinned men and then to his captor, “You can’t do this, the allfather will have your head for this!” he spits.

“I don’t think he’ll see an issue with it.” Willie says, a bit of sorrow in her voice as she watches her love get carried away to be locked up once more.

*TAG LIST*

@bambamwolf87​

[listenerseries]

Living Ghosts 6

Content warning: blood, violence, and death.

Uakea and Taizen nod to Daesun as they bank in opposite directions, darting away to other parts of the compound.  Daesun takes a breath and draws on his speed.

It smells of medicine and metal tools––of leftover blood from operations and births that came the previous day.  The medical bay of the breeding compound always smelled like this, he figures, but he wonders if he can only smell it now because he draws on his sense of smell as he moves through the halls.

His steps are silent as he collects the sound his breathing and feet make.  He passes by a pattern of doors and curtained windows, each door labelled by doctor and by purpose, as he searches through the compound for any signs of life.  He passes by Wyn’s old office––her name scratched off from the card on the front––and pauses.  He reaches out with a gloved hand and presses his fingers to the hard wood, then sighs.

The soft murmur of coming guards jolts him out of his thoughts.  He ducks into the shadows cast by the walls around them and waits for a moment to strike.  The guards approach his place paired, turn opposite of each other, and continue down separate paths.  Hardly breathing, Daesun follows one.

He stalks the man, keeping step just behind him and lifting his hands up in preparation.  Daesun draws on his reserves of strength and grabs him, wrestling the man to the ground in a tangle of limbs.  His arm goes over the man’s mouth, his other choking him out, cutting the circulation to his brain.  He goes down easier than most, and it sends a small shock of adrenaline through Daesun’s system as he sighs and lets the man drop to the ground.

He strains his ears to hear anything familiar––Sori’s voice, his mother’s, his brothers’, but finds nothing.  He darts back into the shadows and tails the next guard the same way, his sandstone eyes flashing before he pounces again.

It is his mission to keep Sori safe, to take down as many of the guards as he can before she surfaces out of the breeding rooms to retrieve Bii.  She is to hold nothing back from these people that keep her locked in rooms and beaten down.

But he finds himself hiding just adjacent of the compound’s dark corners, almost baiting the remaining guards’ gazes.  

Look over here, he thinks, knowing they will not.  His presence is nothing, his feet make no sound, and he himself is registered dead.

But this is a game of cat and mouse.  His eyes glint in the firelight as a man turns almost to him.  Daesun lashes out and grabs him, a blur of gray and silence, and lays the man’s unconscious body gently on the ground.  He keeps his head in his hands for a second, and balances its weight between his palms, considering.  These men, with their spears and armor.

How easily their necks might snap.

He drops the man’s head and darts back into the compound’s darkness, seconds before another guard rounds the corner and rushes to his fallen companion.

And Daesun takes down this new prey as well, easily.  It gets easier every time.  As he draws upon his reserves of hearing, he can sense it––the satisfying sound of quiet breathing on this floor of the compound, and nothing more.

Revenge belongs to living ghosts.

If his sister is moving, he cannot hear her, and his reserves are running low.  He stops drawing and sighs.  He stands and takes a brief look around, then sits down, completely still.  He collects his body’s speed, slowing all possible movement, then draws on all his reserves of presence and sound.

Nothing stirs.  This floor of the compound is empty.  He opens his eyes and sighs, then begins collecting again.  He switches from drawing on his hearing to drawing on his sense of smell, then turns down a corner.  A staircase leads down into the next floor––the only part of the compound kept beneath the ground.  He casts a glance back into the hall behind him, then takes the first step down into stairway.

He shifts down the stairs one at a time, slow like the bleed of ink on paper.  The corridor beneath remains lit by torchlight––left behind by the administrators still dealing with Sori, he guesses.  He scents the air and almost winces.  It smells of administrators and Kohumae, and the unique tragedy that stains the walls and tables the combination creates.  A heavy musk mixed with the scent of old wood and rusting iron––the scent of bodies, and blood, and the pounding heat of muted terror.    

The breeding rooms, like the rooms of the medical bay above, are ordered by number, though unlike the rooms above, there are no windows, nor curtains to be drawn to close them.  These rooms are marked only by their doors, all closed except one.  He slows to a stop beside this room, and curiosity tugs him towards it, first in the way his eyes slide to peer, second in the way his foot pivots to face.

The breeding room beyond is dark and empty, the candle light long since put out for the night.  But in the dim light of the torch behind him, he can see a low, metal table sitting at the center of the room, surrounded on one side by empty chairs made of dark wood. 

He brushes a hand over one of their backs and wonders, briefly, what the people here do, what they think.  He cannot bring himself to observe the table he knows is there, because its presence alone pushes his gaze away from it.

Daesun scents the air for anything new and finds nothing.  After a beat, he passes out of the door and continues on down the hall.  Slowly, his hearing fades back in as he stops collecting, and he listens carefully for signs of anything.

Air moves through the space around him, raising bumps on his skin and forcing him to shiver.  Footsteps and the sounds of muffled voices drift from the rooms at the end of the hall.  Shadows flicker against the stone walls around him as the torchlight dances, dim in the dark of the corridor and the night.  He catches the smell of fresh smoke in the air, wafting in from the stairway behind him, and his eyes shift as his body does back towards the way he came.

A piercing howl rips through the air.  

He jumps, flinching and whirling back towards the room at the end of the hall.  His ears ring with his sister’s voice, low and furious and thunderous.  It tears through him with a wild venom he’s never felt or imagined but knows to fear for the way it raises the hair on his arms and sends ice singing through his veins.

A thud.  Men snarling, then crying out, then the sick sound of thick bone snapping echoes through the corridor from beyond the thick closed door in front of him.

Daesun swallows.

