#comes in from the skylight instead of coming in through the door to make his dramatic reveal have more impact

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Finished my Arsène Lupin collection. What a ride. I cackled several times. 10/10, I already want to reread it.

[silkmoon777]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[whosscruffylooking]

Open Arms Chapter Seven

steve harrington x fem!reader Open Arms Masterlist word count: 2.5k a/n: finally breaking into season 3! super excited about what's coming up. if anyone wants to be added to a taglist please let me know! Rewrite/Character Insert of Stranger Things ~1985~

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The summer of 1985 was electric, and you and Steve Harrington were at the center of it. Hawkins had its quirks, but the new Starcourt Mall was where the magic happened—and for you two, it became your playground. Steve ruled the counter at Scoops Ahoy in that absurd sailor uniform, while you managed the record store just across the hall, surrounded by music and the steady rhythm of customers flipping through vinyl. Together, you were unstoppable, a force of love and humor that nothing—not even Robin’s relentless teasing—could disrupt.

Every day, you found excuses to visit each other. Whether it was sneaking over on your break or Steve dramatically declaring an “ice cream emergency” just to wander into your store, you couldn’t stay apart for long.

That particular day, the sun spilled through the mall’s skylights, and the chatter of shoppers filled the air. You pushed open the doors to Scoops Ahoy, your record store apron slung over your shoulder and a slice of pizza in hand. The smell of freshly made waffle cones hit you immediately, and so did the sight of Steve, who was leaning lazily against the counter while Robin dealt with a line of kids.

“Hey, Harrington!” you called, sidestepping a rogue toddler and heading straight for him.

Steve’s head snapped up, his face breaking into that boyish grin that made your heart flutter every time. “Oh, thank God,” he said dramatically, vaulting over the counter with way more enthusiasm than necessary. Robin groaned audibly but didn’t even bother looking up. She was used to this routine.

“Do you ever use the door like a normal person?” you teased, holding up the pizza slice. “Brought you something to fuel your theatrics.”

“You spoil me,” he said, taking the pizza and immediately leaning in for a kiss. “Seriously, I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re damn right,” you shot back with a smirk, but the way his eyes softened made your knees weak.

Robin glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Oh great, it’s the lovebirds. My favorite part of the day.”

Steve ignored her, focusing solely on you. “How’s life in record land? Still schooling people on how to find the alphabet?”

You laughed. “Always. Someone asked me if I filed The Rolling Stones under S. S, Steve. I thought about quitting on the spot.”

“You should,” he said, nudging your chin playfully. “Come work here. We can wear matching uniforms and make Robin’s life a living hell.”

Robin groaned louder. “Please, no. I can barely tolerate the two of you separately.”

Steve pulled you closer, ignoring her completely. “Think about it, babe. We’d be unstoppable. Harrington and Y/L/N, rulers of Scoops Ahoy.”

“Tempting,” you replied, brushing some of his perfect hair back into place. “But you’re the sailor. I’m more of a rockstar.”

“You’re my rockstar,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, the words warm enough to make you blush.

Robin made a gagging noise from the register. “Oh my God, can you two not? There are children here!”

“Relax, Buckley,” Steve shot back with a wink. “I’m just showing my girlfriend how much I love her.”

Robin rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smirk as she handed a triple-scoop cone to a kid. “You’re both disgusting, and I hate you.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, grinning as Steve pulled you in for another quick kiss.

Later that day, your break rolled around, and instead of heading into Scoops Ahoy through the front, you made your way to the back hallways behind the stores. The dimly lit corridor smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and faint traces of popcorn wafting from the food court. You didn’t wait long before Steve appeared, ducking through the employee entrance with a sly grin plastered on his face.

“Well, well,” he said, sauntering up to you. “What’s the plan, troublemaker?”

“Plan?” you asked innocently, backing up slightly as he stepped closer, trapping you against the wall. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Oh, you wanted to see me?” he teased, placing his hands on either side of you. “Seems like you had something more specific in mind.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “If you’re going to be smug, I could just go back to work.”

Steve leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “You won’t,” he murmured, and before you could come up with a retort, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was urgent, playful, and full of that spark that made you feel like the world outside the mall didn’t exist. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer as the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You let out a quiet laugh against his mouth when you felt his ridiculous sailor hat brush against your forehead.

“What’s so funny?” he mumbled, his lips still grazing yours.

“Your hat,” you replied, reaching up to pull it off. “It’s killing the vibe.”

Steve chuckled, tossing it to the side. “Better?”

“Much,” you whispered, pulling him back in.

Time seemed to melt away until the distant sound of someone’s voice echoed down the hallway. You both froze, your wide eyes meeting his as he stifled a laugh.

“Guess we should get back to work,” he said reluctantly, brushing his thumb over your cheek before stepping back.

“Yeah,” you agreed, though your voice was tinged with disappointment. “But this was worth the detour.”

“Anytime, rockstar,” Steve said, grabbing his hat from the ground and winking at you before disappearing through the employee door again.

You leaned back against the wall, your heart still racing, and smiled to yourself. This summer wasn’t just magical—it was perfect.

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It’s late, and the warm summer night wraps around you like a comforting blanket. The window is cracked open, letting in the occasional breeze, but all it brings is the sound of distant crickets and the faint hum of Hawkins streets. You’re lying on your bed, flipping through a dog-eared copy of some romance novel you picked up at the record store, when you hear the unmistakable tap-tap-tap on the glass.

You grin, closing the book and setting it aside. “Over nine years of crawling through my window. When are you gonna start using the front door?” you call softly.

“Where’s the fun in that?” his voice floats back, slightly muffled.

Shaking your head, you get up and push the window fully open. There he is, Steve Harrington, perched on the windowsill with that stupidly charming smile on his face. His hair is tousled from the breeze, and he’s wearing a loose T-shirt and jeans—the picture of effortless cool.

“You’re gonna break your neck one of these days,” you tease, stepping aside to let him climb in.

He hops down with practiced ease, landing lightly on the carpet. “Worth it,” he says, turning to face you. “Especially when I get to see you.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. “C’mere.”

He pulls you close by the waist, his fingers curling against your sides as he murmurs, “Missed you.”

“We spent the whole day together,” you point out, laughing softly as you loop your arms around his neck.

“Doesn’t count. You were working, I was working. It’s not the same.” His voice dips lower, his eyes softening as they meet yours. “This? Just us? This is what I miss.”

Your heart flutters, the way it always does when he looks at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“Well, now you’ve got me,” you murmur, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Damn right, I do,” he says, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss starts soft, tender and slow, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. There’s a hunger to it, a quiet urgency as his hands pull you closer, and before you know it, you’re both tumbling onto the bed, giggling as you land in a heap.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble one of these days,” you tease, lying on your back as Steve props himself up on one elbow beside you.

“Trouble’s my middle name,” he shoots back, grinning as he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“Pretty sure it’s Cary,” you counter, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, ouch,” he says, mock-offended. “Now I’m hurt.”

“Want me to kiss it better?” you ask, your voice teasing but your eyes warm.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he replies, stealing another kiss.

Steve smiles down at you, his hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as his thumb grazing your cheek. There is something in his eyes—something soft, something real—that makes your heart skip.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he says, his voice low and full of warmth.

You grin, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Takes one to know one.”

He chuckles, leaning in closer, his lips just a breath away from yours. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers, the words barely audible.

Steve's hand moves to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek as he leans in. His lips capture yours with a softness that sends a shiver down your spine, but it isn’t long before the kiss deepens. It is unhurried yet passionate, every movement of his mouth against yours brimming with emotion.

His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer as if he cannot stand the idea of even a sliver of space between you. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he lets out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips that makes your heart race.

The kiss grows more intense, his lips parting slightly to match the rhythm you both seem to fall into instinctively. His breath mixes with yours, warm and intoxicating, as he tilts his head to deepen the angle, his nose brushing against yours. Every touch, every small motion, carries a weight to it—a silent promise, a confession of just how much he adores you. The world outside could have fallen apart, and neither of you would noticed, lost in the way he kisses you like it is the only thing he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

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Steve collapses next to you, breathless. The two of you melt into the bed, holding one another as the quiet hum of the summer night wraps around you.

“I predict we’ll be doing that a couple more times tonight,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin.

You laugh softly, your voice still a little breathless. “If we’re gonna do another round, I should refuel. Want a snack?”

He grins, rolling onto his back and reaching out to brush his fingers along your arm. “Maybe just a soda. Don’t take too long, though. I’m not done with you yet.”

You laugh again, your heart swelling at the way he looks at you, like you’re the only person in the world. As you stand to grab drinks from the kitchen, Steve pulls you back down, stealing another kiss—a soft, lingering one that leaves you dizzy.

“I love you, Steve,” you whisper against his lips.

His smile deepens, his eyes lighting up in that way that makes your chest ache in the best way. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he says softly, like a promise.

“You know,” Steve continues, tracing lazy patterns on your arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

Your heart swells as you look at him, his face soft and open in the golden glow of the bedside lamp. “Me neither,” you admit, leaning in to nuzzle his jaw. “I’m so lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

You finally manage to slip away, heading downstairs to grab a bag of popcorn and two sodas. When you return, though, the playful glow from earlier has dimmed.

Steve sits on the edge of your bed, his shoulders tense, a small stack of papers in his lap. College brochures, internship flyers, and program applications are spread out in front of him like a puzzle he can’t solve.

“Hey,” you say cautiously, setting the snacks on your desk. “What’s going on?”

Steve lifts one of the brochures, his jaw tight. “When were you gonna tell me about this?”

Your heart sinks as you recognize the Ohio State University logo on the cover. “I wasn’t hiding them,” you say softly. “I just… I haven’t decided anything yet. They’re just options.”

“Options,” he echoes, his voice low but sharp. “Options like leaving Hawkins?”

You move closer, sitting beside him on the bed. “Maybe. I don’t know yet, Steve. I’m just… looking.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Looking,” he repeats. “That’s great. You should be. You’re smart, and you’ve got so much ahead of you. It’s… amazing.”

“Steve,” you say, reaching for his hand, but he doesn’t take it. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he stands and starts pacing. “Look at this.” He gestures to the brochures. “You’ve got all these incredible opportunities lined up, and what do I have? Nothing. I’m just the guy who peaked in high school, scoops ice cream for minimum wage, and doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing with his life.”

“Steve, stop,” you say firmly, standing to face him. “That’s not true. You’re so much more than that—You’re the guy who makes me laugh when I feel like crying,” you say, your voice trembling. “You’re the guy who fought to keep us all alive, who keeps fighting every day even when you’re scared. You’re the guy I love, Steve.”

His eyes soften for a moment before the doubt creeps back in. “That’s great,” he says quietly. “But what happens when you’re off in Chicago or Columbus, surrounded by all these people who have their lives together, and I’m still stuck here?”

“You’re not stuck,” you insist, your voice breaking. “And I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his jaw tightening. “I don’t want to hold you back,” he says finally. “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t go after everything you deserve.”

“You’re not holding me back,” you whisper. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He shakes his head, his expression pained. “Not yet,” he mutters, almost to himself.

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. You reach for his hand again, but he steps back, gesturing toward the brochures. “I love you. I just… I need some air,” he says, his voice barely audible.

He leaves out of the front door this time. The playful ease, the teasing smirk—they’re gone, replaced by a heaviness you can’t seem to lift.

You sit back on the bed, staring at the brochures scattered across the comforter. His words echo in your mind, drowning out the memory of his earlier smile, of the way he’d said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

[agere-fics]

Doctor Papa

dni: k!nk, anti-agere, agepl4y, or ddlg-esque blogs 🍄 this blog is a safe space for age regressors and age dreamers 🍄

pairing: caregiver!papa!bruce banner x regressor!little!reader

characters: uncle thor, bruce banner, reader, mentions of: steve, bucky, sam, and tony stark.

summary: you have to get MRIs done but you're nervous. thank goodness, papa knows how to cheer you up.

word count: 1,751

content warnings: MRIs, hospital gown, reader is written like they're a child's height, no mention of a particular chronic illness, please tell me if i'm missing anything

author's note: tadaa!! all done! this is the most i've written for a one shot! very proud of myself. also, this is inspired by me having to get MRIs done recently ajfhs

♡

Sometimes stuff we've done lots of times can still seem scary; which is annoying because who wants to feel anxious about the same exact thing over and over again?

You have to get these scans done by tomorrow. With every heart of your being, you wished that wasn't true but your previous scans were too old.

UGH!

Luckily, your papa had a trick up his sleeve.

He told you to stay here, in this gigantic, empty, white walled room. It was utterly boring, there were no paintings or statues or anything. Not even toys! Well, okay, you had your Mr. Rainy Day Bear but still... At least there were floor to ceiling windows- OH, and a skylight, too. Those were always nice.

While you waited for Bruce to come back, you watched what went on outside. There was Tony using his latest invention to attempt to lift Uncle Thor’s hammer. Tony still had no idea that it couldn't possibly work! How silly of him.

Bucky, Sam, and Steve stood in a far apart triangle. They were tossing around the Captain America shield like a Frisbee, guffawing, and yelling things that were joyously incomprehensible. It looked like lots of fun. Definitely more fun than MRIs. Maybe, they would let you join in later.

The double doors of the empty room swung open and papa’s humongous green form entered.

“Okayyy, love bug, I've grabbed all the cardboard pieces from recycling that weren't gross.” He grimaced thinking about the black, moldy gunk that spoiled some previously useful parts. He shrunk back down to Bruce Banner size after dumping the cardboard into a large pile. “We should have enough for our little art project.”

“Art project?” You looked at him expectantly. Your eyes were lit up with stars of joy this time, instead of meteor shower anxiety.

The idea was to make a cardboard MRI machine. Having an art project to focus on would comfort and reassure you about the process you would go through tomorrow. If he could make it fun, your anxiety wouldn't be so bad.

“I’ve seen the machine before, papa, I can make the bestest one yet!” You hopped on your toes, giddy with tight, flapping fists.

“I grabbed your sticker books and some paint, too-”

“OH YAY, THANK YOU PAPA, THIS IS SO EXCITING!!”

Mission accomplished. Anxiety gone, replaced with magical cure Art Project™. Bruce smirked to himself.

You laid down on a tall, square cardboard piece. Bruce traced your form with a sharpie as you giggled. Once you had the correct length, you both began cutting a rectangular piece and put that piece on a metal cart with wheels.

Then, you cut out half circle pieces and hot glued them all together until it made one large 4D sphere with a hole in the middle like a donut.

At one point, the glue burned you but Papa Bruce fixed it right up and stopped the booboo pain with a cure-all kiss.

Your cardboard MRI machine may look done to outsiders but it wasn't even close. It was missing the most important part of all: the stickers! There were heart stickers, stickers with dolphins, rainbow stickers, puppy stickers, stickers that had Mr. Hulk and Papa on them, too! There were even stickers of Stevey, Bucky, Iron Man, and Uncle Thor! Papa said for your birthday he'd make stickers with you on them, too.

You also painted squiggles, polka dots, lines, circles, triangles, kitty cats, and zig zags. All of them in your most favoritest color.

“There!” You stood proudly, hands on your hips. “Now, it's very, very pretty, papa.”

Papa gave you a minute and then asked, “Are you ready to practice?”

You blinked and sighed. Defeat warping your mood. “Yeah...”

Papa spun away, put a doctor's coat on, and then turned back, holding a clipboard. “Alright, are you the caregiver for Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

“Yeah, papa.” You lightened up a little bit.

“Papa? No, I'm Doctor Doctor. Who's papa?”

“You're papaaa!” You pointed at him.

“Okay, okay I'm Doctor Papa.” He repeated, “Are you the caregiver of Mr. Rainy Day Bear?”

You tilted your chin up and did a faux British accent. “Why, yes, sir. He's feeling very, very bad and needs a scan.”

“Ah, yes, I see that on his chart, Caregiver.” He flipped through the scribbled pages on the clipboard. “Let's have. Mr. Bear lay down on the table with his head on the pillow.” Bruce gestured with his hand.

You laid your stuffie down on the pretend bed, placing Mr. Bear’s head gently on the pillow. You patted his hand for good measure.

Doctor Papa put ear plugs into the bear's ears and placed cushy pink headphones on him. The headphones had cat ears on them. Papa raised his voice a little, “Mr. Rainy Day Bear, what kind of music do you like to listen to?”

“Doctor Papa, Mr. Bear is nonverbal.” you said matter of factly. You raised your pointer finger to the sky. “I’ll answer for him. He likes The Wiggles, Papa- I mean Doctor Papa.”

“Alrighty then, The Wiggles album coming right up.” Bruce pulled out his phone, scrolling until he found the right music. “Wiggles rave?”

You nodded, then kissed the tippity top of Rainy Day’s head. “You'll be okay, Mr. Bear.”

Bruce began to push the cardboard bed into the donut sphere. You took a big, big deep breath in.

“BRRRR BEEEP AGHHHH RRRRR DNNNN-”

That breath was immediately released back into the atmosphere. “PAPAAA!” You clutched your chest, laughing so hard your legs felt weak.

Doctor Papa continued, “DRRRRR EEEEEE EHHHHHH MRRRRRR!”

You were rolling on the floor, tears leaving your eyes. How silly of your papa!

“BRRRRRrrrrrr….” Papa rolled the cardboard bed out of the donut. “How are you feeling Mr. Bear?”

“Papa, he can't hear you!”

Bruce laughed. “Oh, yeah, right.” He removed the headphones and then the earplugs. “How is the fantastic Mr. Bear?”

You lifted Mr. Bear’s paws and had him sign to Bruce, ‘I am okay.’

“Perfect! Let's take a look at your scans here…” Papa turned around and scribbled quickly on the paper. When he faced you again, he showed you the scan. It was a poorly constructed scribble of Mr. Rainy Day Bear with a big, biiiiiiiig, heart right in the middle. “I knew it, Lots-Of-Love-itis.”

You unburied the British accent. “Quite good, sir. Well done, Mr. Bear.” You placed a hulk sticker on his paw and hugged him tightly.

Papa kneeled down and asked, “Do you want to practice with you this time?”

