#dark blue tile border

[biciudades]

Tampa Pool Hot Tub

Inspiration for a mid-sized mediterranean backyard tile and custom-shaped hot tub remodel

[nicothenick]

Tampa Hot Tub

An illustration of a medium-sized Tuscan backyard with molded-in hot tubs

[vulpineninja]

Hot Tub - Mediterranean Pool Ideas for a medium-sized Mediterranean backyard renovation with a unique-shaped hot tub

[rromani-in-art]

ideas for remodeling a large contemporary backyard with a rectangular lap pool Inspiration for a large contemporary backyard concrete paver and rectangular lap pool remodel

[1800titz]

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin. 

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places. 

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter. 

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals. 

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents. 

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes. 

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.” 

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder. 

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band. 

“Can I grab you another?” 

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip. 

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth. 

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?” 

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice. 

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures. 

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc. 

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation. 

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth. 

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again. 

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split. 

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation. 

It’s a different story behind the door. 

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges. 

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?” 

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again. 

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together. 

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.” 

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.” 

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.” 

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway. 

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet. 

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters. 

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing. 

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to. 

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana. 

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.” 

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph. 

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough. 

Eventually. 

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat. 

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock. 

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry. 

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.” 

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing. 

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head. 

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini. 

[finleycannotdraw]

yo, hi,

please rant about the use of colours/shots in dead boy detectives (if you want to), that would be amazing to read!

omg hell yeah i would love to. <3 buckle up everybody!

(there were some other people in the comments who wanted to hear more as well. for convenience's sake i'm going to keep it all in one post.)

I'm not going to talk about every single frame in the last post, because there are a lot, but I'll be sure to touch on all of the ones that have a good amount of depth beyond the dramatic lighting. (sorry, Angie shot.)

...this is going to get long.

so first, this one:

With Edwin's brown coat, Niko's green coat, the brown bushes in between them, and the trees behind Edwin, this shot is cohesive and satisfying. I drew the orange lines to sort of illustrate how your eye moves across the frame; the line of eye contact, the tree branch (dashed lines) almost parallel to that, the sidewalk/grass line, and the lapels/shadows/folds of their jackets all form a general diagonal streamlined snapshot. Then the black post behind Niko, the tree between them, and the tree trunk behind Edwin continue to divide the frame vertically and add to the additional invisible "line" created by their height difference. Finally, the sky behind Niko, as well as her hair, contrast heavily and very well with the darker colors of the tree behind Edwin, though there is still white on his side (the building) and brown on hers (tree branches). If you were to take a single diagonal line from the bottom left corner to the top right, you would get two incredibly distinctly colored sections, but they complement each other so well.

This whole scene is gorgeous because of the pale sky and water up against Niko's hair and the brown tree trunks with Edwin's jacket, but I also love it because it's so simply colored. We have the classic blue+orange color dynamic, but diluted down to very pale blue and very dark brown. This shot specifically features Edwin focused at the center (the blue lines show that he is standing mostly straight up, while the trees on the borders of the frame are all leaning inwards), with Niko crouched down to fit with the shape of the hillside (orange) AND the silhouetted rocks in the foreground. Then the hillside, the shadow on the water, the general cutoff of the tree branches, and the island in the distance (purple) frame the two of them in the middle without making a Point of it. It looks very natural, especially with the dark shadows around the border of the frame. (personally sort of brings to mind Wanderer Above The Sea of Fog).

I don't think I need to add any annotations to this one. The lighting is sharp and so are the shadows. The fog and the shine on the water, his hair, and the collar of his coat are starkly lit, while everything else, including his face, is deeply shadowed. Plus it's all an ominous, murky green. It's almost the opposite of Lilith coming out of her blood-red ocean. 10/10 frame, I have no words.