The door flies off its hinges as a man, head twisted nearly completely around, flies through the heavy oaken door and tumbles across the floor.  Daesun presses himself against the wall, his breath catching in his throat.  He hears the splatter of something heavy and warm and bleeding on the floor and he closes his eyes before turning his head towards the sound.

“Please, I’m sorry!”

Sori’s small hand, red to her wrist, grips the administrator’s neck in a hand that pinches the skin like thin cloth.  She stands clothed in nothing more than the rags of a robe above him, black tattoos lining her shoulders, arms, and neck, and squeezes.  Her eyes never leave his.  He claws at her unbreaking skin and she flashes her crimson-stained teeth at him.

“I’ll do whatever you want! Give you anything––freedom! I’ll free you, just let me--”

His voice cuts off the way his throat is––ripped from his neck on one quick movement.  Sori’s breath seethes in the cold, condensing in short puffs in front of her face, buried in the man’s neck.  She lets him drop with a dull thud, the palms of her hands glowing a faint, pale blue beneath the bright sheen of red.

Daesun takes a step back.

Sori’s head snaps to him.  Her eyes catch Daesun’s briefly, and her face contorts.  Her brows knit together as her mouth presses into a thin line, empty hands opening and closing, holding tight to nothing.  He watches her hand shake as it drops to her side.   She leans forward and opens her mouth again to breathe.  A dribble of blood spills from her panting mouth, and the blue light in her hands fades.  She looks away from him and crouches beside the man, drawing his sword from its scabbard slowly.  Her eyes dart to Daesun, and her face falls again into that primal mask.

As she stands, she speaks quiet words pressed to the back of her palette.  Mist lifts from the flat of the blade as runes etch themselves into the steel.  She takes a step towards him and he takes another step back.  The sound of her blade against the cobblestone floor echoes in time with his heartbeat in his ears.

Her hands flicker in front of her as she uses her free hand to sign to him without looking at him.  Her grip on the sword tightens, but her wide eyes and half-open mouth hardly move, save for a half-twitch that barely exists in the dark.

“Behind you.”

[PREVIOUS]

[NEXT]

[kaseyskat]

Heart of Xadia

Oh would you look at that - nothing like some good Rayllum to drag me out of a year's long writers block. Us Rayllum shippers need constant feeding, so here's a snippet of my newest AU!