You gave it a thought, looking this way and that. “Hmmm, will you make the funny noises again?”

“BEEEEP BRRR-”

“Not right now, Papa!” You shouted with a smile.

“Oh, during the practice?” He waited for you to finish rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay…” You breathed in, out, in, and out slowly. “Let's practice, Doctor Papa.”

♡

“Big day, lille venn.” Uncle Thor said as he helped tie the back of your hospital gown. He double knotted the strings behind your neck and then the ones by your hip. “There you are. All set.”

You frowned at that, looking at Thor with big, watery eyes. “Not all set.”

“It'll be okay.” His hands (placed on your shoulders) turned you to face him. “Remember your breathing?”

“Mhm.”

“Let's do it together.” He raised his left hand as you did the same. “Climb Yggdrasil, breathe in.”

You traced up your pointer finger.

“Let's sit at the very top, hold your breath.”

You paused at the tip of your finger.

“Slide down the Yggdrasil branches, breathe out.”

You traced down your pointer finger.

Uncle Thor had you repeat that four more times, until the tears dried and the anxiety flowed further away.

“Very good, great job. Let's go see Papa.” He held your hand as he walked you towards the scary room. Worse than the boring room from yesterday.

You turned the corner and there was Papa at the computer. “Hey there! The computer’s prepped and waiting for you, little one.”

You looked at Papa, then Uncle Thor, and then Papa again. “Okay… I'm ready.”

Papa led you to the metal bed. It was rectangular and thin. A sheet was laid out on it so you wouldn't get super cold. There was a thick pillow on the end that had your favorite kitty cat pillowcase on it, which made the corners of your lips turn upwards.

Papa pressed an arrow down bottom next to the donut sphere that brought the bed down to your level. He held your hand as you hopped on and then helped position you onto the center. He guided you through a big, deep breath so that your body was as comfortable on the table as can be instead of tense.

Next came pink headphones with cutesy kitty ears on them and plain boring ear plugs so that your hearing wasn't hurt from the loud noises. Papa already set up your favorite kind of music so when the headphones were placed on you, it was already playing. Bruce furrowed his brow in question, moving his thumb up and down. You replied with a thumbs up. You were ready.

Bruce handed you a panic button to hold just in case and laid a blanket over you to keep you warm. Papa kissed the top of your head and left the room.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath in and out.

BBRRRRRRR

‘It's okay. I'm okay.’

BEEEEEEPPP

‘Woohoo, I'm doing awesome!’

REEEEHHHHHH

‘This is boring, it's got to have been a bajillion minutes by now.’

After ten years (minutes), the machine stopped and Papa walked back into the room. He gave you a high five and bunches of praises that you only heard some of because of all the ear protectors. But you could tell by his facial expressions that he was so very proud of you.

He pressed the arrow down button again and the bed began moving to an easier height. You removed the headphones and earplugs yourself, you felt like such a big kid (in the best way)!

You stretched this way and that while making funny noises which made you abrupt into hearty giggles.

Bruce held your hand as you jumped down. Next thing you knew, he was hugging you tightly, picking you up, and spinning you around and around!

“I'm so very, very proud of you, bumble bee!”

You kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa!”

♡

[azrielsmommy]

Dark Paradise (Part One)

Pairing: Azriel x Fem! Reader

Summary: Never in the existence of Prythian had there been a rightful heir to two courts, much less a female, but there you are, in the flesh. With war upon the lands, and questionable family dynamics, a certain shadowsinger takes it upon himself to make your life just a little bit more interesting.

Word Count: 1058

Warnings: some angst, sexual themes

a/n: i have NEVER written anything on here about acotar, or just fanfics in general. this is just some slight backstory, i promise we get into the MEAT of it all soon!

The blazing sun was beating down on your face, causing your hair to shimmer with faint red hues as you approached the throne room. The sound of your long white skirt swishing, accompanied by the clicking of your heels against the white marble floors, were the only noise throughout the palace, not even birds sang their melodies.

As you walked through the large doors to the throne room, the sun increased by tenfold, beaming in through various circular skylights. To fae not from the Day Court, the sun would've been blistering and heat-stroke inducing, and in your years spent here, you've witnessed a fair share. Yet to you it was pleasant, you loved it, a sweet reminder of home. A slight smile stretched across your lips as you took in the intricate designs that decorated the pillars in the throne room.

The effort and care that went into sculpting this beautiful room never ceased to amaze, but your favourite piece of artwork was certainly the thrones themselves. Halting your footsteps before the stairs that led up to the three thrones, each one made of glistening white marble, all enveloped in golden light. You admired the middle throne, belonging to Helion, your father. It's the largest of the three, built for a High Lord, and it'll be yours, when the times comes, but you wish it doesn't anytime soon. You're tired of loosing family.

A wave of sorrow crashes over you as your gaze drifts to the smaller throne of the left, empty, a solemn reminder of your dead brother. It's covered in a large gold and white cloth, several little trinkets on the throne serves as a memory of him. You wrung your hands, as you focused on keeping your emotions at bay.

A sigh escaped from you, disappointment at the lack of your fathers presence, you thought he would've been here, welcoming you home from your travels. Dropping your hands in annoyance, you turned on your heel ready to leave when you heard echoing footsteps.

"What kind of daughter leaves her father, all alone, while she travels to Vallahan." Helion's voice had a teasing tone as he gracefully walked towards you.

"What kind of father forgets about his daughter?" You playfully retort back, raising an eyebrow as you try to keep a smile from forming on your lips. Helion stops just an arms reach from you, as he dramatically places a hand on his chest as if physically wounded.

"I would never forget about you, my sweet daughter." He spoke in a soft tone. The smile that threatened to spread on your face finally forms as you laughed, throwing your arms around your father in a tight hug. Helion held onto you like his life depended on it. You relished in the feeling of finally seeing your father after your long time spent abroad. After a minute he released you, instead throwing an arm around your shoulder, ushering you out of the throne room.

"How were your diplomatic measures in Vallahan, I presume they went smoothly?" He asked as we walked together through the palace hallways. It went more than just simply smooth, your time was spent drinking at bars, dancing until you could no longer, and sex with males of all kinds. Of course you successfully made alliances and discussed peace with fae in power, but a simple nod satisfied your father.

The rest of the evening was spent catching up with the people of your court over a the banquet created in celebration of your return. You spent your night drinking lavish wine, and dancing until your feet hurt, males watched you with pure lust and greed in their eyes, but you paid no attention to them.

As the night turned into early day, everybody stumbled back to their respective homes, and you to your room. Giggles slipped past your lips as you staggered down the halls to your room. Cauldron your feet fucking hurt.

"Stupid shoes," you slurred while fighting with the straps on your heels, fingers struggling to unclasp them. Finally you stepped out of them, letting your bare feet hit the floor. Nearly moaning at the feeling. Shoes in one hand you continued the trek to your room. Nearly face planting into the door, you stumbled towards your bed, and flopped down, shoes thrown onto the carpet.

You fell asleep as soon as you landed on your bed, not even caring to get under the soft covers, or take of your makeup and dress. As you slept your dreams were plagued by a man, he was shroud in shadows, his very aura exuded mystery.

His body looked like it was sculpted by the Mother herself, the lines of his muscles still visible through the battle leathers that he wore, and those wings. Dauntingly huge, you've never seen a pair of Illyrian wings that large before.

As your eyes drifted upwards towards his face you froze, he was devastatingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that would have any female begging for his attention. Your hand involuntarily reached out towards him, unable to take yourself out of the spell he seemingly put you under. He was some sort of an otherworldly dark paradise.

Your fingers just grazing his shoulder before you abruptly awoke. Shooting up from the bed you gasped, reeling from your dream that felt all too real.

Who was that man? Why was I dreaming of him? Thoughts ran through your mind at the speed of light, as you glanced around your room, a small shadow in the corner near your vanity caught your eye. As you watched the shadows flicker and slink about, it seemed as though somebody, through the shadows, watched back.

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

Azriel splashes his face with cold water, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat down. Running his hands through his hair he leaned against the bathroom counter, staring at himself through the mirror. He doesn't really.....dream, his sleep is always restless, filled with memories from his childhood. So imagine his surprise when a women, with slightly copper hair appears in his dreams, and reaches out for him.

His brains feels like mush, shaking his head, he tries to free the questions that desperately cling to his mind, as he heads into his closet, dressing into his leathers for the day.

Rhysand and him have a meeting with Helion today.

[myreia]

The Heart’s A Withered Fortress

CHAPTER THREE: A NIGHT OF ENDLESS LIGHT

Chapter Rating: Teen Characters: Thancred Waters, Aureia Malathar (WoL), Ryne, Lyna Pairings: Aureia/Thancred Chapter Words: 2,471 Notes: Set during Shadowbringers. Summary: It is no easy thing to sit and watch someone close to him wither away. Then again, Thancred has never been good at sitting still. While waiting for a cure for Aureia’s light sickness, he feels a call to action—but whether it is the right choice or not remains to be seen. Prompt: iii. light | darkness Chapters: one • two • three • four Read on AO3

The stairs are mercifully empty.

Thank the Twelve for it, too, for he has no desire to explain his rush to any nosy neighbours should they happen to recognize him. His apartment is several floors up from Aureia’s, a gift from the Exarch—G’raha, he reminds himself brusquely once again—five years ago during the awkward days of situating himself on the First. The man intended for it to be a smooth and gentle transition, but there was nothing smooth about waking up naked on the cold Ocular floor, his last memory of Aureia’s terrified expression and desperate pleas as he lost consciousness.

There was nothing gentle about the realization that there was no way back to her. That it may be years until he saw her again.

They were so close to something that last night in Ala Mhigo. Funny that he would remember it now—sitting on that little balcony, their backs against the walls, her head on his shoulder as they watched the sun rise. She twisted him into promising to ride that giant bird of hers, the yol she brought back from the Azim Steppe.

The things he wishes he had done instead of making a promise he will not be able to keep. There is nothing quite as bitter as the taste of regret.

His mouth twists, holding back a grunt as he dashes the rest of the way, taking the steps two at a time. For most of his time in Norvrandt his suite has sat empty, collecting dust, a convenient place to sleep more than a home. He disliked returning to the city on principle—too many people, too many weak points, too many areas susceptible to Eulmoran spies. Too many busybodies curious about his connection to the Exarch or about Ryne’s origins. It was safer for her out in the wilderness.

Or at least that is what he had convinced himself.

Perhaps he was just selfish.

He turns the corner and reaches his door. Locked, of course—Ryne is resting—and he curses as he rams the key into the lock, annoyed with the hindrance. The clarity he felt when he left Aureia has faded, the plan now muddled in his mind. All he knows is that he must collect enough supplies for the journey and his gunblade. In and out, quick and easy. No one will stop him. Urianger is occupied in the Cabinet of Curiosity. Ryne is asleep. If he is quiet enough, she will not hear him come and go.

The lock turns, metal scraping against metal.

He pushes the door open and slips inside.

The hallway unfurls before him, lamplight dancing on the walls. Even with the unyielding Light outside, Ryne still lit them, the natural flames of the oil lamps bringing her comfort. She often can’t sleep without them on, hating the dark of tight corridors and the way the walls press in on her. Too reminiscent of Eulmore.

Guilt twists in his gut as he passes her closed door. Despite himself everything he has told himself, he draws to a halt, one hand one the doorknob. He should tell her, shouldn’t he? If he disappears into the theoretical night and does not come back…

His fingers slip from cold iron. He moves on.

Light pours in the from the skylights above and presses through the drapes, its poisonous touch bleeding through every crack and crevice. He adapted to it when he first arrived. Somehow, adapting to it a second time after the night’s reprieve they had enjoyed for months is a tall order. Though this is the state he is used to, the suite looks wrong now—Ryne’s plants on the windowsills, outlined in too-bright light, her stack of books by the hearth more faded and dusty than usual. She hasn’t touched them since they returned.

It doesn’t take him long to gather what he needs. His room is in the suite’s loft atop a spiral staircase, the small space undecorated and left empty save for the essentials. He could stay of course, he think as he grabs his supplies. Remain with the others, watch over them through restless days and endless nights as they pursue a cure. But his course is set now. His mind is made. No one can change it.  

Taking a sip from his flask to soothe a parched throat, Thancred secures his gunblade to his back and departs his room.

Ryne waits for him at the foot of the stairs, her hands on her hips, her hair mussed from sleeping. She raises her chin, a defiant look already gleaming in her eyes.

“Ryne,” he begins, putting a foot on the stairs. “I—”

She grips the handrailing and slips onto the first step, blocking his descent. “Whatever you’re thinking, Thancred, don’t do it.”

“Go back to bed. You need to rest.”

“Then go back to your room. You need to stop.”

He pauses, his jaw clenched. Even so, a stubborn swell of pride rises in his chest. There was a time when Ryne would never have talked back to him like this. Strange how quickly Aureia has left her influence on the girl—sharp-tongued attitude and all. Then again, Ryne has blossomed into her own person, gaining confidence with each passing day. This could very well be who she is now, and he will not argue it.

“This is not up for discussion,” he says bluntly.

“Oh, of course it isn’t,” she retorts. “Why would I ever think differently? The list of things we can safely discuss is quite small. I could itemize it on one hand.”

“I promise you, whatever explanation I could give would only be in vain. You will not agree, and I will not agree with your disagreement. So for Aureia’s sake, let me go in peace. I have no desire to waste any more precious time.”

“That’s it, then? You’ve made up your mind? Without asking anyone first?”

Without asking me is the silent addition. He can see it in her eyes.

“Aye. I have.”

Hurt flashes over her face, confirming his suspicion. The years they have travelled weighs heavily between them, too much history that has formed shared habits over time. For better or for worse, since rescuing her from Eulmore he has rarely gone anywhere without her. She is accustomed to departing swiftly with no warning, allowing him to whisk her away whenever their current location grew too dangerous, too suspecting, or there were sin eaters to hunt. Where he goes, she goes, that has been the way of it since she was a small child.

And the times he has left her behind, abandoning her with Urianger at a moment’s notice with no explanation…

Ryne raises her chin. She is not so small anymore.

“Take me with you,” she says.

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t care. Take me with you—”

“This is a task for one, not two,” he interrupts, treading a few more heavy steps down the stairs. “Besides, you’re needed here, to help Aureia. To contain the Light. You’re the only one who can do it.”

He curses himself for saying such words. Aureia made it clear she does not want to put the burden on Ryne, and yet here he is, burdening her himself. But he cannot allow her to follow. Not this time. Not where he is intending to go. She will be of more use here, working with Y’shtola and the others to stall the inevitable.

This task he has set himself is for him alone.

Ryne looks away, eyes downcast. Her fingers thread in her hair, tugging at the pink ribbon woven through her plait. “Tell me honestly,” she says. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

His heart clenches. “No. Never.” You are perhaps the wisest of us all, even if you do not know it yet. 

“Do you think I’m helpless?”

“You know that is not the way of it.” I may have trained you, but that fire is all your own. Not mine. Not Minfilia’s. Those who help others are the furthest from helpless.

“Then what is it that you aren’t telling me?” Her voice breaks and she stares up at him, brow furrowed, tears shining in her eyes. “You told me you would hold no more secrets, Thancred. That you would be honest—”

“I did. And I have been. Believe me, Ryne, there is nothing I wish to hide from you—”

“But you are!” Her words echo through the living room, filling the hollow air of their apartment. “You are doing it right now! Why else would you be sneaking off on your own in the middle of the night, with no one the wiser?”

Guilt gnaws away in his stomach. “Because,” he says slowly, “there is no more night to sneak away unto.”

She flushes and looks away, shaking. Her shoulders shudder, her lower lip trembles as if holding back a sob, her fingers quiver where they hold the railing. But she stands firm on the staircase, her determination blocking his way.

Thancred sighs and passes a hand through his hair, wishing to the Twelve he had been faster. For a man with supposed expertise in the field of espionage, he should have been able to bypass his daughter with ease. “An explanation, then,” he says after a moment.

“Good.” She raises her head and fixes him with a glare. “Must you sound so dejected about it?”

He ignores the goad. Gods, where did she get this from? She sounds like—

Aureia. She sounds like Aur. Were you a fool enough not to notice it sooner? You know how precious she is to her.  

“I saw Aureia tonight,” he says.

She smiles faintly. “I know.”

“She is not… well. She has resorted to taking matters into her own hands, which has gone about as well as you can imagine.”

“Y’shtola told me what she saw the last time she visited. No shape, no person, simply a… beacon of concentrated Light growing by the day. She thought perhaps there was the semblance of a shadow flickering at its core, but… there is not much time left, is there?”

“You would be a better judge of that than I.”

She sniffs and wipes tears from her eyes. For a moment, she look as young as she did in that Eulmoran prison. “I love her.”

“I know. We all do.”

“I can’t fail her.”

He pauses, the temptation to set his weapon aside and hold her close tugging at him. It would be the right thing to do—trade abandonment for comfort, action for family. That is how it’s done, is it not? Turning to one’s loved ones in your darkness moments. But his legs are like lead and he cannot bring himself to walk down these steps to her. Not with the weight of his gunblade on his back and his need to do something whispering in his mind. Unlike Ryne, he has nothing to offer. No wisdom, no guidance, no help.

He is useless and it is eating him alive.

“Aureia gave me a task,” Thancred continues finally, his throat raw. He has no desire to explain the details of her request, not when he has barely processed them himself. Voicing it might just break him. “And I would dearly like to prevent the circumstances where that task must be fulfilled. If we are pursuing every avenue available to us, then a cure may very well exist beyond the Crystarium. And she…”

“…can’t go anywhere.” Ryne nods and presses a hand to her mouth, both in horror and in contemplation. “What I’ve done for her won’t last forever. If she were to take a journey now…”

“You see the conundrum.” Liar. You’re spinning half-truths again to save face. He pushes the thought away. “So I must go in her stead.”

Her eyes go wide as a realization dawns, her hand falling slowly to her side. “You’re going to hunt him.”

“Aye.”

“You’re going to kill him yourself.”

“Aye.”