I gasped the first time I saw this shot. There are so many vertical lines (orange), which make the space feel thinner: the spike, the bulletin board(?) on the far left, both doorframes, the edges of the table and boxes, the tile on the wall on the right, Maxine herself... and then there are the diagonal lines, all sort of spreading out from Maxine, which includes the table edge, the shadows, and the wall tiles again. Then there's the fact that it's all so dark, but not quite pitch black. Once again we have a green/orange combo, and the light behind Maxine being so small in the whole frame makes it very effectively claustrophobic. We also never saw her enter this room from behind, which elevates her as threatening, because the camera work makes it seem as though we, the audience, are backing away from her as she enters, and then hiding from her as well. While I am devastated by the lack of a sapphic romance arc, I have to say I was blown away by the production of this scene.

I love this one because they're arranged so neatly around the book. I didn't draw a curve over their heads, but it's easy to visualize by following Monty's hairline up to Edwin's, and then Edwin's down to Charles' down to Crystal's. The height order is perfect. Then there's the black-brown-black-brown of Monty's jacket, Edwin's jacket, Charles' jacket, and Crystal's hair. The book itself helps frame their faces (diagonal blue lines), and their clothes fall into uniform with the vertical trees behind them, creating a satisfying, natural, unobtrusive background. This is definitely more visually appealing than a shot of them leaning over and looking down at the book/camera. It's also broken up very nicely by the greenery. Plus, none of their faces are shown from the same angle! Refreshing!

Poor Monty :( but hey, he gets a really awesome shot here! We're back to orange+blue, and the angle of this shot makes it look like the vertical trees behind him are positioned diagonally (orange) to follow the dark blue shadow behind his head. We also get two light sources: one of them is the moon, and the other one comes from the same place as the music. The moonlight (blue) sort of encircles his head and cuts off at the line of trees about halfway across the frame. Both the back of his hair and the far side of his face are illuminated, which is very effective in terms of bringing him into the foreground and making him the focus of the shot even though he's not in the middle of the frame. It's also balanced nicely by having background detail on the left, with the orange trees, but not on the right, where there's nothing but dark blue behind Monty. This is also a great shot when it comes to his hair and jacket, because the jacket is used to add to the framing of his face with the dark blue background, and his dark brown hair is lit sparingly, which ties in the left side of the frame.

Like the frame with Maxine, this one has a lot of shadow and a little bit of light, and again works with an orange/blue (or teal, really) color scheme, but this one is much friendlier. The windows are larger than the doorframe and Charles isn't actually blocking the light the way Maxine did. Instead, he's illuminated from the right by Edwin's orange lantern, and the shot is balanced by highlights (blue) that stop it from becoming cramped and stressful. There are stable vertical lines (purple) and rafters and shadows spreading out from the center (orange). Charles, though he is blocking the window, is wearing a white tank top, and his skin takes on the warmth from the lantern, so he's not in silhouette and he blends very nicely with the scene. I love that he's not at the center of the shot, but instead framed almost perfectly in the right window. (Another thing I love about this show is that the characters almost always interrupt the continuity of the background even when they're positioned to be framed by it. It makes the scenes feel much more natural even while they continue to be gorgeously directed from an artistic/stylistic point of view.)

This is one of the simpler ones, but it's perfect. The Night Nurse's hair and vest are the same brownish orange, and her shirt is the same as the walls, sticking with our tried and true brown/green (easy variation on orange/blue) color scheme. She is framed in the blackness of the doorway, but once again interrupts the white doorframe on the left side. Even the lamp and the board (?) on either side of the frame fill the negative space in a natural way. Also, the vertical lines of the board, doorframe, door, and lamp aren't perfectly spaced apart, which makes the whole shot feel more down-to-earth.

There is so much going on in this shot. The beams of light (orange) are emanating from behind Edwin in a shape sort of reminiscent of wings. The angles of light/shadow and the immediately obvious position of some of the mirrors (blue) also spreads out from behind him, reinforcing the wing imagery and focus. The background is lighter than the floor, and Edwin's clothes blend in with the floor and the reflecting highlights (green) in the mirrors. It's all balanced by shadows (purple), which aren't so much shadows as they are dark-colored mirrors and the blood on Edwin's face. This shot is an unsettling combination of chaos and order, increased by the strange phenomena of mirrors endlessly reflecting into each other, especially since Edwin doesn't show up in any of them. You'd expect him to look out of place, and he mostly does, but there's just enough immediate immersion with the color scheme and light angles to make him fit perfectly. And he wouldn't fit in this shot nearly as well if he were wearing his usual clothes. It's such a good way to introduce Despair. I love this scene.