Warnings: none... for now

~~~~~~~

“Where are we going, Claudia?”

“Shhh!” Claudia presses a finger against her lips and then against Callum’s. Her dark hair is tied out of her face into a bun, the pink streaks almost glowing in the faded light of the hidden hallway. “This is a secret hallway, Callum - nobody can know we’re down here.” To emphasize her point, she taps her nose and then his, her eyes comically wide.

Callum shrugs off her invasive finger, pursing his lips together. His eighteenth birthday had been yesterday, and the dark mage - his closest friend - had promised something special for it. Something new.

“If this is some dark magicky stuff, I told you I want no part of it,” he whispers, begrudgingly following Claudia through the tunnels that only she really knew how to navigate.

In the years following her father Viren’s imprisonment, the tunnels have all but gone to waste, as only he truly knew how to find his way around. It was possibly the only negative thing about his imprisonment.

Claudia rolls her eyes, “it isn’t dark magic stuff, not really. It’s more… elfy.”

Elfy? Callum perks up at that. For years, he’s been studying elves and elven magic, interested in a culture long forgotten. Even now, elven artifacts were ridiculously hard to come by.

“What is it?”

As they round a corner, Claudia lowers her voice, “you’ve heard the story of the Moonshadow Six, right?”

It takes willpower not to roll his eyes and say ‘well duh’, “everybody knows that story, Claudia.”

“Everybody knows of the assassins,” she corrects, “but not the outcome.”

“...you’re going to tell the story, aren’t you.” Callum deadpans.

Claudia just winks.

“Long ago, before the hunting of elves truly began, there was a king. This was the most famous king of the humans, before the five kingdoms were split. He was well-loved by his people, kind and just.

“However, the elves distrusted him. They did not care for his promises of goodwill and peace. They wanted only to squash the humans like bugs beneath their feet.

“So, they sent a group of six moonshadow elf assassins to kill the king.”

Callum snorts, “once again, I reiterate - everybody knows that story.”

“But do you know what comes after?” Claudia gives him a hard look.

“Well,” he swallows, “we know that they were stopped. I always assumed that they were killed - the start of the elf huntings. Moonshadow elves are all but extinct, right?”

Claudia nods, “except the king didn’t kill the assassins. No, he devised a fate far worse. His high mage used dark magic to lock up their souls inside of the mirror dimension.”

“The mirror dimension that doesn’t exist?”

“They say it does exist. Each elf’s soul was captured inside of separate mirrors, and the mirrors scattered.” Claudia comes to a full stop, gesturing towards the room at the end of the corridor they were walking along. “Take a look.”

“Woah,” Callum breathes.

In an otherwise-empty room, a mirror glitters in the dim candlelight. It’s ornate and round, with the slightest sheen of dust catching in the light. Delicate swirls frame the reflective surface, and the top is carved with runes in ancient draconic.

“I found it with dad’s things. Try as I might, I couldn’t get it to reveal anything.” Claudia shakes her head, “but you’re our resident draconic-speaking primal source-using archmage. I figured you could do something with it.”

Callum just stares, mesmerized by the shine of the framing. The runes catch his eye, and he glances upwards, squinting.

“The Heart of Xadia,” he reads, stepping forward and reaching out to lightly trace the carvings, “it’s beautiful.”

He hears Claudia laugh behind him, “I’ll leave you to it, Archmage Callum.” She says the title like a joke shared between friends, and he can almost hear the wink in her voice as she turns and leaves. Nevermind that he probably won’t find his way out again. Oh well.

Callum brushes some of the dust off of the mirror, frowning, “If Viren kept you around, it must be for a reason,” he mumbles to himself. If dark magic couldn’t reveal anything, what could?

Well, he thinks, his own magic is worth a try. With a deep breath, he traces two runes into the air with his finger, summoning the primal magic from within him before releasing with a softly muttered “ilyin nostrum”.

The mirror shimmers.

Callum watches as the reflective surface shifts, swirling with fog and clouds before settling on a new image. One that wasn’t so reflective. It was… a room.

A room, with a small library in the corner, something that could be assumed to be a punching bag in the other, with tacked-up drawings hanging from the walls. There was a figure, covered in a cloak, sitting with their back to him, hunched over a desk.

Callum taps the mirror, curious.

The figure jerks alert, head turning to look directly at him. They stand up, hood still in place, and walk towards him. Their head tilts, causing the hood to fall back and reveal white hair and lavender eyes and dark skin.

And pointed ears.

And horns.

“A moonshadow elf,” Callum breathes, leaning in.

The elf jumps back, startled. Their purple eyes scan his face, flickering from his eyes to his decidingly human ears and head. Those eyes furrow in confusion, and they take another step back.

“Wait!” Callum steps back as well, hoping to ease the elf in the mirror, “It’s okay. My name’s Callum, what’s yours?”

The elf just frowns at him.

They can’t hear me, he realizes, frowning himself. He hums, scanning the room for something, anything…

Well, he always carries his sketchbook with him.

Hesitantly, Callum turns to an empty page in his sketchbook. This is an elf, he reminds himself - they won’t know any human tongue. Instead, he carefully writes down several runes, spelling out words in a language he never thought he’d be able to use.

He holds the sketchbook up to the mirror.

MY NAME IS CALLUM, the page read, WHAT’S YOURS?

And then, underneath, I MEAN NO HARM, I PROMISE.

The elf frowns again, and then pulls out a sheet of paper. After a couple minutes scribbling onto the paper, they hold it up for Callum to see. Somehow, despite the reflective nature of the mirror, he can read it.

MY NAME IS RAYLA, the note reads.

“Rayla,” Callum says aloud, tasting the name.

Rayla.

[freelancer-chronicles]

*HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING*

He was afraid to open his eyes. His mind clung to the welcoming darkness.

A sharp memory of ripping metal, fires, and screaming woke him, shocking his heart into furious motion. His lungs dragged for air like flint across rusty iron. He coughed. Tears ran down his face. He blinked. Everything was blurry and uncertain. Something clung to his skin. He swiped at it with a clumsy hand, leaving a warm smear across his cheek. His vision sharpened. Across from him, stabbing light shone through long, diagonal gashes. He was looking at what should be a floor but was now a wall. He realized the world was on its side.

The gray and black shapes near him were a tangle of broken furniture, boxes and twisted metal. Sparking wires and torn canvas straps hung as thick as vines. Something was close, pressing against him. He pushed. A crate fell back. His crate, he remembered. He brought his goods to a textile merchant in Fort Tarsis. The deal fell through; too many risks. At the back of his mind, his sister’s voice urged him to be careful. He turned the strider around back to Antium on the same day. That was yesterday.