Her fingers curl into a fist. “Thancred, you can’t—”

“I can,” he interrupts flatly. His boots thud heavily as he descends the stairs. “As I understand it, there is an Ascian hunter on the Source. It is long past time the job was mirrored on the First.”

“You can’t go to the Tempest alone!”

“This is my task, Ryne! I will do what I must!”

He reaches the second to last step, his height making him tower over her. She stares up at him defiantly, her eyes red and swollen, her hair now a messy tangle about her shoulders. Unwilling to force his way past her, he turns and leaps over the railing, landing easily on the living room floor. She mutters a curse and takes off after him.

“You don’t know what waits down there!” she yells, dogging his steps. “What creatures, what magic—he expects us to follow to rescue the Exarch, and he will be prepared—”

The floorboards creak beneath his weight as he storms into the corridor. “It hardly matters. Not when I know the face of our enemy—”

“And just what do you intend to do, Thancred?” Her hoarse voice rings out behind him. “Do you even have a plan? Do you honestly think Aureia will thank you if you get yourself killed on her behalf?”

She wants me to kill her.  

He draws to a halt, hands at his sides, anger surging in his chest. In his mind’s eye, the corridor extends through a glistening haze, yalms upon yalms of brick and wood stretching out before him, the front door painfully out of reach. “I… I don’t… I cannot answer that.”

“And that is exactly what I thought.”

Ryne slips by him, leaving him standing there dumbfounded as she passes down the corridor. She throws her door open and enters her room, emerging a little while later with a bag on her shoulder and her meager possessions clutched in her arms.

The haze retreats. He swallows a lump in his throat. “What are you doing?” he asks.

She meets his eyes, her own anger blazing boldly on her face. “I will stay at Urianger’s tonight,” she says.

“That’s unnecessary—”

“I will stay at Urianger’s tonight,” she repeats, louder this time. “Perhaps longer. Until whenever you see fit to come back to your senses, if Alisaie doesn’t knock them into you herself first. Has she told you how she feels about self-sacrifice?”

Hurt pangs in his chest. “Ryne—”

“I don’t want to stay in an empty home if all you’re going to do is walk out on it and never come back. Goodnight, Thancred.”

A flash of pink ribbon and red hair, and then she is gone, vanishing into a night of endless light.

[ereardon]

That Summer || Part One [Bradley Bradshaw x Reader]

A Bradley Bradshaw AU

Summary: One night during the summer you turned eighteen, you woke up to a surprise. Your father, a retired Navy Admiral, had posted bail for the son of a former colleague who was now orphaned and had gotten himself mixed up with the law. Instead of letting him get lost in the judicial system, your father signed himself up as Bradley Bradshaw’s guardian to prevent him from going to juvie. You were explicitly told to stay away from the boy in the attic room. But as the summer went on, you and Bradley struck up an unlikely friendship that turned into a forbidden relationship. Bradley tipped your world upside down, challenging everything you had once thought you knew. How could the two of you think it would end any differently than it did when your father called the cops the night he found the two of you in bed together?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, illusion to violence, mention of dead parents, angst

Wordcount: 3.5K

Series masterlist here; Part Two here

“Do you know him?” 

You looked over. The familiar dark hair. The tanned, even skin. The dazzling smile. You could hear his laugh in your ear even though it had been years. You could practically feel the vibrations of his voice and the way it used to smooth over your skin in the middle of the night as the two of you laid side-by-side on the queen mattress, the stars twinkling through the skylights of your childhood bedroom. 

You would know Bradley Bradshaw anywhere. It didn’t matter that it had been fifteen years since you had last seen him. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t heard your name fall from his lips since the night the two of you were ripped apart. It didn’t matter that you had once told yourself you’d never love another person the way you loved Bradley, only for him to be gone in an instant.

He was bonded to you. He was infused in every single atom in your body. He ran through your veins alongside your blood. He haunted your dreams. He patrolled your memories. His touches were tattooed on your skin like a glow-in-the-dark map that only you could see.  

You looked up one last time. And watched as Bradley turned, his hand pulling at the sunglasses that sat squarely on his nose until he was looking, staring, at you. And it was just the two of you, once more. It was like none of it had ever happened, and also everything had happened. And you were eighteen again, on the beach, in Galveston. And he was just a boy who held your hand and promised you the world even though he didn’t have a dime to his name. Even though he had no right to offer you a future, even if you both knew it was a lie.

You looked away. “No,” you whispered softly. “I don’t know him.” 

***

In the middle of the night, you jolted awake in bed. The sound of voices in the foyer and the familiar thump of the giant wooden front door as it sealed closed caught your attention. Your father ran a tight ship and an even tighter house. It was incredibly unusual that anyone would drop by unannounced in the middle of the night. You turned to the clock on your nightstand. It was after two in the morning. 

Silently, you eased out of bed and tiptoed out of your room into the hall, peering down from the railing of the curved staircase. Two stories below, you heard voices and spotted several figures moving into your line of sight through the wooden posts on the stairwell. 

You saw your father’s familiar, formidable, figure first. Tall stature, hair grayed with age. You could tell, just by how rigid he was standing, that this wasn’t a positive interaction. He radiated anger and disappointment, even from two stories away. You were all too familiar with this side of him.

The next person who popped into your field of view was a police officer, dressed in uniform. You frowned. Your father, a retired Admiral, wasn’t unfamiliar with the local Galveston police force. But they didn’t make it a habit to come to your house at two o’clock in the morning, unannounced. 

Finally, a third figure floated into view. You sucked in a breath. He was young, late teens, with sandy brown hair, wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You watched his body language. How he kept his eyes trained on the ground, head bowed so low his chin must have been touching his chest. How even from all the way on the third floor you could tell that he was in desperate need of a shower. 

And then, finally, the voices ceased. The policeman held out a hand to shake your father’s. He looked at the boy, who raised his eyeline and nodded solemnly. And then the door was shut and it was just your father and the boy, staring at each other in the foyer. You leaned down, close to the white wood posts in the railing, trying desperately to hear what they were saying. And then you watched as your father sighed, shaking his head, heading for the stairs. 

Before you could scramble out of your crouched spot, the boy looked up, catching your eye. 

That was the first time you saw Bradley Bradshaw. 

You were seventeen, about to turn eighteen. You had your entire life ahead of you. You had kissed boys before. You had thought, wrongly, that you had experienced pain before. You had thought you understood the world and its intricacies. You thought you knew exactly where your life was going to go. 

Everything you had ever known went out the window that night as you looked down the curved flights of stairs and saw Bradley. Everything you had ever thought was true was flipped on its head the second his warm brown eyes locked on yours. 

You scurried back to your room, closing the door as you heard your father’s footsteps on the second floor platform, starting his ascent to the third floor. You waited with baited breath as two sets of footsteps passed your room, turning down the hallway toward the attic tower room. 

Your family had moved to Galveston five years prior once your father finally retired from his post at Top Gun in California. The first time they brought you down to Texas, you gawked at the house. It stuck out like a sore thumb. A giant Victorian monstrosity near the beach, with a steep, gabled roof and a round tower on the right side. 

The tower room remained empty for as long as you could remember. It was mostly storage for your mother’s hideous Christmas decorations or whatever hobby she decided to have that week that would inevitably get stored away once she turned her mind to something else. 

The sounds of their footsteps grew more muted as the two of them climbed the stairs to the tower room. 

You closed your eyes, trying to wash away the haunting image of the boy staring up at you only moments before. But it was burned in your retinas. 

Somehow, even then, you knew. He was going to change everything. 

***

When you woke up the next day, you had almost forgotten about the entire event the night before. 

That was, until you floated downstairs in a tiny white cotton pajama set and spotted an unfamiliar, but somehow familiar, person sitting at the breakfast table, their back to you, just a head of brown curls in view. 

You looked up at Louise, the housekeeper, with a frown. She shrugged. 

“Y/N.” Your father’s voice boomed across the expanse of the kitchen. You turned as he strode into the kitchen through the side door, already dressed for the day with nowhere to go. Thirty-five years in the Navy had acclimated him to a sleep schedule that you could never wrap your head around. 

“Daddy,” you said softly, stepping further into the kitchen. The boy at the table remained still, not facing you, instead looking out through the bay window next to the breakfast nook, overlooking the ocean. 

“Louise, can you get my daughter some coffee, please?” he asked and she nodded, returning in a moment with a delicate china cup filled coffee with cream, exactly the way you liked it.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly. 

Your father’s eyes rolled over to the boy at the table. “Y/N. This is Bradley Bradshaw. He will be staying with us for a while.” 

Still, he didn’t turn. You stepped forward, sliding into the bench seat that hugged the curve of the bay window, setting your coffee cup down gently. “Hi.” 

That’s when Bradley finally met your gaze. You had to stifle a gasp. He had cuts and scrapes across his face and down his neck, and a black eye that you hadn’t been able to distinguish in the darkened lighting the night before. His lip was split. He looked at you silently for a moment before uttering, “Hey.” His voice was timid. Broken. He didn’t sound at all like what you had expected. 

You weren’t sure what you had expected. 

Your father put his hand on your bare shoulder. “Bradley’s father and I served together at Top Gun back in the day.” 

“That’s nice,” you said, taking a sip of coffee. “Is he still in California?” 

“He’s dead,” Bradley said and you sank back in shock. The way he said it had the effect of curdling the milk in your coffee. It was cold. Detached.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

Bradley turned to look back out the window, ignoring the plate of eggs in front of him. 

“Y/N,” your father said, “can I speak to you in the living room please?” 

You nodded, sliding out of the booth seat and following him through the doors into the wider living room. 

He turned to you. “I need you to be careful,” he whispered. 

You frowned. “Careful about what?” 

“That boy,” he replied. “Bradley. He’s deeply troubled. His father, Nick, was a good man. But it seems that Bradley has gone down a rather troubled path.” He paused. “Stay away from him. Promise me, Pumpkin.” 

Pumpkin. The nickname your father had called you since you were born. Your parents had wanted a house full of children, running and screaming and creating chaos. And instead, they had gotten only you. And the weight of that sat on your shoulders every day that passed. 

“You may see him at meals, but don’t fraternize with the boy,” your father warned. “He’ll only bring you trouble.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the top of your head. 

“Promise me?” 

You nodded. “I promise.” 

He smiled. “Good. I’ll see you at dinner.” It didn’t matter that he was retired. Your father always had somewhere to be, no matter what day of the week. He frowned upon sleeping in and relaxing. 

“Daddy?” you asked as he turned to leave. “What did he do? Why is he here?” 

Your father sighed. “He was in trouble, and needed help. That’s all you need to know.” 

“But what did he–”

“Y/N.” His voice was firm. It was his military voice. You knew it well. “Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to.”

***

The move from California to Texas had been extreme. Your parents were Texas born and raised, and they had taken their ideals and their tendencies with them to California. But growing up in San Diego has been a blessing. You visited cousins and grandparents back in the South during the holidays and the summer, but it wasn’t until your father retired that you had truly understood what it meant to be from Texas. 

Your mother never worked. Not a day in her life. She was raised to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother. And that’s why it was such a disappointment that you were her only child to care for. It’s why it was such a disappointment that you hadn’t turned out at all like the daughter they had hoped for. 

You wore bikinis all day during the summer and let your hair get bleached by the sun and you read books with sexual themes and you resisted going to bible study youth group and you were not the daughter that they had expected. 

So when your father retired and moved the three of you to Texas, your mother signed you up for a debutante ball at the end of the summer. As if spinning around a dated country club ballroom in five layers of taffeta would have the effect of making you a lady, someone they were proud to call their daughter.

“Mother,” you whined when you found out. “I am not doing that.” 

“Y/N Sullivan,” she warned and you just knew that your full name rolling off her sharp tongue was never good. “You’re doing this and I’m not going to hear otherwise.” 

You turned and rolled your eyes behind her back. And that was how you ended up buying elbow-length gloves for the end-of-summer Ball at the Galveston Artillery Club. 

The gloves, and the dress, hung in perpetuity in your walk-in closet. Every morning when you went in to get dressed they taunted you. 

August 15 could not come and go soon enough. 

***

You didn’t see Bradley again until dinner. 

As usual, your mother was nowhere to be seen. You spent the day on the beach, tanning on a towel, reading books with your head ducked beneath a thin linen shirt, letting the Texas sun scorch you until you were so hot you had to run into the water. 

By the time you had showered and dressed for dinner, it was closing in on seven. Dinner was always at seven and it always required an outfit change. Other kids had grown up in TV dinner houses or with takeout meals eaten on the couch. You had grown up with a strict dinner time and a dress code. 

You smoothed the silky fabric of your slip dress down with your palms, making your way through the living room to the formal dining room. 

Once again, it was only you and Bradley. He looked up as you entered. He was wearing a collared shirt, obviously one of your father’s from years past, that was too large on his frame, the orange color highlighting the injuries on his face. 

You sat down in your normal chair across from him at the ten-person table. “How’d you get those?” you asked, nodding toward him. 

He frowned. “Thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me.” 

“Shit,” you whispered. “You heard that?” 

Bradley nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “My father can be temperamental.” To say the least. 

Bradley shrugged. “Whatever.” 

At that moment, your parents entered the room. Your mother’s eyes swept over where you sat across the table from Bradley, a permanent crease between her eyebrows taking hold. “Y/N,” she said softly before turning. “And you must be Bradley.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, head bowed. 

Your father grunted and sat down at his normal spot at one end of the table. Your mother took the other end. It feel surreal, like an extremely fucked up Norman Rockwell painting sprung to life. 

The entire dinner was consumed in near silence. Just the sound of forks and knives scratching at the china plates that your mother loved so dearly. Your eyes drifted across the table to Bradley, who looked like he was in pain when he chewed. He kept his eyes trained on his plate, only lifting them when he was asked a direct question. 

You were sawing through a piece of undercooked asparagus when your mother’s voice slid across your skin. “Have you found a date for the debutante ball yet?” 

You put your silver fork and knife down. “Not yet.” 

“It’s in less than two months,” your mother replied. “You need to move before all the escorts are snapped up.” 

“Maybe I’ll hire a real escort then.” 

Her jaw dropped. “Y/N, don’t even tease.” 

“Sorry mother.” 

“What about the Althans boy? He’s charming.” 

“He’s five foot four and smells like pickled onions.” 

At the other end of the table, your father snorted. You looked up and smirked. “Daniel!” your mother scolded. “Can you please tell your daughter she’s being a brat.” 

“Y/N,” he said, turning to you. 

“Yes, daddy?”

“You’re being a brat,” he replied and as you opened your mouth with a retort he added, “and you’re right about the Althans kid. He smells God awful.” 

You laughed. “What about Frank Turner’s son? The engineering student.” 

You grunted. “Pass.”

Your father sighed. “And what’s wrong with him?” 

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. That you had been at a bonfire last summer and Ethan Turner had made a pass at you and you had lost your virginity to him on a beach towel in the dunes. It had been awful and ever since you avoided Ethan the best you could. The last thing you wanted was for him to be your escort. 

“Fine,” he said, setting down his knife. “You have until the end of July to find a date, Y/N. And then your mother and I choose for you.” 

You took a sip of water. “Fine.” 

***

You heard him that second night. At first, you thought maybe it was the wind. But when you got out of bed and looked out the large windows facing the water, you saw that the dunes were still. It was just another hot, oppressive June night without a whisper of a breeze. 

And then you heard it again. A soft whine. A thrashing. You tiptoed out of bed and creaked open the wooden door, tipping your head out into the hallway. It was coming from the tower room. If you had been a child growing up in the house, the attic in the tower probably would have held some sort of exotic magnetism over you. A forbidden playground. Instead, it exclusively gave off Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre vibes. 

The moaning and groaning from behind the door didn’t help. You debated seeing what was wrong. But your father’s words rattled around in your head. So you crept back to bed, sliping a pair of foam earplugs into your ears, drowning out the sounds of the boy upstairs. 

You heard it for two more nights before finally you got up the courage to reach out and twist the door handle, gently tugging it open, ascending the wooden stairs up to the tower room. 

The staircase tossed you out into the middle of the room, which you saw had been cleared out of holiday decorations. Instead, there was a dresser against one wall, a small reading chair, and a double bed underneath the main window. 

On the bed, Bradley was tossing in his sleep violently, the white sheets tangling between his bare legs. You slowly stepped off the top step onto the hardwood floor, and the creaking noise caused Bradley to sit straight up in bed.

You noticed first that he was panting, like he had just been chased down the beach. Second thing you noticed was that he was shirtless, sweat dotting his entire chest, along with scratches of varying hues. 

You raised your hands up in a surrender pose. “I heard you fussing,” you said softly. “And wanted to check and make sure you were OK.” 

Bradley blinked, hard, shaking his head a few times like he was trying to orient himself. “I’m fine,” he whispered gruffly after a moment. 

“I think you were having a nightmare.” 

“Is it a nightmare if you have them every night?” he asked quietly. “Or is it just how I dream?” 

You frowned, stepping closer. “Every night?” 

Bradley looked down at his hands where they were gripping the white sheets but didn’t respond. 

“You never told me how you got those scars,” you whispered, pointing to the ones on the side of his face. 

“You should go,” he said after a moment. 

“Why?” 

“Because if they find you in here, they’ll kick me out.” 

“Do you care?” you asked. It was a genuine question. All you had seen so far from Bradley Bradsahw was indifference. 

Bradley’s eyes landed on yours. You felt the look all the way to your toes. It tingled across your veins. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said quietly. “So yeah, I care. I have to.” 

You nodded. “OK, I’ll leave.” You turned to leave, hovering on the top spiral step. “Bradley?” 

He hummed. 

“Third door on your right,” you replied quietly. “If you need me. Or if you want to talk. That’s my room. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Back in your own bed, you pulled the covers up to your neck, thinking about the raw animalistic terror in Bradley’s eyes the second he woke up. There was something about him that drew you in. Something you couldn’t let go of. 

He was as lost as you felt. 

***

You had exactly one hundred days until you left for Stanford. 

One hundred days of summer. Nothing but the debutante ball looming over you. 

You had wanted to get a job, something to do to fill the hours of the day. But your mother was old fashioned. She begged you to get a volunteer position instead. Your father agreed. You capitulated. 