Now I needed to include these two next to each other, because they're. They're the same scene. Maren is on the porch looking down at Crystal and the boys, but the color schemes and blocking are so starkly different. Maren is wearing black, and the house is washed-out yellow and maroon, both unfriendly colors in this scene. The windows all show the gray reflections of the dead tree instead of even a glimpse inside the house, immediately showing that Maren is hiding something. Then in the shot with Crystal and the boys, they're positioned behind her on the path. Edwin is next to the brown gate and gray stones, and Charles is sort of shadowing Crystal and framed by the green bushes. Crystal's shirt is flower-patterned to match the pink petals on the ground, and her red hair and purple jacket make the whole shot more vibrant and friendly-looking than Maren's, even though Maren is supposedly the one being helpful/friendly/hospitable. The first time I watched this episode I knew I couldn't trust Maren as soon as I saw her standing on her front porch. This scene is, as Charles would say, brills.

Okay, last one, I have to stop somewhere. (I have so many more. I have. SO many more. that i could talk about. but this post is so long already). There are three windows, evenly spaced, white light and curtains framed in them. Charles is in nearly full silhouette as he opens that chest; his head and the lid of the chest intersect with the vertical window frame, and his arm runs parallel to the middle bar. He also blocks a good portion of the leftmost window, while Edwin stands in front of the one on the right. He's fully framed by the window and standing farther back than Charles, not quite silhouetted but still very dark compared to the background. When he ducks down to inspect the cabinet, his head ends up in front of the wall between the two windows. This whole scene is an excellent display of blocking/framing/lighting, just in terms of where they end up holding any given position while they talk. Once again, there's nothing artificial or manufactured about their blocking. These aren't statement shots (all film projects have a few Really Good Shots, but they're often at extremely important, pivotal, or emotional times, instead of spread out through the storyline.), which makes them even better.

I might have to make another post and include shots with Jenny, the sprites, the Cat King, Esther, and more landscape shots. There is no shortage of stunning frames and scenes, and there's no reason not to dive into the production and hidden meanings.

TL;DR: this show is an ARTISTIC MASTERPIECE. Please watch it. :)

[simsantoinc]

Nicheknacks: Some Meshes Repo'd to BB Niches and Recolors

I originally intended to have this be an even larger upload than the rocks ones from a few years ago. I couldn't sustain enough motivation to work on this anymore after working on and off for years, so I just made it a smaller upload. I made or modified a handful of meshes and made a few dozen recolors. I also edited some of the nook folly garden grounds and borders to remove shine and outdoor shadows.

Meshes:

Floor edge hider straight and corner pieces, cloned from Honeywell's bespoke build set so these need to be placed on the same level of the floor edge you want to cover

Outside wall corner, also cloned from and based on the one from the bespoke set

Shelf beds based on and cloned from igne's shelf beds.

Pet bed, top used edited cushion from dark moon's niche crib and is also repo'd to the maxis bedding like the changing tables and cribs in that set. I fixed the issue with the niche part of the mesh being dark after I did the preview. From what I've tested, this can be used as a pet bunk bed with shiftable everything and moveobjects on.

Tudor support from Cyclonesue. I removed the floor part of the mesh. It's in the columns section but doesn't function like a true column. Has a new GUID.

Retaining walls and wall tops that are a mashup of both versions of tbugett's retaining walls

Walls used for Recolors:

4t2 corrugated walls from the eco lifestyle EP. I don't recall which conversion for these I used, but there's at least 2 versions of these around.