He was a collection of aches and sharp pains. What happened? An accident. Where was everyone?

“H-hu…?” He tried to call out, but his throat was an old chimney. He coughed again, clearing the debris. “Hello? I need help.” His voice rasped and burned with each word.

Silence. No, not silence, the screech of a bird. An incessant buzz of insects. Muffled gibbering. Across from him, the slashes of white showed a steaming landscape of swaying green. The jungle. He had never been this exposed to it before. He spent most of his life with great, thick walls between him and the creatures that roamed in the wild. He imagined something was out there right now, sniffing around for him. He’d spent his life hiding.

He tried to stand. A sickening lance of pain. A scrap of metal stuck out of his right leg. Blood trickled down his torn pants in a thin stream. He froze, afraid to do more harm. Just sit here, he thought. That’s best. Someone is coming. A long, barking howl echoed in the distance. He closed his eyes. Someone has to be coming.

The minutes grew and stretched out behind him. Moving carefully, he fished out a cigarette and small metal lighter.

***

“Here, take this.” his sister whispered years and years ago. They were hiding under the overturned loader. The lighter was worn and scratched. “It’s good luck, okay?” Her gaze waited for a nod. He was too afraid to move. She shook him. He tried to nod. “Stay here. Be quiet. You’ll be safe.” Her smile was so big and bright. “I’ll just take a peek.”

With a quick glance both ways, she ran.

***

The metal room warmed and boiled under the afternoon heat of the jungle sun. Around him lay the white remains of his cigarettes. One after another. A ritual to calm him down. His shirt was now sticky with sweat. Each twitch of pain sent a new dribble of blood down his leg. The humidity and heat grew heavier on him despite the groggy pain. His mind began to float.

***

She was gone a long time. He was alone. Long claws reached for him. A bark.

***

He woke with a start and a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. Was something there? He squeezed his eyes shut and listened. Sounds of the wild. He let out a breath, his gaze refocusing. The sun was setting, and color was draining from everything. It was getting dark and no one had come.

In the distance, a long, low howl rumbled across the dark green. His heart thumped. He flexed his hands. Open and closed. You need to move. No, stay. Open and closed. An image of his sister’s last smile flared in his mind. He took one last, short puff on his cigarette and threw it down with the rest. The cockpit should be just up that hall, right? There had to be some kind of emergency thing? A signal of some kind. Okay, he nodded, okay, you’re gonna move. His leg protested. He clicked open the lighter to get a better look. It was bad. He clicked it shut. Murky darkness. He wiped his hands on his shirt. Bracing himself against a heavy box and the wall, he closed his eyes.

I can’t do this. I should stay here.

I’ll just take a peek, she’d said.

He pushed himself up and the metal tore open his leg. A hot dagger of pain plunged into his leg and light burst behind his eyes. His hand flailed out and grabbed a bent pipe. Leaning awkwardly against the wall, he blinked away the spots. Holding himself with quivering arms, he saw dark blood pooling around his shoes. He pressed a hand to the wound, blood leaking between his fingers. His stomach rolled. Casting around for anything to help, he spotted a torn strip of white cloth that hung from a broken crate. His crate. Yanking it free, he wrapped it around his leg. It was immediately flush with red. He ripped it with his teeth. He shook as he tucked the end of the cloth into itself. Okay. He shuddered. Move.

***

He hid under the loader all night, clutching the lighter in a small fist. He heard barks in the distance. He never saw her again.

***

Slowly and painfully, he hopped along a wall that now served as the floor, picking his way through the wreckage. He spotted a short set of stairs on the opposite wall. Worn yellow paint spelled out CREW ONLY. Distracted, he stepped forward into nothing.

He fell into soft tendrils tangling his arms and legs. He was caught, almost dragged under like quicksand. His hand found thin ropes. It was netting. Large sacks with FOR DELIVERY: FORTUO printed on them. He let out a breath. Fortuo, the colorful, loud, and beautiful city of trade on the coast. He always wanted to go there, do some real business, make something of himself. But it was too far away, too dangerous. He pushed himself up against the bloody parcels, righting himself on the netting. Shuffling a few more steps down the corridor, he felt a breeze on his face. Parting a curtain of loose wires, he squinted into a sudden strong wind. A tangle of broken branches had smashed through a large window, dragging the dark, wild jungle into the metal room. The cockpit. He made it.

It took a moment to sort out the sideways room in the dim light. The smashed window extended up into the shadows above him. He could barely make out a large panel of dials and switches to the right of the window. A silhouette of the driver’s seat was a few feet ahead of him, firmly bolted to what was now the right wall. He had to get to that panel. Clicking on his lighter, he stepped into the room.

A bloody hand hung just below the driver’s seat. The sight stopped his breath cold. He waited. Were they alive? “Hello,” he managed. His voice was barely a whisper. He limped forward a few steps, his hand holding out the lighter. “Hello, are you all right?” The hand remained still. He gripped the frame of the seat and pulled himself close. The dull sheen of blood was everywhere. Steeling himself, he looked over and saw the driver was slumped to one side, bloody branches everywhere. She was young. A few gleaming white teeth visible under the ruin.

***

You’ll be safe, she said.

I’ll just take a peek.

***

He turned away, his legs buckling. The lighter went out and he was blind. He should have stayed where he was. The pounding in his chest froze him in place. He hung on to the back of the driver’s seat, his cheek pressed against the warm metal. He fought to keep his fear from overwhelming him. The driver was dead. Everyone was dead and no one was going to find him. You move, you die. He knew this. Panic brought back old questions he’d asked a thousand times.

Why didn’t she stay? She would have been safe.

But I’m not safe. The lighter flicked on. I have to keep going. He looked past the body, to the control panel. He ducked under the chair and hopped closer, trying to clear his head. He was here to get help. Some signal or switch. He moved it back and forth along the panel. Sweat dropped into his eyes and burned. The small circle of light found a red strip that ran across a steel handle.

EMERGENCY BEACON

He gripped the handle and pushed it to the right with a metallic clang. That had to be it. He’d done it. The lighter clicked shut. Everything was black. He waited, not sure what to expect. No lights, no beeping, no signal flare. He clicked his lighter on again to take a closer look, but there was nothing more to look at. No power. His lighter sputtered, its fuel running low. Click. Darkness. He was tired. He cursed himself for leaving his hiding spot.