“Being well-rounded is good for a girl your age,” he said, sipping on a glass of whiskey as you stood at the large built-in bookshelf in his office. 

“I can be well rounded and serve fried clams at Nick’s Kitchen.” 

“Over your mother’s dead body,” he laughed and you sighed, choosing a tome off the shelf and bidding him goodnight. 

You spent your days languishing on the beach, volunteering at the animal shelter on the other side of the island, reading for your courses in the fall. It was supposed to be a banal summer. Ordinary. 

And then Bradley showed up and everything was suddenly, undeniably, altered. 

A/N: I had originally considered posting this as one LONG piece, but this felt like a good natural stop for the first part so it will be split into parts, not sure how many (at least three)!

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[chrysalizzm]

ttdtn blurb: execution

“Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

warnings: references to abuse, abusive relationship, references to torture, c!sam neg, vague body horror, death

for @lookinghalfacorpse's phenomenal fic the trees deny themselves nothing, which has been living in my head for the past month.

People always forget that Phil is millenniums old. That he’s put on every face there is. That he’s spoken every tongue that’s lived and died. He can clean any wound and ease any illness, and when the bombing was over and the dust had settled he’d limped through the crowd and offered potions and poultices, and consolation if they’d take it, so: of course they think he’s a senile old man who only knows pain and death. Of course.

But Sam, all of king and court magician, redstone genius and pickpocketing slummer, should know better.

And he does seem to remember, judging by the full-body flinch he greets Phil with at the door to his old workshop. All his fur roils on end, a forest of green, as he says, “Philza.”

“Hi, mate.” Phil folds his wings back demurely, watching Sam’s eyes follow the Void-black sheen of them. He steps over the threshold without waiting for an invitation to do so, steering Sam back towards his workbench with a thump on the back. He kicks the door closed behind him, and it creaks laboriously shut with a protesting groan. Sam’s gaze flickers to the door. Back to Phil’s wings. The fine, faint feathers dusting Phil’s cheeks prick up.

“Nice space you got here,” he says, real friendly-like, parking Sam’s ass in one of the only chairs that doesn’t have a chunk taken out of it for tinkering. “Gloomy and shit. Perfect for you. Is this body going blind yet?”

Sam straightens. “No,” he says mechanically. “My eyesight is perfect, thank you. I’ve improved both foveal acuity and the range of peripheral vision in my left eye. I could track in the dark.”

“Like you couldn’t before,” Phil teases. “Creeper vision and all, yeah? Though the wider periphery is nice. Bet you can see anything getting away.”

Sam’s voice comes out so stiff and starched Phil could probably make a sheaf of paper out of it. “In theory, yes.” 

Phil draws his gaze away from Sam—who knows better than to run from the mythical angel that haunts every page of every history book—to observe the rows and rows of tinkertoys, the delicate baubles, the shiny trinkets. He can practically hear his feathers puffing up in glee. It’s really a shame he knows that Sam’s hands shaped them; all he wants to do is pulverize them into pretty glittering grime.

“Is there anything specific you needed, Phil?” Sam asks, apparently having regained enough of his wits to brave impatience. “I’m busy. I just got an important commission and I really need to get to it.”

“You’ll sit right there until I say you can leave or I will sprout wings of flame and turn your bones into glass,” says Phil mildly. “Is that clear?”

Silence rings out into the workshop. A leaky faucet somewhere drip-drip-drips into the hollow quiet. Sam shifts. 

“...Crystal.”

“Perfect. Glad to see we’re on the same page.” Phil’s eyes flicker briefly to the ceiling, where Sam has, perhaps for posterity, installed a flimsy skylight. A crow—soon to be a whole murder of ‘em—pokes its inquisitive little head in, and Phil stifles a smile. Turning to face Sam, he tucks the smile behind the fan of his clawed fingers and asks, “Why did you lie to me?”

Sam jerks. “What?”

“You lied to me. You claimed you had no underhanded intentions with Dream, yet you took his leg and left him for dead. You claimed you were keeping no secrets, only to lie, repeatedly, to my face. You claimed you would do everything in your power to rectify your mistake, but you’ve instead made a bigger one.” Phil folds his hands over Benihime’s hilt, feeling her purr under his palm. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?”

Sam, clearly not understanding what Phil’s saying, scoffs. “I never lied to you once,” he says matter-of-factly. “I adhered completely to my code of ethics as both an engineer and the Warden, and acted upon the best interests of everyone on this Server.”

“Taking out a perceived threat,” Phil agrees cheerfully. Sam stumbles over his words, caught off-guard by Phil’s concurrence, and it gives Phil the room to continue, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said over and over for the past three days, mate. Had a lot of time to sorta mull things over, as like.” A minute tense of the knuckles; in the back of his head, Benihime hisses. “But that’s not all that I’m here for.”

Sam lifts his head, shucking off his redstone-stained goggles. His eyes are round: comically surprised. “It’s not?” he says.

Phil smiles with all his teeth. His wings sharpen against the air. The shadows at his feet stretch and seethe. Sam recoils. 

“It’s not. I’m here not only because of those things, but also because you used Dream.” Phil’s voice unspools in a low croon. Quietly, quietly, so not even the crows overhead can hear and whisk the sacred words back to his wife. “Before the Old World fell, they had a name for what you’re doing to Dream. They called it Stockholm Syndrome. Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”

Sam, his green pelt gone over gray like the gunpowder he’ll fade into if Phil takes a knife to his skull, shakes his head. Ever an eager student, quick to confess to his ignorance. Between becoming empress of a kingdom and a girl in the wilds running with the wolves, Phil had spent a stint as a young king’s tutor, pleased by how quickly the cunning kid caught on. One of many regrets, in the end.

“It means Dream knows how you think about him. He understands. He empathizes. He knows what you think he is, and he agrees. He might like you, Sam. He might even like you a lot, so much that he will ignore anyone trying to save him because you have convinced him he should not be saved. Maybe even that he does not deserve to be saved.” Techno had told him about the incident in the barn, and they both have eyes; you don’t survive centuries amongst the Servers without developing a sixth sense for interpersonal relations. Besides, Phil came before Techno. Much, much before, when there were names for these things, and people knew that you could look at your captor like a lover. Times have changed. People, it seems, have not.

“I don’t know all the details of what you and Quackity did to him in that prison. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I care that somehow, while doing what you fucks did, you convinced him that he is not a person, and that he does not deserve love, and that he doesn’t get to live.” The lurid, limpid fury that Phil had carefully banked before leaving burns back to life in his chest now, saying what he knows to be true out loud. “And he believes those things in part because he thinks he loves you.”

Phil didn’t tell Techno—he would have had a fit, and maybe snapped Sam’s neck, not that Phil would’ve been too pressed to stop him—but he’d walked in on an entirely different thing just a day or two after Dream’s first steps. He’d closed the door the moment he realized what was going on, but skin on skin, Sam holding Dream like a worshiper at the feet of an idol: Sam is fooling himself too. “And I think you might have used him. Just a thought.”

The air of the workshop is cold in Phil’s lungs as he draws in a careful breath. He’s always wary of losing his temper. It’s one thing to do it in front of Techno, who’s plenty immortal himself and could probably withstand an accidental eyeful; it’s another thing entirely to do it in a place not specially warded and enchanted and lined brick to brick with sigils to keep the eldritch from spilling everywhere. Once it gets out, there’s no getting it back in, so: deep breaths. Bit by bit, the inferno simmers low. His feathers ease back down. Benihime’s howls fade away.

Sam swallows hard, his throat bobbing in the dark. His new eye throws off bits of light when he blinks. He stands, and he smooths off his pants, and there are a thousand, a million words caught in Phil’s throat, held fast only by the pacts of gods, as the measly little mongrel of a creeper before him says, “I only do what he lets happen to him.”

Dream’s earnest face, his faint smile, drift in a golden-brown smudge across Phil’s eyes. “He only does what I let him do to me.” 

Philza remembers a time before the gods walked the earth. A time before monsters and a time before the Builders. He even remembers a time before the Servers, though that’s a secret sealed in blood and ichor he’ll only divulge if he wishes to die. He remembers floods and famines and foul, fetid plagues. He remembers every bone broken, every life lost. He remembers the Nether before it was a ruin of hellfire. He remembers the End before the night swallowed it whole. He remembers the Ancient Cities when they were not so ancient, before the sculk sprayed its spores, before the Warden—the real one, not a plaything for a pathetic, mewling nuisance to emulate—came through the Builders’ doorway.

Phil has been empresses, wild children, healers, teachers, gods in human skin. Phil is the oldest thing he knows.

He feels every inch his age and horror and terrible, untethered knowledge as he sheds his skin into tongues of flame.

His limbs are End in their own way, cold Void, but that’s just because of his ill-advised dealings with the Ender King. The rest of him is Blaze Empress to the bone, blessed by Hell, kissed by Death. What manner of creature could stand against his full glory, the sheer brutality of his rage? Certainly not a silly little wannabe immortal with wide, stupefied eyes and a dumb, slack mouth. Certainly not a pitiful sack of meat and bone that whirls to pick up a golden trident and is struck down between the shoulder blades with the tip of a blade whittled so finely it winnows the ligaments of his vertebrae and sticks him to the wall opposite, where he screams and curses and makes all manner of noise.

Phil chuckles, amused. It’s a sound that no mortal was meant to hear. Quite possibly it ruptures one or both of Sam’s cochleae, because the man’s ears start to bleed as he shrieks. It’s a shame. Phil had a whole spiel ready to go.

Glossy black bodies wobble across the skylight, squawk in alarm; as one, the murder takes off to tattle to his wife. Phil throws his head back, all glorious mane of sun and storm, and cackles. Benihime has already pierced Sam’s heart, is poisoning him from the inside, a slow death by unstoppable self-mutilation: informing Death would be a mercy. 

Phil folds himself back demurely into his facsimile of a body. In this way, he and Sam share something. He smooths his hair back under his hat, ducks under the doorframe, and gives the workshop a fond little pat on the wall. He’s about ten paces away when the whole thing, outbuildings and all, burst into flame. He’s twenty when he starts to laugh.

He’s forty when he starts to cry.

[skylarstark4826]

Shuri stared at the bracelet that had just been placed on her wrist; the jade glinted in the dim light of the cavernous room. The fibers of the plant which had saved Talokan itched slightly on her wrist, but she didn’t mind.

“Namor…” All of the words that came to her mind did not seem adequate, and she was left speechless—she couldn’t remember the last time words had failed her.

Well, she could. But she didn’t like to think about that.

Finally, she said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“It is the least I could do,” he said with a soft smile. She couldn’t help but notice how close he was to her, she couldn’t help but feel the warmth radiating from his skin. And when the urge to move even closer to him came, she was powerless to stop herself.

Their shoulders brushed. “Talokan is a wonderful place. Your people are lucky to have you.”

He paused; after a moment, he waved a hand. “It is the people who make Talokan wonderful. I am the lucky one.” He met her gaze, his eyes twinkling. “But you couldn’t have known that when you offered to come here. You are a very brave woman, Princess.”

“You can call me Shuri,” she told him quietly.

“Shuri,” he murmured, as though trying out the name on his lips. Then he smiled. “When we are alone here, I will call you Shuri.” He looked out at the water before them, and she could tell there was more he wanted to say. She waited patiently to hear it.

“I have one more proposal,” he began. He turned toward her resolutely and she couldn’t look away from his eyes; they held her in rapture. “Talokan and Wakanda are both powerful nations. But alone, we are vulnerable to outsiders. As strong as our nations are, we would be stronger together. United.”

She knit her eyebrows. “What do you propose?”

“Marriage,” he said simply.

She blinked, attempting to maintain a mask of calm. “Marriage,” she repeated. “And… to be clear… who would be getting married?”

He smiled. “You would be queen of Talokan. Our nations could protect each other; if we are one, no one will dare to risk war with us. We could trade resources and create a lasting alliance between our peoples. We would be unstoppable, Shuri.”

She nodded slowly, staring into the water. There was an answer forming in her gut, and it terrified her with its clarity. “It is not an easy decision,” she said, tamping down her instinct. “I will need time to think.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “I understand.” He looked up at the skylight far above them; moonlight shone in his dark brown eyes. “It is very late. Would you like to see your room?”

She nodded absently; he stood up and held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and got to her feet, and neither of them let go. Instead, he led her through winding corridors with their fingers intertwined.

He stopped outside an intricately carved, heavy wooden door and faced her, his free hand drifting up to hold hers. There was a soft, reverent light in his eye as he looked at her, and his gaze occasionally flicked down to her lips. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said, still holding her hands in his own. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be perfect,” she smiled. “Everything so far has been.”

It was hard to tell in this light, but she thought she saw a tint of red rise in his cheeks. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall. Good night, Princess. Shuri,” he corrected with a smile. “Good night, Shuri.”

“Good night.” She stilled as he moved closer and pressed his lips softly to her cheek, and she felt him pause as well.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then his mouth was on hers—she was never sure who moved first, and she wasn’t sure she cared. Her lips melded perfectly to his and his hands drifted to her waist, bringing her closer until they were flush against each other. Through the thick fabric of his robe, she could feel the solid muscles of his stomach rise and fall with his breath.

She slid her tongue along his bottom lip and he opened up to her, deepening the kiss until it was searing, making hot lava pool in her belly. Every nerve he came in contact with was aflame—every skilled swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth made her feel like she hadn’t been touched in a thousand years. His breath was hot on her lips and his hands gripped her hips; her dress rode up and her breath came in crashing waves. One hand rose to grip his hair and the other fumbled with the knob behind her until they were spilling into her room, the door swinging shut behind them.

Immediately, he pushed her against the heavy door—the carved wood pressed into her back and it took everything in her not to moan at the feeling of his body holding her in place. His hands rose until they caressed her ribs and she ached for them to go just a bit higher, but they stayed where they were. He probed her mouth expertly with his tongue and she responded in kind, tangling both of her hands in his hair and tugging lightly. He let out a hissing breath and broke away from her mouth to swirl his tongue along her pulse point, and her breath hitched audibly.

He paused and she felt him smile against her skin—then he doubled down on his ministrations. He hiked up her dress until he could find the bare skin of her hips, and she felt her knees wobble slightly as her body pulsed with need. He slid his hand down to the back of her thigh and hitched her leg up, his strong, weathered palm rough on her soft skin—their hips were flush now and she felt his hardened arousal press into her. Want swelled in her and she couldn’t stop the quiet moan that escaped her mouth, but it was cut off by another perfect, searing kiss.

She felt suddenly annoyed at how many articles of clothing they were wearing and reached for the white robe around his shoulders, breaking the kiss to lift it off his shoulders. He watched, eyes twinkling, as she folded it carefully and placed it on a cushioned chair in the corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” he mused.

“It is a beautiful robe, I don’t want to damage it,” she explained quietly. Then she heard his footsteps approach behind her.

Before she could turn around, she felt his hands on her back, so gentle that they almost tickled. Goosebumps rippled out from his touch.

“You are beautiful, Shuri,” he murmured. He found the top clasp of her dress on the back of her neck and undid it, then his fingers drifted down to the next one. She stood still, heart pounding, while he made his way down her back, the pads of his fingers occasionally brushing against her spine. Finally, the last clasp was undone, and she heard him hold his breath for a moment before he drifted a feather-light finger all the way back up to the nape of her neck.

She let out a shaky breath.

He spread the dress apart with his hands, fingertips sliding gently over her skin, and she rounded her shoulders so that it would fall easily to the ground; it slinked off of her with a soft rustle and lighted on the ground, the intricate jade jingling slightly. She was left wearing only her underwear.

His hands remained on her shoulders for a moment, then drifted down to her waist and wrapped around her middle, pulling her closer. He placed a kiss in the crook of her neck, his lips lingering there.

Slowly, she turned around and met his burning eyes, once again unable to look away. “I should fold up the dress too,” she breathed. “You made it yourself.”

A radiant smile overtook his features and he laughed, a sound like music. “If it gets damaged, I will repair it,” he said. His thumbs traced light circles on her hips. “You are kind to be so concerned.”

Her hand wound around the back of his neck and she brought his lips down to meet hers again; he responded enthusiastically, moving in sync with her, and while her fingers dipped into his soft hair, he splayed his hands on her back and pressed her to him firmly.

The quiet moment they’d had was now overridden by a sense of urgency, a searing heat that swept them both up with its energy. She arched her bare chest into his and he teased her mouth with his tongue, listening to her quiet gasps of breath and relishing in the feeling of her, enveloping him.

He walked them back until she was pressed against the wall, then made his way down to her collarbone, nipping and swirling his tongue on the delicate skin there, and her breath became labored. She arched her chest again and he took the hint, his lips drifting over her skin until he closed around a nipple, teasing it with his teeth and wetting it with his tongue, and the sound of her moans in his ear made him throb. He took her other breast in his hand and rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, continuing with his mouth on the first before switching.

She let out a huff of breath, and her hands drifted to his hair again. When he peered up at her, he saw that her eyes were closed. “Namor,” she breathed, not bothering to say anything else.

He straightened up quickly and kissed her again, the control gone from both of them—this kiss was different from the ones before, all breath and teeth and tongue. She clawed lightly into his shoulder blades and his thumbs pressed roughly into her hips, hard enough to hurt, but she moaned instead. She reached down to the waistband of his pants and hooked her thumbs in the fabric, pulling it down just enough before finally wrapping her hand around his cock and feeling it pulse under her touch.

He let out a quiet groan and, in one smooth motion, picked her up like she was weightless. He gripped her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him and he pressed her into the wall again, separating from her for a moment to look into her eyes. Her breath was heavy and her eyes were lidded, and she gave him a small nod.

He reached down to the thin fabric covering her entrance and shoved it to the side, guiding himself slowly into her. She moaned into his mouth, and his control waned for a desperate moment—he bucked his hips roughly and she bounced from the motion, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. She found his lips again and her tongue teased inside, and he felt her slickness coat him as he slid in further. She nodded again, gripping his hair tightly, and he bucked into her a second time. His breath was shaky and warm on her lips.

She started to move her hips with him, developing a rhythm, her breath getting shorter with every thrust.