Poppet's plain jane stucco half of the files for this are older than my simblr, I just added the other half recently

A handful of Feverfew walls

Lifa's plain GLS wood wall addons

Shasta's BV and AL chimney walls

2 metal panels from MellySim's 1t2 walls

LS little hexagons tiles. I used Corax's wall addon for the blue one and made my own addon wall for the white one, which is included in the download

Swatches: Part 1 | Part 2

Known issues:

Shelf beds clip through the floor into the below floor if the built in setting to make them floor level is used. Though it's still above the AL ceiling level and should only be an issue in some situations without a ceiling. It was a tradeoff between this and having the beds clip though the bottom of the was when in use.

The retaining walls are dark looking unless a significant portion of them is above ground.

All files are compressed with included swatches, the main niche mesh, and preview.

Download | Alt

[sapphire-rb]

Some of DQB2's unused blocks

(This is only for blocks. Items are still in research.)

(Also blocks don't have names, only their associated items, and these have no item associated because they're... well, unused)

• ID 083 -> Unused ore

This one is kinda cool. Drops nothing though. It has various variants (The thing where blocks aren't always the same, look at the grass for reference) :

I couldn't find the ore it would drop in the sheet. There are a lot of 'unused' ores on the DQB1 part of the sheet and none of them look like a clear match.

Here is a little list of most yellow/white ores I could find, along with a slightly lighter bar that sits right beside the gold bar in the sheet.

• ID 86 -> Unused Fire & Ice blocks

These are blocks from the first game.

Don't think about them too much.

They're also stored alongside the strange sand both on the icon list and block list so I guess they're sand?

• Full block grass

Every grass variant has a full block for it. It's like the mossy soil and moss blocks. Sad to see it was scrapped.

Here are the other 3 as walls:

587 we'll see later, don't worry.

• ID 210 -> Umber Sandstone

Don't know which icon would it be, there are 2 similar ones on the sheet.

Comparing this one to the 2 Sandstones that are used:

• ID 247 -> Yellow Frame

This one is my favourite. Looks like glass.

It does cast a shadow however, and the walking on it noise is metallic, like if it were tiles.

• ID 474 -> Red Chert

Was probably meant for Malhalla, like the sanguine variants.

• ID 475 -> Red Citadel Floor

This one doesn't have any variants, so it looks too uniform. (Compare to the used citadel floor). Also looks like the grass merges into the used floor, but the unused floor merges into the grass instead. Look at the border you'll get what I'm saying.

• ID 586 -> Leafy Stony Soil

Is exactly as what it sounds. It's the same as the leafy spoiled soil but with stony soil. Weirdly enough if you break it normally it gives nothing. But if you break it with the ultimallet it gives you normal stony soil. Huh.

• ID 080 -> Dummy

Placeholder texture on the sheet. Not placeholder block though, that one uses a weird earth variant.

This one may have had a texture but was scrapped. It has no collision and does the blue aura thing when hammered.

• ID 543 -> Blue Tile Dummy

This one just grabs one tile below the actual blue tile texture so the 'dummy' placeholder that fills empty spots on the sheet bled through.

• ID 673 -> Ghost block

Shaded air.

But wait! there's more!

If you put the camera right at the limit between it being inside of the block and outside you get this

Look at my character. The shading is gone. So is for a bunch of the other blocks. Pretty cool huh?

This is what happens if you put the camera inside:

I guess ghost block is a water block. It gives the water effect when the camera leaves.

I would also want to give some words in honour of block ID 233.

If you look at the icon sheet you will find these three blocks together right beside eachother:

You can see that the middle one goes unused!

If we look in-game, however...

The ID spot right between them (presumably of the unused block seen in the icon) is empty.

And if you look at the item IDs

There's also an empty spot right in the middle...

Rip Dark Green Spoiled Soil, taken from us far too soon...

[glorious-spoon]

Tidbit Tuesday

i was tagged by @sibylsleaves, @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove, @bucksbignaturals and @thatnerdemryn to share something I'm working on! this is from what was going to be my big bang fic before I forgot to actually sign up, lol. loosely - very loosely - based on the midnight library.