She was foolish to leave back then. I was so scared.

He stood in the darkness of the cockpit. The barking howls getting closer.

I couldn’t move.

Not even to save my life.

She had no choice. She left and led the monsters away.

His vision blurred with tears. He saw it now. The image of his sister shaking him. He couldn’t do anything. Her sudden smile to reassure him. Her big, bright life extinguished. No. It couldn’t end like this. His wounds burned.

Click. The sputtering light showed his bandage was unraveling. Click. Darkness. He had an idea, something big and bright. And brave.

He hopped up to the window and slid along the worst of the broken glass. As he pushed through, it sliced open his shirt and down his chest. With a final heave, he broke free of the window and fell the last few feet to the forest floor. The  cold mud was a shock after so long in the close heat of the strider. He took his first deep breath in the open air.

Pushing himself up, he weaved along the strider’s neck, one hand on the metal and one hand out in front of him. He found a soft canvas pack. Click. Nothing. Click. Sputtering light. A massive bundle, torn open. Cloth bolts had fallen into the mud, others formed trails of white. He held the failing lighter against the cloth. A half-moon of embers began to catch and run along the strands. He stepped back and the lighter fell away. The flames roared to life. A final cry for help that grew bigger and brighter in the darkness. There was no choice. His sister would have understood.

Special thanks to Cathleen Rootsaert, Mary Kirby, Karin Weekes, and Ryan Cormier

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter twenty-three (the manhattan affair)

December 26, 1988. Somewhere underneath the northern side of New York City.

I can't shake the image of the boy with no hands from my mind as we're rolling along the pitch dark railways underneath the City, from his lack of a face to the fact he had no hands which were cut clean off at the wrists.

Okay, I'm curious about him now, and also the fact that the subways are indeed haunted. I wonder what else lingers in the wires and cables of these black stone tunnels. If the boy with no hands is just one example, I can only imagine what other type of spirits are here. Could this be where Mrs. Snow hides out during the summer months? That would be understandable, given it's cool and dark down here where it's as hot as a rain forest back up north.

I hold onto the rung over the crown of my head; Lars is huddled right up next to me with the collar of his coat popped up towards his face. He has his left hand stuffed into his coat pocket and his right arm pressed up against his body as he's holding onto his cane: seems rather pointless given it's nice and warm in here from the heater vents overhead at the moment. It's just us here on this car: there's an elderly couple in the one in front of us and a couple of other people in the one behind us. Awful quiet here in the big city, especially given it's the day after Christmas.

“You know, there's a recording studio over in Rochester,” Lars breaks the silence right then.

“Oh, yeah, that's right! Music America!”

“I could probably get you some space there in the new year… we recorded Kill 'Em All there. In about two weeks, no less. I just now thought of that, too.”

“Okay. Maybe I'll ring them up once all is said and done here. What I want to know is—and I was thinking about this on the way over here, too—what're we gonna say to Candace?”

“What're we gonna say to Candace?” he echoes.

“Yeah, like—how are we gonna introduce ourselves to her? 'Cause the whole time I was thinking 'man… she's a writer. She's gonna want a proper intro otherwise we're just come across as a couple of goons off the street.'”

“Well, you are not wrong about that, Joey,” he assures me, “arguably speaking, we are a couple of goons off the street. I took a cab and your car broke down. We came off the street, but—you've read about Candace, haven't you? How Maya was going around looking for her and everything?”

“Yeah, she's Maya's foster sister, and she left home when she was sixteen, and ran off to Denmark.”

“Hang on, hang on—to Denmark?”

“Yeah, that's what the—” I stop myself. And then it dawns on me. “Ah, shit.”

“What's the matter?”

“I left the file folder in my car. It's under the seat, too.”

“Wait, what file folder?”

“After Angeline and I were at the Morlente's house in Boston, she gave me a file folder filled with everything that she and Dominique have found about Maya and also Candace. I took it with me when I went to my parents' house on Christmas Eve and I stuck it under my seat 'cause I—didn't wanna keep it in my coat forever.” I refrain myself from telling him about the copy of After the Watershed Maya had given me the night of the accident.

“Did you at least lock the car?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Anyways, that's one of the things I read about Candace. Everything else that we heard about her was totally made up.”

“Huh. Wow. She was in Denmark.”

“Yep, Copenhagen. She was laying low there for the greater part of a decade and came back here to the States not even a year ago.”

“See, I got a phone call from Dominique telling me Angeline told her that Candace is here in New York City and then she gave me the address. I wanted to come here for my birthday today and I wondered if you were up for it, so I called your place just two days ago and didn't get a reply, and I only assumed that you had already left.”

“Nah, I was down in Camillus spending Christmas with my parents,” I point out. “You must've just missed me, too, 'cause I didn't hear my phone ring at all. Wait. Two days ago? When'd you call me then?”

“It was like—middle of the day, like lunchtime. You didn't hear the phone ring at all?”

“Not one time.”

He knits his eyebrows at me and the screech of the brakes catches my ear. We must be getting close to Grand Central. I let go of the rung over my head and flex my leather clad fingers.

Indeed, I see the first glimmers of golden light around a corner in the tunnel.

Within a matter of seconds, we're bathed in the rustic warmth and spindly high arches of the Grand Central Terminal. It's always exactly how I picture it, from the brass pipes jutting out of the walls and leading down to the furnaces underneath the hard slate floor, the cold metal over our heads, the frosty glass in the windows, the heavy dark oak wood in the railings, and the partially shiny silvery machines here and there down on the floor. Next to every single hinge is a set of gears like the ones we see on the fire escapes. Each of the platforms is made of clean brick and reinforced gilded poles. Everything either has a brassy sheen to it or has a great deal of gilding to it, even the big black and white clock perched over the ticket booth. As the train is grinding to a stop, I can see the snow outside of the station has picked up. Well, at least we don't have walk far.

The double doors open and Lars and I step out of the car into the cozy warm train station. I almost don't want to leave here and head out into the snow given it's so warm and comfy. But we're on a mission of sorts.