“Harder,” she whispered, and he moaned at the word before obliging. He clutched her hips and pulled her down while he thrusted up, and her fingernails clawed at his shoulders again, hard enough to leave trails on his skin. He continued with this new force and rhythm until she gasped into his ear, “Harder.”

He moaned and grazed his teeth along her neck before sinking them into her skin, swirling his tongue as he thrusted harder, her whole body bouncing with his force. Once again, he could feel his control waning, and he reached down to her apex and swirled his thumb around the sensitive bundle of nerves there until all he could hear was her, gasping for air, moaning his name, her volume building to a crescendo. Finally, she became quiet for a moment, and then she pulsed around him, her legs tightening around his waist and her hands grasping at his marked shoulders. A moan pulled itself from her lungs and the sound of it pushed him over the edge, his thrusts getting sloppy as he released into her, riding them both through their highs.

They stayed like that, quiet and still for a while, until their breath returned to normal. Then he slowly pulled out of her and she let out a contented sigh as he lowered her to her feet.

She stood on her own for a beat, but then her knees wobbled and she began to spill to the floor; he caught her easily and held her up with a smile.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

She nodded and looked around the room for a moment; the colors were warm, the walls hand painted with intricate murals leading all the way onto the high ceiling. A large, unused bed sat flush against the opposite wall. On the floor in the middle of the room, there was a woven rug made of a thousand colors. She smiled back at him brightly.

“This room is very much to my liking,” she told him.

After a brief test of her legs, she took his hand in hers and led him to the soft rug. They lay down next to each other on their backs and told each other stories of their homes, then, after an indeterminate amount of time, Shuri snuggled in closer to Namor’s warm body and laid her head on his chest, closing her eyes. He traced circles on her arm, a soft smile on his lips, feeling a peace he hadn’t known in a long time.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, Shuri spoke, her voice vibrating softly in his chest.

“I think I know my answer.”

[something-lacking]

Dragged Out of the Ashes

Summary: A few sprigs of lavender loosely clasped in scarred hands. Unseeing eyes fixed on the sky. A sizable puddle of blood formed on the floor. A genuine smile on cold lips. Quiet. Stillness. It's over. The end.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Blood, violence, misogyny, and implied/referenced sexual abuse.

Ao3 link here // FF.Net link here // Wattpad link here

Although certainly not for lack of trying, there is not much that Daniella enjoys. Or causes her to experience some vague approximation of enjoyment, anyway. One of the few things on that pitifully short list is gazing at the sky up above.

Every night, she lays down on her thin mattress after Master sends her off. She remains there for hours, but she doesn't sleep much. Hardly ever. Her bare-bones room offers nothing to do and she isn't allowed to leave until Master says, so she simply stares out the small window.

She'll wonder what lies beyond the estate, the endless trees, and the mountains that seclude them from everything.

She'll let her eyes glaze over. Try to quiet her thoughts with little success.

Or, most often, she'll simply watch the sky.

Currently, it's the blue hour. The soft light is pretty.

Gentle.

Soothing.

Like...

...a lullaby...

It's enough to make one drift off.

Daniella has a lovely view of it through the observatory's broken skylight.

She's already drifted off, though.

Her eyes are open, but darkness has settled over her vision.

She stopped breathing about ten minutes ago.

It's alright, though. Daniella decided that if she could not obtain Fiona's Azoth—if her last chance to fix herself fully slipped through her fingers, then she was prepared for her miserable existence to come to an end.

No more menial chores day in and day out.

No more bitter insults.

No more beatings.

Only nothingness.

It's all over. The end.

...

Fiona descends the steps of the curved staircase with Hewie at her heels.

She has yet another key. Another door to open.

She lets out a shuddery breath.

Another step closer to freedom. Another obstacle out of her way.

No... That doesn't sound right...

The horrid stinging sensation radiating throughout the entirety of Fiona's hands seems to worsen. The scraps of cloth she wrapped around her palms are already turning scarlet.

She doesn't regret it.

She's sorry. She's so sorry, which is why she doesn't regret it.

The moment is still seared into her brain.

The glass rains down.

The maid cries out as a particularly large shard sinks through her middle, pinning her place like an insect on display.

Blood runs down the glass in thick streams, pooling on the floor.

Purple lips pull back into a—

"Gah!"

Fiona startles at the cold nose that presses into the back of her knee. She had stopped walking. When did she stop walking?

Hewie stares up at her, tilting his head and letting out a concerned whine.

"Sorry, boy." Fiona reaches down to scratch behind his ears. "We'll keep moving."

They have to. That's all they can do.

She hates this place. She really does.

...

Tick-tock.

It's over.

Tick-tock.

Why does the grandfather clock continue to tick?

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Honestly, truly, it's nothing but cruel to finally give Daniella something she desires and then rip it away like this.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Why does the flower refuse to wilt? To die? Even after being pulled from its roots and deprived of everything?

Shut in.

Closed off.

Uncared for.

It wants to die.

Can't stand another day. Another hour. Another minute. Another second. She can't.

Daniella just wants to die.

She doesn't. Instead, she opens her eyes.

The sprigs of lavender resting in her hands appear freshly picked. They're vibrant and healthy. She holds them tightly, confused.

The sky is a new color. A dusty purple.

There is no shard of glass in Daniella's field of vision. Nothing is impaling her.

She's lying supine on the floor. The reflective surface beneath her is positively saturated in blood—surely more than should be outside of her body while she's still alive.

Not that Daniella was ever truly alive.

...Perhaps if she continues to lay here, she will eventually die.

...No, no. Daniella shouldn't be so useless. She's always so useless. Why waste an unexpected second opportunity?

Miss Fiona might still be wandering around, searching for a way to escape.

...

Fiona doesn't know where she's going. The trees, the paths... they all look the same!

"Do your best, Fiona!"

Hewie—poor, precious Hewie—is hurt.

Riccardo is right on her tail.

"There's nowhere to run!"

BANG!

"Agh!"

Fiona's shoulder begins to burn. Like someone decided to smack her with a red hot metal rod. She stumbles forward, just barely catching herself from falling down the steep, unexpected drop before her. This is a dead end, dammit!

BANG!

Something whizzes right past her head. Not good. Not good. Not good. She wheels around with every intent to start running again but finds the barrel of Riccardo's pistol pointing right between her eyes.

He's blocking the path. If she tries to get past him, the next bullet certainly won't just graze her.

"Why are you doing this?" Fiona asks. "What did I do?"

"You inherited your father's Azoth," Riccardo answers flatly. And there's that word again. Azoth. The 'essence of life'. Whatever that means. Fiona wants to pull her hair out.

"What Azoth? I don't even know what that is!"

"That Azoth belongs to us, Fiona. Don't you see? You are our child..."

What.

Fiona refuses to even try and wrap her head around that one. It's too ridiculous. Even after everything. It can't be true. She knows who her parents are—were (don't dwell on it right now). She tells Riccardo such.

He sneers at her beneath his hood, then lifts his free hand to remove it. His face, although marred by glass-like cracks, is disturbingly similar to that of her father. The sick feeling already roiling in her gut rises up to the back of her throat. She tries and fails to swallow it down.

This can't be real. This is insane.

"We are clones!" Riccardo lowers his gun slightly. "Ugo is no more—"

Fiona seizes the opportunity and rams into him with all of her might, toppling him over.

BANG!

The gun fires, missing both of them.

Fiona takes off.

"Fiona!"

...

She must have gotten far, Daniella thinks. Perhaps against all odds, Fiona did manage to escape.

A shriek echoes down the corridor. "Let me go!"

Or perhaps not.

Daniella follows the cries. She thinks she knows where they might be coming from.

There.

She is not fond of this particular room. She has never been fond of it. Not after all that has transpired within it. All of the poking and the prodding and the cutting and the anger and—

No more. No more false ends.

Quietly, Daniella twists the door handle and pushes open the door.

"Don't worry, I do not intend to kill you."

In the gap between the drawn medical curtain and the floor, she can see a familiar pair of sandals and brown trousers. She begins to creep closer, silent as a phantom.

"I've decided you shall give birth to me."

For the first time, she is aware of her heart beating in her chest. She hears her own breathing and feels something stirring deep within her. A dark, twisted excitement tightly wrapped in anxiety.

Fiona struggles against the restraints keeping her on the dirty operating table. "You..." her voice is high and strained, "y-you can't—!"

"I can do whatever I wish!" Riccardo proclaims. "I told you, you're mine. I own you!"

There's a variety of medical instruments sitting on a small, wheeled table. Daniella picks up a scalpel.

Riccardo is still too busy blathering with that painfully smug voice of his to notice her, but Fiona does. She opens her mouth to speak again, then snaps it shut, eyebrows shooting up behind her bangs and eyes widening even further.

"—this time, with your Azoth..." Riccardo pauses. "What on earth are you looking at?"

Daniella doesn't hesitate. Not even for a second. She knows that this will likely be her only opportunity. She can't waste it. She won't. She wants to do this.

Before he can even manage to turn and look at her, Daniella grabs Riccardo's face and cranes his neck back as far as it will go.

She digs the scalpel as deep into his throat as she can and drags it across, splitting it wide open. Red spills forth. It pours out like a waterfall. Riccardo collapses to the floor, choking and gasping for air.

Daniella wipes her weapon clean with her apron.

As Riccardo writhes, he clumsily grabs at her, weakly tugging at the end of her skirt, clawing at her legs. She only watches him.

...It is... alien seeing his features contorted in terror and shock rather than a smirk or snarl. And after everything, after all of the times Daniella has been laying pathetically on the floor just like he is right now, beaten or worse...

There is something enjoyable about this. A deep satisfaction settles in her bones. She smiles and, surprisingly, not for the first time since Fiona's arrival, it feels genuine.

When Riccardo's movements still, when he is nothing more than a corpse on the floor, Daniella tilts her head up. Her attention is now on Fiona.

Impossibly, Fiona begins to struggle even harder. The operating table rattles and shakes, but the restraints remain unyielding.

She can't get away. She can't move. She can't breathe. She can't breathe.

The maid begins to close the distance between them with even, measured footsteps.

Fiona's going to die. She's made it so far and she's going to die here!

The maid looms overhead. Her lavender curls are matted with blood. Dark stains creep from the back of her clothes and onto the front.

And her eyes... Those silvery, glassy eyes of hers are studying Fiona so very intently. She feels as though needles are slowly and methodically being pushed into her skin.

She should say something. Anything. But no words come out. There's an invisible block lodged in her throat and all she can do is sputter.

The maid tilts her head ever so slightly.

Cold steel presses a light kiss against Fiona's cheek. She jolts and tenses up.

The flat side of the maid's scalpel traces along her jaw and down the column of her neck.

Then, the blade finds one of the straps binding her wrists and severs it.

Huh?

After it sinks in, Fiona wastes no time in trying to free her other wrist. The maid pays her sharp movements no mind and makes her way to the end of the table, working on the straps at Fiona's ankles.

She's free. The maid freed her, despite her multiple attempts to kill Fiona earlier.

The overflow of questions in Fiona's head is only increasing.

How is the maid still alive?

Why did she help her?

Her expressionless face offers no answers.

Is she... Is...

Finally, Fiona notices the sprigs of lavender. The ones that she had left in the maid's cold, scarred hands before leaving the observatory. Their stems have been woven through a few tears on the front of her jacket (Hewie's gnashing teeth and raised hackles cross through Fiona's mind), holding them in place.

She kept them. She's wearing them. That's... unexpected?

Fiona manages a shaky smile. "...Thank you... er, I don't even know your name, do I?"

"Daniella," the maid eventually says. "I would like to be called Daniella."

"Daniella. Thank you."

Daniella simply bobs her head in response.

When Fiona finds it in herself to continue on, Daniella follows her. And Fiona wants her to. 

[kxlinthesky]

ESSENCE 7 SIDE STORY - Eden

A white room. A white place.

This tiny world, where time seemed frozen in place, was known as Eden.

And locked away inside, a young boy waited ever more for angels to arrive.

 When at last the boy escaped his gilded cage, what was it that he saw, and who was it that he met?

This is his tiny tale of adventure, searching for the “upside-down city” he so desperately yearned to see.

■■■■■■■■■■

I dream of an “upside-down city,” where an opalescent night sky dotted with twinkling orange-gold stars floats under the buildings instead of above.

In those dreams, I live in that city. It looks like the illustrations in books I read long ago. I can remember the smell of the cobblestones after rain, and the nostalgic familiarity of the windows shining with light. Crowds of people in colorful clothes live there, too, and four-wheel horse-drawn carriages travel in the spaces between massive brick buildings. The whole place feels like a toybox.

“I want to go there, too. Where is it?” I would ask.

“I don’t know,” you would reply. You laughed at me, but I wasn’t kidding.

Because I’ve been waiting here for so, so long, for the angels to descend from the upside-down city to take me by the hand.

■■■■■■■■■■

Do you get this painful ringing in your ears when things get too quiet? The place where I am is like that. It’s a tiny room that’s all white – the walls, the ceiling, the door, everything, and it never changes. The desk, bookshelf, and bed are all lined up symmetrically, and the quill, books, water jug, and cookies lying on them are all white, too. Even the bit of sky I can see through the skylight is white. It’s all boring.

Aah, I just want to go back to sleep and dream about that city again. That place is such a delightful jumble of objects and colors that it makes being locked up in this tranquil room all the more suffocating. I’ve long since grown bored of this static, unchanging life I’m living. I just sleep the days away.

I don’t remember anything from when I was born.

In my earliest memories I was already living here, hearing caretakers tell me in toneless voices that I’m a “supremely precious existence.” They bring me books, and at three o’clock they bring cookies, too. But they also feel sort of floaty, like clouds – they don’t feel real. Everything in here is like that. It’s all shaped like how it’s supposed to look, but it’s been encased in this white something or other.

I don’t even know if the caretakers are machines or real people. Honestly, there might not even be more than one – all of them look the same, so for all I know they could all be the same person. They come in every day, and all they do is perform the same actions and repeat the same phrases.

“May you spend your day peacefully and quietly,” they say.

It’s been a long time since I realized that there was nothing reflected in their eyes.

Where is the upside-down city...? It’s not here, at least.

The air smells of sunshine. My hair flutters in the breeze. I can feel my feet thumping against the steady, firm cobblestones as I race along the pathways. And I can feel the warmth of a large hand gripping mine as we walk along... but none of that is real here.

When I opened my eyes to the white skylight overhead, my heart sank. When I looked at the clock, it was still too early for me to get up. But I slept more than enough – I wasn’t going back to bed. I took in my surroundings. Everything was dead quiet, same as every night. The silence weighed heavy on my ringing ears. I scowled, conjuring up images of my dreams to escape the familiar pain.

And suddenly, I came up with the most brilliant idea.

What if I broke the rules and went outside, to look for the city?

I could find that wonderful place out there, see it with my own two eyes. Warm anticipation welled up deep in my gut at the thought. I didn’t remember ever going outside before, but it was possible that my dreams were actually memories from when I was just a baby. It was honestly kind of odd that the idea hadn’t crossed my mind before.

I stole from my bed on silent feet and gently opened the door just a crack. On the other side was a hallway with a rounded arched ceiling, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see seemingly without end. My legs froze. I was breaking the rules. My body was subconsciously warring with my mind.

For a while I stood there, completely motionless, hesitant, wavering. But eventually the excitement in my heart won out over the uncertainty, and I took my first bold step out of the door and headed down the hallway to the right.

I proceeded with caution, but no matter how far I walked I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe there weren’t that many people in the building. The thought reassured me, and soon enough my bare feet were positively flying down the endless white hall as fast as they could go. It wasn’t long before I ran out of breath, though – I was always running around everywhere in my dreams, but I’d never pushed myself like that in real life.

I had to pause to catch my breath. I’d ended up in some kind of atrium, where the ceiling was so high I couldn’t even see it. The gigantic white stone walls around me were dotted with dozens of passageways stretching out like wedges. It was a big area, but it had this cooped-up feeling to it, like I’d stumbled into a prison, that left me struggling to breathe.

There were plenty of paths to choose from, but I knew I was going to end up lost no matter what I did. I chose the route straight ahead.

– All I could hear was the tapping of my feet echoing in the vast space as I walked endlessly onward. The halls were dim, lit only by flickering electric lights spaced evenly along the walls. I kept glancing back over my shoulder, wondering when the caretakers would finally notice I was gone and come chasing after me.

My sense of time grew warped in this ever-repeating loop of identical halls with identical walls. Anyone who experienced it once would understand the fear brewing in my heart, not knowing if I was actually progressing forward or if I was going in circles. I began to grow discouraged when I continued to see no change in my surroundings, and the thought of turning back gnawed at my mind what felt like hundreds of times.

But finally, I spied it – an exit off in the distance, a literal light at the end of the tunnel. The faint shine peeking through the cracks dispelled any doubts I had. Secretly, I felt like crying at the sight.

I rushed up to the exit at the end of the hall and peeked through to see the largest space I’d ever seen in my life. The area looked to be some kind of place of worship, laid out in three aisles. Off to the right, in the depths by the altar-looking thing, a ten-meter-tall geometric monument hung on the wall. The chairs where people would sit were unreasonably massive. Only two people were inside, each standing guard at opposite ends of the room. I snuck forward through one of the side aisles, hiding in the shadows of the pillars, heading through a lobby on the opposite side of the altar, and eventually reached a door that looked like it led outside.

I scanned my surroundings as I opened the door, but as soon as I turned my eyes outside, I was blinded by overwhelming panic. The “whiteness” was suddenly assaulting my entire body. I somehow managed to swallow the scream that threatened to erupt and slowly, carefully, opened by stinging eyes a crack, and eventually, I began to make out a faint image wavering in front of me.

... An endless sea of white earth and white sky.

That was the first view I got of the outside.

Once I cautiously confirmed there was no one around, I dashed outside the building, feeling the loose earth scatter underneath my feet like sand and dust the backs of my legs. It wasn’t hot. I shouted in delight, unable to contain my excitement. I’d only ever seen a slice of sky through the skylight in my room, and now the whole wide open expanse in its infinite glory was mine to enjoy.