-

Eddie opens his eyes in a rose garden.

That feels… like something, maybe, something he can't put his finger on, because the last thing he remembers is—

—rolling darkness and cold, a damp choking thing, pain sudden and sharp and all-consuming—

—he blinks, then opens his eyes again. Blue sky overhead. The distant rumble of traffic, the slightly closer sound of lawnmowers, the sweet, heavy scent of roses in the air. He levers himself upright, and discovers that he's on a scruffy little stretch of lawn bordered by terra cotta tiles, yellow siding on the house to his left. To his right is a short driveway with a car parked at the end: a '69 Chevelle, flawless green paint job glittering in the sunlight like a large exotic insect.

His breath starts to come a little faster. Because he knows that car; it's been under a tarp in his garage since his abuela sold the house and moved back to Texas. He knows that house, the yellow siding, the white shutters, the wicker bench on the front porch that surrendered to mildew and rambunctious grandchildren sometime back when Eddie was still in high school.

There's a man shuffling through the roses with a pair of garden shears. He's humming as he works, occasionally mumble-singing some old Mexican love song that Eddie recognizes but couldn't name. His slicked-back hair is iron-gray instead of wispy and white like the last time Eddie saw him, and he's wearing a guayabera shirt and those ratty brown huaraches that Eddie's abuela was always on him to throw out already.

He smiles when he sees Eddie, lifts a hand to beckon him over, and goes back to trimming the roses.

Eddie gets to his feet, slowly. His heart is thundering. There's not a single other person in sight; nothing moves in the sunlight. He breathes in the taste of roses, and wonders if he's really breathing.

-

no-pressure tagging @what-alchemy, @junemermaid, @fraddit, @phdmama, @daffi-990

@wildlife4life, @colonoscopys, @incognitajones, @alessandriana, @lynne-monstr, and anyone else who wants to play!

[starlit-crossing]

A Ghost of Yourself Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Meeting the Waynes

Slowly the skyscrapers of the city were replaced with the rolling hills as the car made its way to Crest Hill. They hadn’t told Danny much about his new foster home, leaving it vague. The only things he could get out of them was that the man ran his own business, and he had many successful adoptions in the past. At this point he thought he was going to a farm, being forced to do chores early in the morning. The further they went the less sure he was, as houses began to periodically appear he began wishing it was a farm.

The homes they passed were large, fashionable manors with acres of land in between. Gated fences and lavishly long driveways sat in front. Not a single other car appeared in the streets as they quietly made their way deeper in. It took about twenty minutes to get from the city to the last house in the neighborhood. Similar to the others a wrought iron fence blocked the driveway in, the car pulling up to a grey speaker just outside the gate. Mr. Densen, the man put in charge of Danny’s case, rolled down his window and buzzed the button on the speaker box. A voice answered but it was too quiet for him to hear.

“It’s Chris Densen with the Gotham CPS. I was informed you were expecting our arrival with a new foster placement?” Densen answered, the voice responding in time with a positive tone. The gates creaked as they opened wide enough for the car to pull through. The manor ahead of them was the largest of those they had passed, even larger than Vlad’s back in Wisconsin. It stood four stories tall with light colored brick making the walls. Large windows reflected the rare morning sun, smoke flowing out of the chimney among the dark tiled roofs. The driveway went in a circle around a large patch of grass with a fountain nestled in the center.

Standing on the patio atop of the stairs leading to the manor was two men and a kid. The oldest was dressed in a fitted suit with a small mustache and a balding head. Next to him was a man around his parents age with black hair and tired blue eyes. He wore pressed black pants and a light grey turtleneck. Finally, standing back towards the door was the kid, his skin was tan with black hair and green eyes. Dressed in shorts and a hoodie he stood with his arms crossed as he glared at the car. They all began walking down the steps as the car came to a stop.