As we're walking across the floor to the big doors on the other side, I take a glimpse up at the high ceiling. I usually picture every inch of Grand Central being so clean that I could probably eat my grandma's lasagna off of the floor. It's the shiny, polished metal and brick and mortar corner of the otherwise rusted and stone raw City.

But I'm seeing a lot of… stringy kind of stuff hanging off the particularly high parts of the ceiling. It looks like cobwebs, but it's not, though. It almost reminds me of that little bit of lace I found on the lampshade in my living room that one time. After Maya cleaned my apartment, she missed that little piece of what resembled to lace. That's what this stuff looks like.

More of that lacy sort of stuff. Stuff that looks like a big bundle of cobwebs dangling down from the rafters.

Makes me wonder now…

“Joey, this way!”

I drop my gaze down to find Lars guiding me away from the the line into the ticket booth, which I was about to walk into. He leads me to the front doors, and I tug my scarf over my face once again. Lars covers his face with the collar of his coat as we proceed to walk down the snow covered sidewalk.

“So where does she live again?” he calls out to me over the noise in the street.

And I point up the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure this is the right way: I recognize neighborhood after hanging out here with Anthrax and of course from the Soundgarden show. And there's the bar that we went to, the one Maya works at and resembles to an ice cream parlor. I lead Lars to the building next door, an apartment building with a low, partially collapsed stairwell and a long string of gear powered fire escapes running up the walls. I push open the black wooden front door and we're in the warm front lobby with a pair of elevators on one side of the room. I pull the scarf down and give my head a shake as we head on to the doors closest to us.

“Let's see, she lives on the fourth floor,” I recall from the file folder. “Can't remember the number, though.” I reach out to push the upward button .

“Never been in an apartment building that doesn't have a door man before,” Lars mutters aloud.

“I know. It's… kind of unsettling, actually. How easy it was for us to get in.”

The doors open and we step inside the dim lit wooden elevator. The cables above the ceiling squeak at the feeling of our combined weight, and it makes me a little nervous. I lean against the narrow brass railing as Lars pushes the button for the fourth floor. The doors close and the rickety thing lifts up the shaft: I hear the gears grinding down below at the bottom of the shaft.

“Man, this thing has seen some better days,” he remarks at the stains and the rust on the railing behind me.

“Yeah, no shit! I pity the poor bastard who's over two hundred pounds who's gotta commute with this sort of thing on a regular basis.”

“I think the two of us combined are over two hundred pounds.”

“Yeah, I think we are. This thing sounds like it's struggling.” I swallow down at that thought.

But within time, the elevator comes to a stop and the doors grind open. Lars darts out first and then I follow him into the hallway with the ash gray walls and the pitch black carpet. There's nothing lighting this place save for a row of golden light bulbs surrounded by silver wires on the ceiling over our heads. The doors slide shut behind me and we glance either way down the corridor.

“This is it?” he wonders aloud.

“Yeah.”

“There are no doors, though.”

“There is one way the hell down there, though—” I point down the left side of the corridor and I lead him all the way down the hard black carpet, all the way to the very end, where there's a black door contrasting the ash gray. He ducks around me to reach the door first.

“You wanna knock or should I do it?” I ask him.

“I'll do it,” he offers me. He raises a hand and knocks three times on the panel right in front of his face. I linger right behind him with my hair still soaking wet from the snow. I give my head another shake when there's a soft click on the other side, and we're greeted by a short, kinda chubby young lady with reddish brown hair and wrapped in a black cardigan. She's got a round, full face, an upturned nose, and big eyes that look like they're about to leak tears at any given second.

“Yes?” she greets us in a gentle voice. “Can I help you guys?”

“Hello, Candace,” Lars replies. “My name is Lars, and this is Joey. Er, we wanna talk to you about your sister.”

She knits her eyebrows together at the sound of that.

“Maya? Did—something happen to her?”

“A number of things happened to her,” I explain.

“We,” Lars starts again, “have had some help of the New York Times and a young, aspiring journalist in Seattle in figuring things out because it's better if we do it and—not have to deal with the police.”

“Oh, that's—I totally get that.” She closes her sweater over her prominent chest. “Um, please, come on in! You guys want some coffee? You look cold.”

“Yes, please!” I take it up as we step inside her little studio apartment, the walls of which are painted a nice soft green. There's a little soft blue sofa right in front of us next to a small black bookshelf chock full of books and a tall bright red floor lamp that's lighting the whole front room here in soft yellow light. On the other side of the lamp is a door hanging ajar: figure that's her bedroom. I turn to find a row of hooks next to the door once I close it behind me. She's got all manner of knick knacks and things on her shelves, including a little bamboo plant in one corner of the room, right next to a heavy writing desk with a typewriter in the middle of it.

“Hang up your coats, take off your boots, and make yourselves at home here,” she encourages us as she walks into the kitchen right in front of us. I strip off my coat and take the hook closest to the door; I sling my scarf over the collar and, once I make sure it's not going to fall onto the floor, I take off my gloves and cram them into the left pocket. It's nice and warm in here so I unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt.

“So how'd you guys find Maya?” Candace starts us off as she takes a couple of mugs out of one of the cabinets.

“Well, actually it was me who found her,” I tell her, running my fingers through my wet curls. I set my hand down on the side table next to the desk, one with a black clay statue of a rooster standing on one foot.

“I ask because—” She stops at the sight of Lars as he's taking off his coat.

“I'm sorry, where have I seen you?” she wonders aloud at him.

“I'm Lars Ulrich from Metallica,” he states with hesitation.

“The song that closed Denmark,” I throw out there as the statue falls off the table. I drop down with it in order to catch it before it hits the floor.

“Be careful with that—I got that in Stockholm,” she warns me before turning around to pour the both of us mugs full of coffee. “Anyways, I ask because part of the reason why I came back to the States was I got word she was missing. By the way, how do you guys like your coffee?”

“I like a little cream,” Lars tells her as he hangs up his coat on the hook next to mine.

“Black, baby,” I join in as I set the statue back onto the table.