For some reason, laughter bubbled out of me. I pressed a hand against my pounding chest and darted up a sloping white hill.

■■■■■■■■■■

Everywhere I went in the outside world was a never-ending white desert under a colorless sky, occasionally interspersed with round pillar constructions that sprouted from the ground like peppermint. At first I was on guard every time I saw one of them, but no matter how long I watched them I never saw any signs of people, just the structures themselves jiggling around every so often as they changed shapes.

Eventually I grew bored of the monotonous landscape, and as I walked along I couldn’t stop my doubts from floating to the surface. What time was it? Where could I find the city?

... What would I do if I couldn’t find it?

Would the caretakers’ frozen faces change at all if they knew I was missing...?

I was tired, spacing out, walking through the world with only my increasingly incoherent thoughts for company. But soon enough, I realized that the land around me was changing.

... The first oddity I noticed was “smell.” The scent of fresh grass laden with evening dew wafted through the air. It was the smell of a humid night.

It was a sensation I’d only known in my dreams. The vague, floaty sense pervading the world had suddenly gained something tangible, something to give it definition. A chill shuddered its way down my spine.

The next thing I noticed was “sound.” A rustling sound overhead, the sound of leaves on a tree swaying in the wind.

... Yes, trees were growing around me. I hadn’t noticed them at first. And when I glanced around, I could hear the faint chirping of insects. Everything together created this unshakeable sense of nighttime.

“... What is this place?”

I’d ended up in a forest in the dead of night, just like the places I saw in my dreams. I’d meant to go outside – was I just dreaming again? But even as I realized that the air around me, heavy with moisture, coiled around me like a shroud, I shook off my uneasiness and continued to climb the hill.

I had to see what lay ahead with my own eyes. And when I thought that I might see the upside-down city that very night, my frozen legs managed to push onward.

■■■■■■■■■■

What I found at the top was a strange silhouette of a building.

The weathered white rectangle was haphazardly constructed, like a child working with toy blocks, and above it stood a line of lonely looking radio towers pointed up at the heavens. I stared at it for some time, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but looking closer I eventually spotted a small set of double doors at the bottom, in the same pure white color as the walls around it. There was no handle. I tried pushing on it instead. The hinges creaked.

Slowly, timidly, I pushed further, until the door opened just enough to peek inside. It was surprisingly bright on the other side, and wider inside than the outside led me to believe. White pillars stood scattered unevenly around the space, and a small, illuminated display twinkled in their midst. Heartened by the light, I slipped inside the mazelike building without further delay and began to slowly but surely creep my way forward.

What was this building for? I glanced around as I went. The pillars looked similar to the structures outside, and on closer inspection they were also slowly changing shape. Maybe I could learn more if I looked at my surroundings from the rooftop, where the radio towers were.

I kept my eyes peeled, wondering if there was any way for me to get up there, but it wasn’t until I faced forward again that I saw it, a tiny yelp escaping my lips. A spiral staircase reaching all the way to the ceiling had suddenly appeared while I hadn’t been looking.

“But this wasn’t here before....”

This day had been one odd thing after another, but I could still be surprised. I craned my neck, staring up at the spiral that slowly faded into darkness, too far for the light to reach.

The handrails creaked under my touch. I stretched myself up as far as I could, trying to see just how far it went, but even on my tiptoes I couldn’t see the end of the seashell-like spiral. It was paralyzingly high, that much was certain. Fear suddenly gripped my heart.

(Should I go back...? If I act innocent enough, I probably could. No one’s come after me tonight, thankfully... and I even left that kid alone in the room, too....)

But even with those thoughts swirling in my head, my legs still unconsciously rose onto the first step. The handrail curved like a living, breathing being, and it had a lavish mosaic pattern on it, but it was still old, and it groaned with every step.

Trembling, I continued my journey up. Somewhere in the middle I couldn’t help but peek down and saw the yawning pitch-black pits of Hell opening below, forcing me to hurriedly avert my gaze back up. The entire day had been nothing but stressful. It was just one unending nightmare, and frankly, I was getting sick of it. All I wanted was to go see the city. Onward and upward I climbed, growing more desperate by the minute.

Finally, though, I saw the top of the staircase. I climbed the final steps to find a short pathway leading to yet another set of double doors. I ran up without thinking, pressing a hand to my chest with a relieved sigh. I threw my entire body against the heavy doors, and when they opened, a gentle breeze kissed my face as the world opened up before my eyes.

A sea of stars stretched in all directions above me. From the roof of the white building, the uniform indigo sky had transformed into a brilliant gradient of azure and jade green. The heavens above glittered like blue topaz, the stars twinkling like pearls reflecting light.

And sitting there in the center of my vision was the thing I’d been searching for all this time: the upside-down city.

“... I finally found it!”

My heart throbbed in my chest at the sight. I couldn’t help the shout of delight that unconsciously spilled out of me.

The world overflowed with color. The city bustled with energy, with people the size of poppy seeds and horse-drawn carriages flitting back and forth between oddly shaped roofs. But... no, the city was floating in the midst of such faraway stars. There was no way I could see all that.

But even still, from somewhere in that faint, flickering upside-down city, I could catch a whiff of a creature that didn’t exist here.

I knew that place. Because – because I wanted to return to that place. I’d always wanted to return.

“    ”

I heard a voice calling. It said a familiar name.

... Name? But I didn’t have one of those. I stretched my hand up to the heavens, to the city, my chest aching with longing and pain....

“... Gin?”

And a tiny voice reached my ears.

I gasped, lowering my hand and twisting my head around frantically. Whatever sound I was going to make next died in my throat, strangled by a rolling wave of shock. I had been on the roof of the white building just now, but suddenly, everything around me had changed.

– Well, no, not everything. The glittering sky still looked the same. But at some point, the rooftop had vanished, replaced by a field of short, swaying grass. Cicadas sang gentle songs in the evening light. A dirt path wound ahead of me, faintly damp – maybe it had just rained – and amid the fluttering stalks of golden grass stood evenly spaced poles, large and ash gray.

And in the middle of the dew-laden, shining field, was a boy with golden hair that I knew oh so well, quietly looking my way.

“You came...?” I rushed up to him, thinking he’d followed me out of the room, but then I saw the triangular ears poking from his head and skidded to a halt. Were those – were those animal ears? And looking closer, this boy’s eyes were the color of pomegranate, not the shade I was familiar with.

... No, this wasn’t him. I eyed him cautiously. The boy with animal ears opened his mouth and spoke once more.

“I see... so this place can recreate the memories of whoever enters it.”

“... What are you talking about?... Who are you?”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. My memories must’ve interfered with yours when I called out to you.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, but... I know someone who looks a lot like you, too.”

A large scarf covered much of the boy’s face, but take away the ears and eyes and he really did look a lot like the one I lived together with in my room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The boy’s eyes, expressionless up until now, suddenly swam with unease. “... I’m looking for something I lost. Something I need to go back. But I’ve been looking for a long, long time, and I haven’t found it.” With his head hung low, his golden hair masking his scarlet eyes from view, he could have been his twin.

“Something you lost...? Do you want me to look with you?” He wasn’t the person I knew, but my mouth automatically opened anyway. The boy’s behavior reminded me so much of him, I couldn’t just leave him be.

But when I tried to shuffle closer, the boy simply gave a tiny smile and an even tinier shake of his head from within his overlarge scarf. He pointed up at the sky. “This is the edge of the world – a space where our worlds collided. You can’t stick around here if you don’t have the right qualifications... and besides, our time is up. Your ride’s here.”

“My what?”

Just then, a round geometric pattern expanded in midair, and a pillar of white light enveloped the area around me.

“... Thanks, my other –”

I thought I could hear his voice fading into the distance, but the light was too bright. My eyes screwed shut.

The last thing I remember from that day is looking up at a downpour of feathers in the world of white, and my fingertips brushing against tough skin.

[eternally6pm]

Irresistible Force - Part 2

The British Boy

Rating: M

Characters: Jakob, FCorrin, Xander, Silas, Camilla.

- the coldest shoulder this side of the Atlantic - 

@cafedeamour you’ve been so patient, thank you always for your support.

PART 1 | PART 3

---

The first morning was so much harder than he thought it would be. 

And Jakob had a pretty good idea of how hard he thought it should have been – he was a horribly heavy sleeper at the best of times, and mornings were his least favourite part of the day. One of the major motivating factors for entering his line of work was the fact that a security guard mostly operated in the evening, after things had closed, or when it was dark enough to warrant the need for additional protection. 

The last time Jakob had been up at this sort of hour had been when he was still enrolled in the military.

But that was years ago.

Out of reflex, he almost reached for his uniform, but remembered that he needed to blend in inconspicuously with a group of students, and decided instead to settle for something more casual. Fortunately, his harness wasn’t too obvious with a jacket over the top, and satisfied with this elegant solution in his state of semi-sleep, he chose to take an expandable baton and a shoulder bag along with a dusty lined notebook and a ballpoint pen.

If he was going to attend lectures, he may as well pretend to take notes.

Yawning desperately, he nursed a tall cup of espresso as he stepped onto the subway and tried not to nod off to the gentle sway of the train. 

At Corrin’s door, he gave his face one last tired rub and mentally shook himself, before ringing the bell. The muffled sound of the chime resounding through the apartment faded, and after a long moment, he pressed the button again.

The intercom hummed to life.

“- akob.”

There was a sound, somewhere between a groan and a yawn.

“Dun’ you hava card? Just commin.”

She didn’t even unlock the door. With a brief fumble, Jakob extracted the card from his wallet, scanned it against the reader and entered the pin. 

Pale autumn sunlight streaked through the half-opened curtains and filled the skylights with a wan, white glow. 

From where he remembered her room to be, Corrin emerged, or at least part of her face peered out at Jakob from behind the door. “Sorry,” she apologised, her voice slightly clearer. “I’ll be right there.”

And she vanished again, her door clicking shut.

Jakob felt his eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Are you not even up yet?” He glanced at his watch, an old but reliable thing with a worn leather strap. It was three minutes past eight. “You’re going to be late for the first day of semester.”

There was no reply.

After several minutes of awkwardly anticipating that she would finally come out of her room, he gave up and left his bag at the door, wandering over to her kitchen to examine the stove top and oven. They seemed barely used, new and still bearing that sheen of freshly manufactured, untouched brightness. Curious, he pulled open one of her cupboards.

The shelves were mostly empty, bearing a few tins of tea, a jar of peanut butter and a bag of sugar that had been snipped at the corner, sealed with a piece of tape, but had uncurled. Jakob sighed at the thought of the granules clumping together. The next cupboard held mugs, glasses, plates and bowls.

Her sleek silver refrigerator had half a tray of very old ice cubes in the freezer, a carton of milk and half a dozen eggs that had gone out of date.

What on earth did the girl eat?

Doubt stirred in him as he closed the fridge door and wandered over to the windows to draw back the curtain. Was this something acceptable for a bodyguard to do? He supposed that his job was to concern himself with her well-being, but surely a line had to be drawn somewhere – part of him wondered if it could perhaps be somewhere after the nagging urge he had to make and feed her a decent meal.

“Are you poking around my kitchen?”

And there she was, dressed more weather-appropriately in dark tights and a large knitted blue jumper cinched at her waist with a wide black belt. Her hair was tied back and it fell over her shoulder as she bent to tie the laces on her shoes. 

“Do you have a maid?”

“Yeah. She comes by on Fridays to tidy the place up.”

“What about food?”

Corrin looked up. “What about it?”

“What do you eat?” He was starting to feel a bit silly, pressing her for answers that were probably none of his business.

“I eat out a lot.”

That… would not do. He refrained from saying so though, watching her check her phone, her bag, pick her keys out of a bowl she kept on the kitchen counter. He noticed a Mercedes badge on the fob.

“Why do you care?”

He frowned at the attitude behind the question. Fine then. “I don’t.”

As she passed him, she made a small noise in the back of her throat. “I smell coffee. I want coffee.”

He took a long, pointed sip from the cup in his hand and wordlessly reached to hold open the door for her.

It was half-past eight by the time they reached the basement car park and she held out the car key to Jakob.

“You drive, right?”

He lifted the fob and thumbed the button. 

A beautiful black Mercedes AMG GT Coupe quietly flickered her lights in reply.

Ah, this, this he could get used to.

---

“So are you British?”

The abrupt question was oddly, less surprising than the sudden appearance of the person who voiced it, and Jakob barely managed to slide along the bench in time for the tall young woman to plonk herself down beside him, uncomfortably close. Had he been any slower, she might have simply sat in his lap.

When he didn’t reply, she took this as a cue to elaborate. “Like, your accent. It’s all jolly good, and cheerio then?”

Jakob very slowly lowered his newspaper and turned the page.

“Are you from London? There’s something about you that’s a little bit Mister Darcy.”

There had been a stabbing a few stations over from where Corrin lived. He made a mental note to opt for the car rather than public transport, when with her, at least for the next few weeks.

The page over mentioned the results of a local dog show. He wondered if Corrin liked dogs.

“Why the long hair? Is that a thing over there?”

“Leave him alone, Charlotte!”

Jakob felt the tension bleed out of his shoulders at the sound of Corrin’s voice. 

“He’s not the multimillionaire you think he is,” she teased, sliding a tray down onto the table in front of them as she took the seat opposite. 

Charlotte huffed, stealing a fry from the plate on the tray. “Well, you’re pretty well-off, and he’s your cousin, right? Worth a try.”

“Not if you don’t want to experience the coldest shoulder this side of the Atlantic.” Corrin shot him a look, pushing two wrapped sushi rolls and a bottle of juice in his direction.

“I resent the title,” he intoned.

“Ooh, it talks!” Charlotte exclaimed, dramatically throwing a hand over her chest.

The fourth person to join them at the table, a boy named Silas, cast him a wary look, his eyes darting to where Jakob accepted his lunch from Corrin.

Barely four hours into the job, Jakob quickly began to understand why Xander had been so firm about ensuring that Corrin was accompanied at all times.

There was something magnetic about the way she spoke, the way she responded to the world that made people gravitate to her, drawn in by a pure sense of honesty and wonder that seemed to be a consequence of the time she spent being shielded from the public eye. 

It probably shouldn’t have disappointed him to realise that her apparently flirtatious behaviour the day before was actually an inherent part of her nature – in truth, she was genuinely friendly and charming – and he was an idiot for thinking that he might have been special.

She attracted friends and admirers as easily as she drew breath, and with that sort of attention came the sort that was less desirable as well. 

It did not help that she liked to hand over her trust with the drop of a hat, and on top of all this, she was – unfairly, almost – good-looking.

Only in the last ten minutes or so when he had watched her in the queue at the cafeteria, Jakob saw at least two other students stare her up and down as she purchased lunch.

And that wasn’t including Silas. The boy was hopelessly besotted with her.

But Corrin was just a soft giggle, a friendly wave. A warm ray of sunlight, a gentle breeze and the fresh scent of flowers. She made people want her, and she had no idea.

Corrin was dangerously oblivious.

“So how long are you in the States for?” Silas asked.

“At least until he finishes his degree,” Corrin supplied for him, and Jakob let her fill in the story as much as she pleased. “You’ve put it off for long enough, right?”

He shrugged. “I had other priorities.”

“You just came over here because you know chicks dig the accent,” Charlotte accused. “Get laid, and get qualified.”

“Charlotte!” Corrin laughed sheepishly. “He doesn’t have time for that, he’s got work, too.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

“Hospitality,” Jakob replied smoothly, catching Corrin’s eye as he thought of her empty and unused kitchen. He wondered how many times Silas had been over to her apartment. Perhaps a background check on the boy would be a good idea.

Corrin stabbed her fork into her plate of noodles. Jakob noted that she had barely touched her food. “Yeah, he does all sorts of weird hours, but it does come with perks.”

“I guess that means no parties, then?” Silas was almost hilariously hopeful at the prospect.

“No, no,” Corrin cut in quickly. “He doesn’t mind parties. He’ll go.” She glanced at Jakob as if to check that this was actually the case, when in reality, he knew it was a plea for permission.

Please, let me go… please don’t tell Xander.

Not that it mattered.

“O-okay then,” Silas tried and failed to not appear disappointed by this. It was almost endearing, and annoyingly, Jakob could see the appeal of the young man.

With a small sigh, he took a bite of his sushi roll and turned back to the newspaper.

Even without any sort of prior knowledge, he knew the background check would be clean, and there would be no excuse to excise Smitten Silas from Corrin’s life.

---

The drive home was slow and hampered by traffic. 

“You can go as soon as we get back,” she told him, her face lit by the blue glow of her phone as she scrolled absently through her Twitter feed. “I’m only going to eat dinner and study.”

Jakob nodded. “You have my number and my pager. Call if your plans change.”

She lowered her phone momentarily, staring into the rear view mirror to catch his eye. “How long does it take you to get to my place from yours? Do you drive?”

“Fifteen minutes by train. Possibly less if I took my bike.”

“You cycle?” She seemed thoroughly amused by the thought.

“My motorbike.”

“Ah.” Less amused. Strangely thoughtful. “You should come by bike, then. You can park it in the car space.”

Jakob hummed a non-committal reply, but he didn’t have any intention of taking the bike tomorrow. He needed both his hands free.

“Coincidentally, Miss Nohr, how do you like your coffee?”

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 24 21 - Hungover

Summary: The morning after a party is always kinda groggy. For once, Alistair wakes up feeling pretty good.

---

There was nothing like sharing a bed with something he cared about to make Alistair think life was ok after all.

It was the first time in ages that he didn’t wake up grumpy or worried. Instead, he felt rather light as he slowly came back to consciousness. Instead of staring up at a blanket taped over a skylight blocking out space, there was just a regular ceiling. Nothing was moving through FTL space at inhuman speeds through the relays; everything was quiet and still.

And people woke up like this every day? He was jealous to say the least.

“Nnh…”

Alistair glanced over to his right side, though he didn’t need to in order to figure out to who the voice belonged. After all, he had his arms around his waist and they were pulled close in bed, sharing the same blanket. There weren’t exactly a lot of people that could be.