“I ask you about yourself, Lars, because you are absolutely everywhere in Copenhagen.” She opens the fridge for some cream for his cup of coffee. “So you just look familiar from my living there for so long.”

There's a clanking of a spoon and then she picks up the mugs and walks back into the front room with them.

“Come on, sit!” she orders us as she sets down the black mugs on the coffee table before the sofa. Lars and I take our seats there while she sits down at the chair before her desk. She turns to us and fixes her sweater again.

“So,” she starts, eyeing me and the pinky ring on my right hand as I'm reaching out for the mug, “how'd you find her?”

“I live out in a little town called Oswego.”

“Oswego… oh, I know where that is. That's—Rochester area, isn't it?”

“Rochester, Syracuse—it's right on the shore of Ontario.”

“Wow, she ended up way the hell up there?”

“Yeah, and the leads we've gotten so far have said she was trying to find you, like she was following a book tour or something or other.”

“Funny, 'cause—my last book tour was like two years ago and it was in the British Isles. Does—she know where I live?”

“As far as we know, no,” Lars answers, picking up his mug and taking a sip.

“She does work at the little bar next door, though,” I point out after leaning back in the comfy sofa.

“She works there?” She's genuinely shocked by that.

“Yeah. You didn't know that?”

“No. I only know about the time she ran away from home and we picked her up down in New Orleans, but that was it. She ran away because she—” She stops herself and bows her head.

“What's the matter?” I ask her.

“This part's always hard for me to stomach because the wound's still raw.”

I swallow down my first sip of rich black coffee before turning to him. Guess Maya running away really got to her.

“Well maybe—Lars and I can change your mind,” I tell her in a low voice. She knits her eyebrows together and eyes me with a bit of scorn.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“…no,” I reply to her. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, it's just you've got kind of a come hither look in your eye.”

“He always looks like that, though,” Lars points out.

“I really do.”

“Oh. Well. Then it's understandable—I mean, if you've got it, flaunt it. But you have what the Scandinavians refer to as 'kavorka'. You might not see it for yourself, Joey, but you are—very sensual. You've got this almost sexual vibe to you from the big earthy brown eyes to the disheveled curls to the fact that even though you are quite svelte in build, almost scrawny in fact, you've got a lot going on in your hips and your thighs. Not to mention, you are obviously bringing attention to your chest with the unfastened buttons on your shirt. You're—a very earthy man.”

“I am part Native American after all,” I explain.

“Well, it's just—Europe is so liberated and free that it's almost jarring to see it here in the States.”

“What do you mean?” Lars frowns at her, taking another sip of coffee. She fetches up a sigh.

“Those kind of vibes are almost pushed to the side and they have—” She pauses again. “—horrible effects.”

“Still don't understand,” I confess.

“I always knew why she ran away to New Orleans, but I could never tell my mom, though. It would break her spirit. It's because Maya and I—we were—”

“Yes?” Lars asks.

“It's okay,” I encourage her.

“—we were abused. To of great extent. I took the worst of it and… my guess is she didn't want to be around that. So, she ran off.”

I almost drop the mug of coffee at the sound of that.

[hydrospanners]

fill my lungs with sweetness

when you love someone, let them know. (vignettes about the ways doc shows his tiny jedi wife viios that he loves her; a valentine’s day gift for @hoiist.) part eight of fourteen. female jedi knight/doc. a little angst. 500 words. ao3.

hyacinths.

The door opens with a hiss, stirring a cloud of powder blue and lilac blossoms into a storm. Vii stands frozen at the threshold, light from the corridor pouring in around her like some kind of halo.  Doc suspects there’s poetry in the sight, but he always suspects poetry where Vii is concerned. She has that effect on people.

 The blossoms settle and she looks around the room in open-mouthed wonder, her glowing eye wide as she takes it all in. Every flower in every vase. Every flat surface covered in blue and purple petals, the air sweet with the scent of it.

 “Evening, Gorgeous.”

 Doc steps forward, an elaborate bouquet of hyacinths in hand. The subtle sheen of his suit, silvery grey and elegantly cut, catches the flickering glow of the holocandles in just the right way, leaving him damn near shimmering in the dim light. He smiles his most winning smile and hopes it’s all enough. Or a start, at least.

 Vii drops the chipboards she had tucked under her arms. “Doc?”

 “Surprise.”

 “I thought you were—How did you—“ He can see every question she has playing out across her face, already red-cheeked and torn between amazement and confusion. She’s always so open, so expressive. Stars. “What is all this?”

 Doc swallows. “An apology.”

 She doesn’t have to ask what for.

 “What I said—“

 “Hey.” Vii is suddenly there, right in front of him and smiling that tender smile, one hand twining with his around the bouquet and another pressing against his lips. “It’s okay.”

 It really isn’t. “Listen, Beautiful—“

 “No. You listen.” Her fingers slide from his lips, brushing along his smooth, freshly-shaved jaw and down the side of his throat. “I know what you meant. Maybe I should have said what I said differently. Maybe you should have too. But I—“ Vii’s gaze slips from his eyes, dropping to the safer territory of his shoulder as her bravado starts to wither. But Vii isn’t like him; she doesn’t need false confidence to be brave. Her resolve is stronger than her fear. “I just don’t want you to leave again.”

 Something sharp and hot rises in his chest. Had he really not thought what that would look like? Did she really think that he would—

 Yes. Of course she would. He had never given her any reason to think he wouldn’t, had he? That stupid thing about the wookiees…

  Stars.

 Doc cups her cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing the swell of her cheek as he tilts her head back, draws her eye back up to his. “Viios.” Her lips part, hope and expectation and fear racing across her face as she waits for him to go on. Waits for the words to unstick in his throat.

 They don’t.

 So he presses a kiss to her open mouth and hopes she can hear what he isn’t saying when he says, “You aren’t getting rid of me that easy, Gorgeous.”

  ( I love you. I love you and I’m sorry.)

[whockeywhore]

This Is It 3

“Hey, how tall am I?” 

Sam looked up from her magazine and shrugged. “Why would I know?” 

“I don’t know, you remember things like that. Socials, birthdays, anniversaries. When was my last period?” 

“No idea.” 

“We’re synced up. Or- we were.” 

She clicked her tongue and sighed, marking her page before she set the magazine down. “Ah, the good old days.” 

“Don’t you keep track? Damn, I thought you were the responsible one.” 

“Dova’s the responsible one. Then it’s you, then me.” 

“I think you flipped it a bit, yeah?” Sam shook her head and held up her phone, flashing me an alarm screen that read ‘staff meeting’ in all caps. I winced and looked at my watch. “Do you need to go?”