Garrus groaned slightly as he returned to consciousness. “My head hurts…”

“That’s because you got a little drunk, babe.” Alistair chuckled softly as he let the turian go in order to roll over and sit up. His neck still ached dully as he did, but it was better than the previous few days. He was on the road to healing at last after facing down against his clone. It would’ve been great if not for the fact it was their last day on shore leave.

At least he would be healed for the rest of the fight against the Reapers…

“I should take some data from your omni-tool next time on that one.” Garrus grumbled as he also sat up, blanket falling to his waist. He wasn’t wearing a top, and the morning artificial sun glinted across his metallic carapace. “Guess you got a good night’s sleep then.”

He nodded, stretching. Like his boyfriend, he was also shirtless – that was the nice thing about being post top surgery. Now that he had a clear view of his belly button and the bed below, his mood was way better.

“Can’t complain, honestly.” Alistair reached over to squeeze Garrus’ hand, careful to avoid the sharp side of his talons. “Want to see if we can find you something to eat, or is your stomach a little too upset for food?”

Garrus pondered it for a second, squeezing back. It might help the hangover. What does the medic prescribe?”

The medic prescribed staying in bed and cuddling for a while. However, his stomach grumbling put an end to that notion. If he didn’t want to wake the entire apartment up, he needed to eat something. Then, maybe, he would go back to bed until it was time to pack up and return to the Normandy.

Priorities; he had them.

“The medic says we have to get out of bed and check for food.” Alistair chuckled again as Garrus groaned next to him. He briefly pressed his lips to the turian’s mandible in response. “Come on, we have to face the morning eventually.”

“You’re the worst.”

He wasn’t saying that last night.

Alistair shook his head as he let go of his boyfriend’s hand. Then he got out of bed at long last, grabbing for his discarded shirt. His sore body complained as he pulled it over his head, but it settled into place as he grabbed for his hoodie.

It wasn’t as if he was cold… it was just part of his uniform now. Call it a comfort item in the face of possible death of the universe.

“You coming or what, babe?”

Garrus finally got out of bed with a final grumble of protest, scooping his shirt off the ground with a yawn. Soon, he was properly dressed as he headed to the door. Once again, they linked hands as they headed downstairs.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, considering all of the invites were basically military. Sure, there was trash that needed to be thrown out and bottles that needed to be recycled, but nothing was on fire or broken. Given that two of their guests had been krogan, that was downright remarkable.

At least it would make cleaning easier.

“Alright, kitchen time.”

Garrus stopped him from moving, however. Alistair cocked his eyebrow as he glanced over his shoulder, unsure as to why. The blank look his boyfriend gave him stared directly into his soul, searching for truth in darkness.

“What?”

“You’re not allowed to cook.”

No… true. He wasn’t. But he could at least get two varieties of coffee started for people waking up into a hangover. Unlike food, coffee was something he didn’t mess up. It was funny, considering he didn’t drink the stuff all that often, but it was the one thing he did well.

“I’m just going to get the coffee started, I promise.” He held his hand to the sky. “Swear on the bible.”

Garrus shot him a blank look. “Is that supposed to convince me?”

Right… turian. They were really going to have to hash out the religion discussion one day if they survived. After all, if they were going to adopt kids one day, they needed to be on the same page about that kind of thing.

But… first, coffee.

“Let’s just say it’s important to some humans and leave it at that.”

 With that, he was allowed into the kitchen. Much to his surprise, they weren’t alone in the thought of getting something to eat. Bo was sitting there, arm around a very tired looking Tali. She picked up her head as he approached, shaking her head.

“You two are up early.”

Tali groaned softly against her girlfriend, hand against her helmet. “Morning, Shepard, Garrus.”

Alistair nodded to her as he headed to the coffee machine to flip it on. “Morning, Tali. How’s the head? I think I have some turian safe painkillers if you need them.”

She probably needed them, given how much she had drunk the night before. While his boyfriend had definitely put a few away, Tali had put him to shame. He was pretty sure he had seen her babbling in the bathroom before Bo had scooped her up to take her to bed.

He had to wonder if she really did have that tattoo now, or if it had just been drunk talk.

“I would appreciate that, Shepard.” She watched him move. “I thought he wasn’t allowed to cook, Bo.”

Bo squeezed her girlfriend’s hand. “He can work on the liquids without summoning demons. Everything else we need an old priest and a young priest to stop.”

She shot him a blank look. “And I’m pretty sure there are no priests here, so don’t even think about it, Al.”

Sweat dripped down the back of his exposed neck as he worked on getting the coffee ready. “I know my limits, don’t worry. This is just to wake up someone who can cook.”

Once he was done, Alistair and Garrus joined their fellow levo-dextro pair at the table. From where he was sitting, he could hear the sounds of soft snoring and deep slumber. No doubt there were plenty of hangovers being slept off – though there were no doubt fewer than he thought. After all, it had been a military party.

Marines could throw down when they weren’t named Alistair or Bo Peep Shepard.

“I am never drinking again.” Tali shook her head. “Next time I stick by you, Bo. You’re a good influence.”

That got Bo snickering softly in response. “That’s the only time I’ve ever been called that.”

Yeah, usually, people said that about him. Maybe he was rubbing off on her after all.

At least his coffee trap worked. The sound of footsteps soon rang out through the quiet apartment, breaking the relative silence. Alistair didn’t need to look to know who it was, thanks to how they walked. Maybe it was creepy he could tell who was coming towards him based on footsteps, but it had become a skill he had developed after losing an eye and his depth perception back on Akuze.

This was fairly heavy; someone used to wearing solid armor. It wasn’t krogan – they had a different pace – nor did it sound off-kilter to account for missing parts. Human, solid weight, not limping…

“Morning, James.”

“Damn, Loco, you didn’t even see me.”

Right again. It was hard to keep a satisfied smile off his face as he watched James enter the kitchen. Given the fact Bo was snickering, he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it from people. Then again, she knew him better at most; she enjoyed it when he was a little shit to people other than her.

“What can I say, you have a very distinctive pace.” He gave the man a once over – looked normal, eyes might be a little bleary since he just woke up. Strange bruise on his collarbone that almost… “Wait, is that a hickey?”

Bo let out a low whistle. “I think it is. Who were you making out with, Vega?”

Oh, no doubt this was breaking some kind of rule set in place for commanding officers concerning teasing their subordinates about their love life. If he hadn’t served six months house arrest with the man, he wouldn’t have said anything at all. However, James had helped hm empty his drains after surgery and watched him bounce against the walls for six months after. They were a little beyond just CO and marine now.

It was more akin to siblings annoying their kid brother.

“None of your business, Monster.” He started towards the fridge. “Did Loco make the coffee this time?”

Alistair nodded in response. “Alright, good enough. Last time Monster made it shit blew up.”

To be fair, it had been towards the end of their house arrest and Bo was not the best with tech on a good day. She had been through a pretty grueling cross-examination the day before, so her nerves hadn’t been the best. He couldn’t fault her for that one, though it had been a pain to clean up all the broken glass.

“That was one time.” Bo’s voice was a little tight – someone was still annoyed by that. “Anyway, your head’s in the fridge. Going to share with the rest of us, Vega?”

James nodded as he closed the door. “I know you love my eggs, Monster. Gotta give you the protein to keep kicking Reaper ass.”

His eggs were pretty good. Alistair was more than willing to attest to that from the few times he had made them during their house arrest and shared with them. How he managed to make them taste that way was beyond him, as was much in the cooking field. So, he just accepted magic was involved and left it at that.

“Thanks, James.” He yawned slightly. “Need any help with anything?”

Before anyone could let off a shot, he added, “I can crack an egg, guys. Things only go wrong when I apply the heat and summon something.”

“Fine, get the stuff for Scars and Tali and I’ll start on the us-friendly version. Theirs is in the blue container.”

Alistair nodded as he finally let go of Garrus’ hand and made his way to the fridge. Just like James had said, there was a blue carton right next to the white one labeled safe for dextro-based species. Once he had it in hand, he closed the door and made his way to the counter.

“Need a bowl, Loco? It’s kinda above your head there.”

Was that in return for the hickey comment? Alistair could see him smirking a little. It didn’t matter though, as he evaluated the set up in front of him. The counter could hold his weight, as could a nearby chair. Stay on his toes, and…

Soon he was back on the ground, bowl in hand and a satisfied grin on his face. “Nope, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

Bo snorted in the background, much to his amusement. It didn’t matter as he focused on cracking the dextro-safe eggs into the bowl. Well, calling them ‘eggs’ was a bit much, considering they didn’t look anything like the eggs he knew when they broke out of their shells. Were they even shells, or was this some weird pod instead?

They hadn’t exactly covered this in alien studies…

He poked the bright green center with a fork. “Are they supposed to be this color, babe?”

Garrus craned his neck in order to see. “Yeah, looks normal to me. Why?”

Alistair gestured blankly at the bowl James was currently mixing together. “Because yours invokes an old kid’s book written for a bet. Ours are yellow.”

“Ones from earth-line chickens are yellow anyway, I had some weird ass red ones once.” Bo added that in. “Remember? We had them on that weird planet we were stationed on before Akuze.”

Oh yeah, he had forgotten about those. Honestly, he had just figured blood had gotten mixed in and nobody gave enough of a shit to chuck it out and waste food. But red was at least a warm color related to yellow. Green was just… weird.

God, he was going to have to get used to weird food if he ever moved in with Garrus…

“Yellow? Sounds like a sick animal made them.” Alistair could practically imagine Tali sticking out her tongue at that. Garrus didn’t look too impressed either honestly. “But if that’s what you eat, as long as it doesn’t kill you.”

James snickered from the stove as he poured the eggs in. “Sounds like you guys are going to have some fun dinners when this is over.”

Yeah… once it was over. That was a long way away and included shooting a lot of Reapers and taking humanity’s ancestral home back from them. Yet, in the light of day, with coffee on and eggs cooking, it seemed slightly more possible.

Just slightly, though. He was mixing bright green alien eggs. Seriously, what kind of dextro-chicken laid these?

“We’ll figure it out. Just like you and your special somebody will also need to figure out how to split chores.” Alistair grinned slightly as he finished mixing. For some reason, he swore he could see red flash on the left side of his vision – was that a +5? “Dextro eggs are ready to go. Need anything else?”

He swore James’ face grew dark for a second as he glanced away. “Just get the juice, Loco.”

Alistair Shepard – 1, James Vega – 0.

Still, thanks to the food smells and the coffee brewing, he could make out sounds of other part goers coming to life. Soon they would be at the kitchen, seeking something to fill their empty stomachs and wake up their tired minds. No doubt some would be walking off hangovers, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Altogether, it hadn’t been a bad party. Maybe once everything was over and they had saved the galaxy, they could have another.

“Oh no, Shepard’s near the food.”

No prizes for guessing the off tempo beat of a limping step belonged to Joker. He was followed by a much heavier, solid gait that suggested Wrex was awake now too. Then the steps mingled together as the kitchen filled.

It was busy, lively even. Something about it brought light to his chest as he went into the fridge to grab juice for all those interested. This was his team – they had survived both a clone fight and their hangovers to fight another day. That in itself was a victory.

“I didn’t apply heat, guys, don’t worry.” He held up the jug of orange juice. “Now, who wants juice? Levo’s on the right, dextro’s on the left.”

If you took away the aliens and the fact everyone in this room had a body count in the triple digits, it was like any breakfast happening on the Citadel. And that thought cheered him as he set the juice on the counter and went for a glass.

Once everything was over and they cleaned, it was back to the Normandy and their fight against the Reapers. But until then… he was going to enjoy a rowdy breakfast with his crew. Maybe if he paid attention, he could figure out who left the hickey on James.

But before he did that, he needed some juice. His blood sugar was kinda low and Kaidan was eyeing up the jug. Biotics and their sugar supply… never get in the way of it.

[memento-morianon]

Memento Mori book 1 Blood, rough draft ch 10.5

interlude between chapter 10 and 11, to eventually be paired with another interlude about Evarin doing medical work, so they'll just be a whole chapter together.

rough draft masterpost

---

Clattering heavy rain on the skylight woke Morianon. He squinted and ruffled his feathers, nestling deeper into the warm furs by K'arik's side. The movement roused K'arik, who sat up with a yawn. He left the bed, but Morianon stubbornly remained right where he was, watching sleepily as his friend prepared a new fire in the hearth and busied about making breakfast from the cabin's pantry of canned fruits and other preserved foods.

With great reluctance, Morianon dragged himself out of bed, coughing slightly and frowning when he felt the clogged mucus in his nose prosthetic. He'd forgotten to switch it out for the plug that would have been easier to clean. Sighing in frustration, he resigned himself to a morning of feeling congested until he could get home.

K'arik passed him a bowl of porridge with a swirl of jam, and they sat together by the hearth. It was one of Obeli Moruga's jams, Morianon could tell just from the flavor. Sweet wild strawberries mixed with some sort of flower and a good helping of honey; normal honey, not pixie honey. Obeli Moruga didn't share her pixie honey jams with anyone. Morianon gulped down the porridge and licked the edges of the bowl, still hungry and wishing he had left himself a handful of fish jerky instead of finishing it all off after the hunt. K'arik set his own bowl down and briefly waved a hand for attention.

"I'm staying here to finish preparing that deer until my brother arrives," he explained, "you're helping with festival things, aren't you?"

"Yes, I should go soon," Morianon replied, "thank you so much for inviting me along, i'm glad I could help."

"And I'm glad to have you by my side." K'arik helped Morianon to his feet. "Starting tomorrow, I'll spend a few hours every day meditating in preparation for the ascension ritual. You and Evarin can join me, if you'd like."

"Of course we will." Morianon left his bowl in the other one and retrieved his discarded outerwear, putting it back on. K'arik cleared up the breakfast dishes while Morianon strapped a few extra belts around himself and knelt down, calling Sitla to him. She trotted over and patiently tolerated being repositioned and strapped to his chest like a baby. at the sight of her, K'arik snorted a laugh.

"All set for fatherhood, aren't you?" he teased, putting a little extra curl into his gestures and squinting in amusement. Morianon blushed, bouncing on his toes a little.

"Not until the end of the summer at least," he laughed sheepishly, "Maybe longer. Eggs take time to hatch." He made his way to the door. "Could you come give me a lift?" he asked. K'arik nodded and followed him out into the rain, picking him up carefully and hoisting him to the low corner of the cabin roof. It was slick, all the moss and lichens soaked and squishing under his toes. He dug his talons in and climbed to the peak of the building, waving down at K'arik. His friend returned the gesture and watched as he leapt into the air, wings flapping.

Raindrops skidded right over his feathers like stones skipping on the surface of a pond. Sitla wasn't heavy, and she remained as still as a doll, but her extra weight and the way her legs bounced with his motion slowed his ascent, and his muscles strained with the extra effort. He made it to the higher branches of one tree, flaring his tail and kicking his feet out to grab a brief perch before he leapt into the air again. Tree to tree, branch to branch, he climbed through the forest canopy, undeterred by the rain, until at last he emerged in the open sky and his wings caught the wind. It caressed his feathers, cold against the bare skin exposed by his molt. He shivered and sniffed hard, trying to keep his nose from leaking.

The town was far closer by air than by road, though Morianon couldn't soar as well as the curious takran who braved the rain to get a closer look at him. While their wings were broad, his were narrow, built for much shorter bursts of flight. He glided slowly down towards the trees and flapped his way back up, traveling in gentle waves up and down. While he flew, his mind wandered ahead to the new year's festival and his heart raced with excitement. He'd been playing the role of a new year's banshee since he was young, having been encouraged into it by his parents. It was the time of year when his molt was at a peak, flight feathers and tail feathers dropping one by one, bald patches appearing all over his body. It had been a horrible embarassment for him, once, a reminder of how different he was from everyone around him, especially his adoptive family. But as a banshee, he was nothing more than a silly prankster of a bird, scattering feathers on purpose to mess with everyone as they tried to hurry through their new year's cleansing rituals. It had given him a purpose, something fun and enjoyable to ease the frustration that came with his shifting hormones.

He laughed, turning a wing to swoop closer to a few takran that had just risen to join him. Takran, banshee, two names for the same bird. Leaving K'arik behind and coming closer to the elvish town, Morianon dropped the orcish term and thought of them again by their other name. The wild banshees cawed and turned out of his way, but one of them rose above him and did a roll in midair. He copied it, flapping hard to pull out of the drop and maintain his altitude. His trick was met with excited squawks, but the banshees couldn't handle the rain as well as him and they quickly dove back under the cover of the trees.

Morianon let himself fall slowly through the air as he came closer to town. He could see people below, hurrying through the muddy streets on their way to jobs or homes. Carts full of bark chips were driven through town, stopping frequently so workers could spread the fresh cover on all the main paths to help mitigate the rain damage. Further into town, the market and town square were being decorated for the festival, even with the rain making everything more difficult. He waved to the few people who looked up and noticed him, but continued on past them. Gliding lower and lower, he kicked his feet forward, wrapping his arms around Sitla, flaring his tail and hastily flapping to slow his descent before he hit the ground running and stumbled into a walk.

"Almost home," he murmured, crouching for a moment and unbuckling Sitla's harness. She dropped to her paws and shook herself, tail wagging haphazardly. She followed him through the neighborhood and into their house, shaking again as soon as she was inside and scattering water everywhere. Morianon followed suit, flicking the rain from his wings.

"Ah come on, I just cleaned," he heard Kaen whine. his brother in law stood just inside the sitting room, glaring at Morianon and Sitla as they left the entryway.

"It's a wet day," Morianon replied with a shrug. "I'm just stopping by to change and clean up, I'm supposed to be out there decorating."

"Well when you're done decorating, you can come back and clean up your mess," Kaen grumbled, waving his tail sharply.

"I will, I will," Morianon hurried past him and into the kitchen just to snag a fish from the icebox and swallow it whole before he ran up to his room. As quickly as he could, he stripped and entered the bathroom, pulling the prosthetic off his face to wash it and the nasal cavity beneath. It was always an unpleasant experience. With the worst over, he foud a clean outfit and layered it with a set of sleeves that connected around his neck, cropped above his armpits. It had a hood, though his feathered hair was just as waterproof as the rest of him.