“Nah, they won’t even notice.” 

“You’re the CFO, you don’t think they’re gonna be upset if you’re not there?” 

She took my hand in hers and squeezed, shaking her head. “I’m not gonna miss this, Leigh. Not for the world. Can’t wait to see your little bastard for the first time.” 

Say what you want about Sam but she sure knew how to ruin a sweet moment, her laugh ringing out in the silent waiting room. We got a few sideways glances but most of the other women turned to the door as it swung open. 

“Leigh!” 

Out of breath and wide eyed, Taylor burst in like a madman. I could see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and frowned, standing up involuntarily. He took a step towards me and I grabbed his hand, pulling him out into the hall before he could cause any more of a stir. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“It’s your first doctor’s appointment, right? I tried to call you but I couldn’t get through.” 

“How did you find me? How did you know I was even here?” 

“Dova told me. I swung by your place this morning to- well, to apologize to you, but you weren’t home. I think I woke her up.”

I knew she told him out of spite and I made a mental note to screw with her later but turned my focus back to him. 

“What do you want, Taylor?” 

“I’m sorry, Leigh. I freaked out and I... I panicked. I know it was wrong to leave but, c’mon, wouldn’t you?” 

“I couldn’t, Taylor! I can’t just walk away from this like you did.” 

My voice seemed to echo in the corridor and I jumped when Sam cleared her throat behind me. She was peeking out of the office door with a nervous grin and she pointed over her shoulder. 

“I um, don’t mean to interrupt but they’re ready for you Leigh.” 

My stomach lurched as I turned to go back inside, Taylor hot on my heels. The three of us crowded into a small exam room in the back corner, windows on two sides. The nurse asked a few questions about me and set a dressing gown on the counter, eyeing my two cohorts before she slipped out. I snatched it and nodded towards the door. 

“What?” 

“Get out.” 

“Yeah Taylor, get out!” Sam sneered and I kicked her shin, ignoring her yelp as I set my hands on my hips. 

“Both of you, get out.” 

“What? Why me? I’ve seen you change like, a million times.” 

“And I- well, we both know what I’ve seen.” 

“Yeah, it’s because of ‘what you’ve seen’ that we’re all here. Way to go, by the way. Running out on your pregnant ex.” 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your busi-” 

“Knock it off!” Their arguing was just like every other one they’d had but things were different this time. There was a baby involved. And I had a headache. I was tired of the shit between them and I made it clear by pushing them out of the door. “You can hang in the waiting room.” 

“But Leigh, I”m here for you!” 

“And that’s my baby!” 

“I’m well aware of that but right now, you two are acting like children.” 

They both started to protest again but I shut the door, watching the knob and waiting for it to turn. I could hear them arguing but it faded as they made their way down the hall, leaving me alone to change and take a breath. The gown was soft and loose and I spun slowly, feeling it dance over my skin before I sat. There was a quiet knock and I leaned forward as I called out. 

“Come in.” 

She poked her head in with a wide grin and I flushed, starting in on small talk as she washed her hands. The glove snapped and I winced, earning another smile from the doctor. 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Canton, I guess I’m just a bit nervous.” 

“Please, call me Dawn. And I understand. A bit of nerves is totally normal, especially for a first time mom. This visit is really just to confirm the pregnancy and make sure we set you both up so you can grow and develop properly.” She gestured to my stomach and I forced a grin. “Will the father be joining us today?” 

“It’s um... it’s complicated right now. I banished him to the waiting room.” 

“Is he the tall blonde? Keeps arguing with that short girl?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“Oh, you’re a lucky lady.” I grimaced and she tapped my knee. “I’m serious! He seems, what’s the word? Passionate. He seems very passionate.” 

“Yeah, that’s kind of why we’re here.” 

“Well, let’s check everything out and we’ll see what we’re working with, yeah?” 

She took a few samples and disappeared, leaving me alone to twirl the straps of the gown around my fingers. I wound them over and over again until she came back. 

“Well, all your levels are normal. Everything seems to be in order. You’re sitting at eight weeks.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“You ready to try and catch that heartbeat?” 

I shrugged but laid back, counting ceiling tiles and feigning excitement. The way she spoke about everything, all I should be expecting and prepared for, had my hands shaking behind my head and I sat up abruptly. 

“I can’t.” 

“What?” 

“Alone. I can’t do this alone. I need Taylor.” I looked towards the door and she followed my eyes, nodding after a minute. “Can I go get him?” 

“I’ll call Tricia, see what we can do.” She gave me a wink and grabbed the office phone, dialing quickly and mumbling into the receiver. I watched her hang up and we sat quietly, both of us jumping at a knock on the door. Taylor poked his head in and Dawn nodded to a seat behind me. 

“You ready for the show?” 

He looked at me and sat down, taking my hand in his a minute later. It felt oddly natural, familiar and warm, and I calmed as the lights dimmed. The room was tense and I turned my eyes to Taylor’s, catching him staring with his mouth set in a tight line. We took a moment to ourselves until a steady thrum filled the air. 

He leaned over to look at the screen and his face lit up, long lashes clumped with heavy tears. The way he changed, broke down as he watched for a minute, it shook me to my very core. 

“Is that... is that our baby?” 

“Yes sir! Very strong heartbeat, very prominent.” 

“Holy shit!” 

“Taylor!” I squeezed his hand as he shook off my chiding, reaching out to point. 

“Do you see it, Leigh?” 

I couldn’t bring myself to look, not truly prepared to all of this. Every fear I’d had before Dr. Canton had begun came rushing back and I covered my face as I fell apart. 

She turned the volume down and cleared her throat as she stood, offering us a few minutes alone with the promise of a prompt return. Taylor still held my hand in mine and we both sat as the door closed behind her. 

“What’s going on, Leigh?” 

“I can’t do this.” 

“What?” He leaned in and kissed my cheek, pulling my face close to his. I nuzzled into the crook of his neck and listened to his steady breathing for a bit. “Leigh, baby, you’re gonna be fine. C’mon, look.”

He lifted my chin and reached out to pull the screen close, running his fingers over the blurry black swirls frozen in time. I was at the mercy of my hormones and the way he touched me had my mind, and my heart, racing a mile a minute. 

“Do you see it?” I shook my head and he traced a small circle, blue eyes wide when he looked at me. “Right here.” 

“That’s it?”

“It is. Leigh, babe, that’s it!” 

“That’s the baby?”

He nodded and I fell against his chest as he wrapped his arms around me. “That’s our baby.”