He made his way down and back out of the house, hurrying into town with Sitla right on his heels. Halfway there, he spotted Evarin and her mother leaving another house, so he detoured into their path.

"Ev!"

"Oh! hi!" Evarin left her mother for a moment to embrace Morianon, burying her snout in his neck. "Can't chat, we've got a lot of work to do. Goblins coming out of hibernation a little too quick, people getting fevers from the cold weather, you know how it is."

"I'm just glad I spotted you," Morianon replied, stepping back, "I'll see you later, alright? I've got my own work to deal with today."

"Have fun!" Evarin returned to her mother, waving goodbye over her shoulder. Morianon returned the gesture and continued into town, walking a little quicker and lighter on his feet with a gleam in his eyes. He was greeted by several people with relief on their faces when he arrived in the center of town. Evarin's friends Ashe and Kith were among them.

"Oh good, Mori, we could use your vertical talents," Ashe said with a grin, shoving the end of a rope into his hands. All along the rope were strings of wood carved flowers painted in every color. "Tie that to the branch over there, would you?" She waved her hand towards the roof of one of the shops nearby.

"No hello first?" Morianon clucked his tongue, but he knew it was all in jest. Ashe shrugged and turned away to work on other decorations while Morianon climbed onto the shop's little fence and jumped with a big flap of his wings. He reached the roof quickly, scurrying to the branch overhead and tying the rope to it with a layered knot. Someone else called to him and pointed to another branch where he could tie off the other end. Up and down the market place he was given several long ropes of decorations, directed to tie them here and there. He darted over the rooftops, catching whatever was tossed at him and putting them in their places. Those who worked lower down placed a multitude of colorful rune lights all along the road, or placed them in lace hangers to dangle from the edges of the store roofs.

The rain let up a little as the day went on, and the group called for a lunch break. there was more work to be done. More lights to place around town square, statues of deities and spirits to place around the festival area, banners and colorful decorations to hang. Some of the work would have to wait for a drier day, like a cleanup of the arena where the orcs and stroi would have their annual competition. But with the rain in their way, the team of decorators had to call their work short, only finishing a few last details after the lunch break. Morianon left with a promise to help out again later, parting ways and returning home. He yawned, already exhausted despite the hour.

"Ah— clean up." Kaen stopped him before he could leave the entryway, hovering around as Morianon sighed and wiped up the dirt and rain he and Sitla kept dragging into the house.

"You're such a pest when Raisha's on work trips," Morianon chided. Kaen pursed his lips.

"And you're a walking mud puddle."

"I'm taking a nap. Wake me at dinner time, would you?"

"No promises," Kaen replied in a singsong voice, letting Morianon past him. Morianon lightly shoved his shoulder on his way back to his room. He only took time to drop his wet clothes in the hamper and close every curtain to darken the place before he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

[lovingwhitemtnsnh]

Home for Sale - $549,000 - 80 Richardson Trail Unit 19, Campton, NH 03223 Virtual Tour: https://tourwizard.net/54f8656b/

Welcome to Unit 19 , Ledgewood Village Condos .  Located on 80 Richardson Trails, Unit 19 is also located in the subdivision known as Waterville Estates in the Town of Campton NH. Campton is the Gateway to NHs White Mountains being the first town in the White Mountains  National Forest. Ledgewood Village Condos are townhouse style condos; mostly 3 story which including a walk  out lower level  with 2 additional stories above grade.  Ledgewood Townhomes are one of the largest attached condos in Waterville Estates. Typically they have 2 large bedrooms with sleep/game room- loft and 2 and a half baths all in 3 stories . There area few units , over the years that owners  have expanded the square footage by converting unfinished and hidden spaces into great usable parts of the living square feet of their units(only a few of them). UNIT 19 IS ONE OF THOSE . With the expanded square footage from those hidden and unfinished spaces makes this unit 2058 square feet of finished living space including3.5 stories. It has 3 bedrooms instead of 2 and has 2.5  bathrooms . While some of the units, that  have also opened some of this space; most have accessed them by a spiral staircases or ladders. This units and just a few others, added a real easily walkable stairway to the upper space which was hidden behind a previously sheet rocked closed wall. So instead of this being limited usability, in this unit has a real usable 3rd  bedroom and being that it is an end unit, it has a real window to the outside to provide light and ventilation. The finished square footage does not include an additional good sized room  in the lowest level that functions as a utility/laundry and  wood storage room .In addition to opening up the wall to allow the additional square footage, the previous owner  also replaced all the windows, sliders, skylights and exterior doors giving these owners a jumpstart on finishing it into a work of art and fully updated with quality and desirable features not commonly found. When you enter the unit, you enter into a mud room/airlock. With a glass french door, this space is blocked off from the main house to help retain the heat in winter and the cool in summer but being all glass, you can capture the mountain views even before entering the home. The mud rooms is all redone waiting for new tile flooring (and the Sellers are going to complete that for you ). When you walk into the mud room you are struck by the view ahead of you, so you don’t even really see the mud room for all that it offers to you . ALL you want to do is get inside to see those amazing views .Even on a lousy day this unit is filled with sunshine. With it being an end unit it offers  additional side windows which capture additional views as well as natural light. Being on the south end of one of the center building on the  view side, this unit has amazing westerly views that lead across the valley from thetown of Campton towards Waterville Valley Ski resort, Owls Nest Golf resort and looking also north toward Loon  with its and even south towards Plymouth. 

 Located in the entrance to NH’s White Mountain National Forest, Waterville Estates and Ledgewood are a destination all on their own. I will elaborate more on that feature,  in a minute but being in the White Mountains , they are surrounded by being  in the area know as  “where New England  come to play”. If you love the outdoors you will never be wanting for something to do. 

 Back to inside this townhome: you enter through the front door into a mudroom  with separate coat closet. The owners use this as a great place to store the skiis and other outdoor play equipment but are in the process of prepping the floor to install new stone look tile to finish off this renovation . The tile is purchased and will be installed by the owner who is also a licensed contractor in his home area. As you pass onward into the condo , you pass through the high quality  glass french door ; which allows you see right through to the amazing mountain views that this condo boasts (especially its red western sunsets). But if you do you miss all the amazingly redecorated space between. As you enter into a large great room, which starts off with a good sized , light filled dining space and includes  new real wood laminated floors and nicely furnished with  quality table and chairs (the place comes furnished!) ,and  freshly painted walls.  Leading further in , to an all new kitchen with quality  modernlook ,dark blue cabinets  white tile acksplash and white Corian counters .  Looking to your right of the kitchen wall is a large set of pantry cabinets on one side of the new stainless frig to a spot that the owners have designed for abeverage fridge with more cabinets. This is also going to be completed  by the Owner  and the  Corian counter over the beverage frig is cutand ready for installation .  A littlefurther down , you enter  into the home’sliving room  area. This area of the greatroom boasts ,side windows as well as a large slider leading to an outdoor deck.As this is an end unit  you have allthose extra windows on the side, for added light and also, and more importantly,bring the amazing mountain views right into your living space . Flanked by acathedral ceiling, this  living space  comes with woodstove and hearth that can  add warmth to your future ski/vacation orprimary home . Once out on the back porch you overlook the mountains, a  great place to sit and ponder while you aredrinking your morning brew or wine and cheese while watching the westernsunsets over amazing mountain views that feel like they ae a part of you .  Going upstairs or down from here . If youchoose to go up, before you start up the stairs is an all new half bath.Leading up is all newly carpeted second floor. In addition to it being new  it is a deep rich piled carpet  so your feet sink into luxury as you ascend. At the top of the stairs, the owners, have this set up this loft space  with a bed for additional sleeping but is open looking down towards the living room below(cathedral ceilings). The space would also serve as a great place to hang out and play a game or two, watch tv or read a book. With a large closet, it is great place to keep the games and a lot of  other common items you might want handy. Down a hall , you will find one of two, new renovated full baths leading to a large bedroom that the current owners use as a bunk room. It currently has sleeping for 4+ and still has room to easily move around . Large open windows in this room on both exterior walls(remember this is an end unit) make a great place  for this to also be used as a primary bedroom, should you choose  it as your master. Upa normal set of stairs leading to the 4th story , you will find a second large bedroom with side window, which over looking the mountains in the southern valley. Descending back to the first story , you descend again to a walk out  finished 1st floor. Again all new carpet throughout the finished living space, this level starts off with left into a laundry/utility room  which is great for additional storage  but leads into a large wood storage room where you can keep the winters supply of wood for the wood stove up on the main level. Don’t want your wood inside, some of the owners have converted this into additional office or bunk room, and you could too.  Down the hall leads to what these owners are using for their primary bedroom with private newly updated  bath space and loads of closets. From this bedroom space is a most amazing mountain views out of the newer slider leaving the unit onto the grassy lawns to the rear the condo. The same view as from the upper deck is sitting in front of you, just waiting for you to take it all in.

 While this and the previous owners of this townhome never rented it, there are no restrictions for long or short term rentals in Ledgewood Village. So  if you wish to rent, you can and with Waterville Estates community amenities , this would be a killer rental. There are also no restrictions for Owners pets other than to register them with the association and to respect your neighbors by cleaning up after them and keeping them leashed or under control . BUT tenant are not allowed to bring their pets when renting from you or your neighbors.

 With all the natural light and windows , Spring , summer, fall and winter the western southern and northern skies are at your door just waiting for you to come out and play. And play you shall the mountains are calling you. You do not ��even need to leave Waterville Estates Community to enjoy all thats! Dont ski or snowmobile, what do you do when all your buddies are off skiing for the day? Well how about it in the hot tub, swim a few laps in the lap pool or the all purpose pool. Or you can work out in the large oversized work out room with weights, bikes, tread mills and so much more . You can hang out and read in the reading room ,have a snack at the bar , skate on the pond in the winter or swim or boat in a mountain spring pond in the summer, play a game of pickle ball , tennis soccer, basketball or… or you can go over to Waterville Estates own ski area and watch your friends while sitting next to the fire sipping your beverage of choice .There are hot tubs, saunas , a game room , a large space for group gatherings ,an outside ampa theater to listen to music while you play in  one of the two outdoor the pool  or sit by and have a few cold beverages  at the indoor outdoor bar. And I know beyond not mentioning yet the miles upon miles of hiking mountain biking trails  there is so much more I forgot to mention so take yourself to www.watervilleestates.comand see all the details  of what it has to offer  including how the your passes will work to enter this amazing facility and what special activities the events committee has coming up .

 Outside of the estates the area is surrounded by world class skiing, golfing ,hiking, snowmobiling lakes and mountain activities including blue grass and boggie and blues festivals and others venues all summer long, The flying monkey music venue and other cultural activities as well as great restaurants , fish markets , farmers markets , coffee shops and so much more

 Being sold furnished this place is listed at only $549,000. Turn key

Condo fees are 875 a qtr

water bill is 1,108 a year

Membership fee to Waterville Estates CIF  is one time fee of 2,000

community center fees are 864/year plus your passes (which an owner pass brings in additional guests as well as owner for free and you can purchase additional day and seasonal guest and rental passes). You can have up to 6 adult members of your family have passes and all the kids and grand kids get one too.

There is one final payment left on special assessment for siding and roofs or $1500

 NOTE TO BUYER, last week, the association had all the chimneys inspected as part of an annual inspection required by their master insurance company. This unit like most  of the units in Ledgewood Village will need  some exterior chimney work done to allow  the future use of the interior woodstove. In the meantime, the Insurance company required that all woodstoves be locked off from being able to be used until they are repaired and all units will fireplaces(whichthis unit does not have),  will have to replace them  or block them off from use.  The woodstove  in this unit,  while noted  in the report as being an older woodstove; it also states that it meets  the current fire safety code standards with the exception that it will need a firebrick in its interior firebox to be replaced.  While, the Inspection company also recommended in its report, that the owners consider replacing the  woodstove because of its age and no other reason other than the one firebrick(which is minimal cost). It should be noted they sell woodstoves in their store in addition to inspecting. That will be up to the Buyers to decide for themselves, which way they wish to go as the age of a woodstove is and of itself is NOT an fire safety issue. So it is up to Buyeras to what costs , they wish to address- replacing the brick or the full stove after they  have the chance to review the report, which seller will be providing . Further note, while the exterior chimney is limited common space and therefore currently the property of the association, because the annual meeting was completed prior to this discovery, The Association had not considered the need to fund anything to do with the chimneys in the annual budget .  Because this was a surprise to all; they have made no decisions on  how to proceed with any chimney projects .Further, because some of the units have woodstoves and some have fireplaces; And some have had work done on their woodstove  unit while others need a lot more work than others, there is a major difference in costs associated with needed work. Therefore for they are considering changing the chimneys from limited common owned by the association to privately owned by the owners of each unit so everyone can do as they wish as long as if they use the chimneys , they meet the Master Insurer’s fire safety standards.  Many of the owners who have had a chance to express their thoughts, have stepped forward and said that they wish to look at other  sources of back up heat, such as LP gas fireplaces  or stoves as one example . Others do not use their fireplaces or woodstoves Because this will take some time to sort out and because winter is around the corner, a letter from Association went out to its owners, stating  that anyone who wishes to hire the company that did the report or another certified company to get their units repaired before winter on their own; they may do so  and will not have to  fear having to share in any future  chimney special assessment by having their chimney’s  repairing their own .  And  will not be required to have the chimneys reinspected , they  only need to  provide a copy of the contract with a  certified chimney company with proof of completion .Or if they wish may wait until next annual meeting (if not before ) and be apart of a collective effort of those owners that wish to get together to fund their work with a common loan.  The price of the Condo being offered does not include any chimney repair as there are multiple choices and the Sellers do not wish make a decision on behalf of the Buyer. One additional note, Master insurance policy requires that all gas grills have to be on ground level a minimum of 10 feet from combustible wall and  can not  on the  main floors deck(which pictures show grill is currently located)

 Even with this one small blick, you wont regret the  decision to make this amazing townhome with all that it has to offer , your new home- come and enjoy the vacation or primary home of your dreams in the place all of New England comes to play!

Property Type: Townhouse Building Type: Condominium Bedrooms: 3 Bathrooms: 2 Lot Size: 20 House Size: 2058 Year Built: 1987 MLS#: 4965517 For more information call 6037268642 or 6032547037

[managingmymuse]

Writer's Month

Day One: Blossom

Fire and Ice Universe

I stepped through the door behind the throne, and into what felt like another world. Light rushed at my eyes, an assault after the deep shadows of the throne room. The heavy walls, windowless, save for the dual skylights, were replaced by delicate columns that stretched, tree-like, from the ground to form archways above my head. Instead of stone, glass hung between them the columns, suspended in panes taller than I was.

And everywhere, all around, there was green. Low bushes lined a pebbled path. Ivy crawled along trellises. Fruit trees, laden with blossoms, filled the air with a sweet floral scent.

I marveled at the space, open-mouthed. It was like... it was like standing in the forest in the middle of summer. Only not my forest, filled with pines and aspens and birches, but a forest of out of a story. A bubbling stream trickled somewhere. Birdsong trilled in the treetops. Flowers for which I had no names sprouted in vibrant clusters around the room.

I turned to the king to find him watching me.  A faint smile played about his lips. "Not what you were expecting, is it?"

I shook my head. I reached out with one boot and toed at the fine carpet of moss stretching over a boulder. The smell of fertile earth washed over me, and I had the vivid, almost too-real feeling of standing in a glade at midsummer. 

"This is the last place in our land that remains untouched by the War," the King said. In the bright afternoon sunlight, I could make out the thick frown lines carved around his mouth. "When Fire ravaged our land, my ancestors managed to seal off this place. To preserve it, as a memory of what had come before, and a promise of what will return to us in our future."

I drifted down the path. The damp air caressed my face and tangled in my hair. "I don't understand," I said, almost to myself. "How does no one know this is here?"

I glanced toward the walls, and their preternaturally clear panes of glass. Beyond them, I could see the snow-covered lawn stretching away into the distance. A few hostlers walked horses down the narrow path to the lake. 

"A marvel of engineering," the King said. "From the outside, these walls look like slate. You yourself have probably walked by them and never given what they were hiding a second thought."

I frowned, trying to remember the palace's layout. Had I seen these rooms from the outside? Had I assumed they were a pantry or an armory?

"Very few know the secret of these rooms," the King said. He seated himself on a stone bench, sticking one leg out and bracing his palms upon his thighs. "You are in exceedingly rare company, dear Pirja."

The sound of my name on his lips sent a shiver down my spine. Trepidation broke through my surprised daze, and I wheeled to face the King. I executed the full bow I'd been taught before my first presentation before him. "It is an honor, Majesty."

He tilted his head to the side, and that faint smile returned to his lips. "Oh, come now. Such formalities. Were we not friends just one moment ago?"

Anxiety spiked through my chest. "I wouldn't dare to presume such familiarity with you, Exalted One."

I dared a look up at him and found that his smile now dared a hint of teeth. "You are a very loyal soldier, my Pirja, aren't you? Loyal and talented, despite your upbringing."

"I do my best to serve, Majesty."

He waved a hand, dismissing the words, though they clearly pleased him. "Your abilities have grown immensely since we found you, as has your devotion to the cause."

My heart stuttered. "I regret that I ever gave you any cause to doubt my loyalty, Majesty. It is no excuse, but I was young and did not yet understand."

"Yes," the King said. He drummed his fingers on his knees. "Yes, that is true. But we have brought you around, now haven't we? And your particular ignorance was a gift, in some ways. It allowed me to see the limits of our teachings. Where Ice's children have fallen through the cracks."

I bowed low. "I am glad some good might come of my foolishness, Majesty."

He gave a short chuckle, almost to himself. It shook his whole body, jolting him out of repose on the bench. He stood, cracking his shoulders in an oddly human gesture. "This is our most sacred sanctuary," he said. "Spend your afternoon in contemplation of Ice's infinite grace. Afterwards, find Lord Lazar. He will have a new assignment for you. One that can better make use of your unique... talents."

A full-body shiver rolled through me. The King clasped me on the shoulder before he withdrew, whistling an old folk tune under his breath.