“Hi Danny, I’m Bruce Wayne. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, I’ve heard a lot about you.” Bruce smiled, offering his hand as Danny exited the car. Danny looked at the hand and back at him, first impressions were okay. He didn’t seem like Vlad, there was no smooth-talking flattery or blatant evil tone, but he was rich. If the house was anything to go from and though being rich didn’t make you evil, it didn’t help you in Danny’s book. The whole situation was just dredging old memories leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

“Hi.” Was all Danny could offer in return while shoving his hands into his hoodie. Bruce gave a small laugh and brought back his hand.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your time here at Wayne Manor. If you need anything feel free to ask myself or Alfred; he may be the butler, but he deserves the utmost respect. He’ll be able to show you your room later this evening. The one lingering behind us is my son Damian, he’ll be giving you a tour of the grounds while I speak with Mr. Densen here.” He watched as the butler took his backpack from the car and headed back inside. The kid finally approached; a look of disinterest glued to his face.

“Welcome Daniel, follow me. Let’s get this tour over with.” Damian drawled.

Isn’t he a peach, Danny thought to himself rolling his eyes. “It’s Danny. Just Danny.” He repeated.

This kid ignored him as they made way for the front doors. Inside was the entrance hall, it was fairly large with white tile bordered by wooden flooring along the walls and staircase. The staircase itself was two separate stairways that connected at the top of the second floor. The walls were covered with red wallpaper, paintings, and portraits. Most notable was a large frame with a velvet background. It held six ovals each with its own silhouette and name. The first was Bruce’s name and portrait, followed by three more underneath that said Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, and Timothy Drake. Below them were two more that said Cassandra Cain and Damian Wayne.

“Is this painting your family?” he asked.

“Some, yes. It needs to be updated but it has the elder children of my father. All adopted except for myself, I am my father’s only biological son.” Damian explained proudly, not before his eyes went wide and adding, “Don’t get any ideas about being adopted. I have enough brothers as it is!”

“Trust me, I don’t plan on it.” Danny answered, as proud as the kid was, he’s still just a kid.

“Good. Let’s continue,” He led them through a door to a large kitchen, it was as nice as a five-star restaurant with expensive stoves and appliances. “This is the kitchen, it’s Pennyworth’s domain. If you cause any trouble here, you will be banned. My father is an unfortunate example.”

“Understood.” Danny continued, following Damian further into the building. It had been nice being able to eat food that didn’t fight back. It was good to know that it would continue. The tour went on through the manor with small comments here and there. Apparently, Bruce was a well-known figure in Gotham with him hosting parties on occasion in the manor. They did in fact have a barn on the grounds though Damain mainly spent the time there introducing Danny to all the animals. The Bat-Cow being the most interesting, named for the city’s protector and the bat marking on its face. They ended the tour in the garden just behind the mansion. “That’s the entirety of the grounds. It’s quiet for now but Duke will be home later this evening for dinner and the others will surely visit once they know of your stay.” He went on, Danny had been mostly quiet during the tour, only offering responses and questions that would help him later. Danny hadn’t seen much that would’ve stood in his way of leaving. In fact, with little to know security around outside of cameras it should be as simple as any other home they put him in.

“By the way, I know why they asked my father to take you in. I thought I’d save you the trouble and let you know there is no way off the grounds without getting caught or falling into a booby-trap. I should know, I’ve tried.” With that Damian headed inside the building, leaving Danny outside the manor. How did he know I was thinking about leaving? Also booby-traps? Danny wondered, making his way inside. They’d expect a runaway to go at the first chance he got, best for him to wait till later that week.

---

Danny was eventually shown to his room on the second floor, which happened to be across the hall from the other resident Duke. Apparently, everyone who lived here at some point still had a room for themselves and could come back to it whenever they visited. He had double-checked his backpack which had been placed on top of the desk next to a computer. Everything seemed in place, next he checked the room for any cameras and recorders. He didn’t really expect to find anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry. This took up much of the afternoon leaving him to read on the bed when he was done. Around 6pm there was someone knocking on the door to his room.

“Danny? It’s time for dinner,” The door opened to reveal another teen around Danny’s age, his skin was dark, and he was wearing jeans with a red t-shirt, a lightning bolt on the front. “Better hurry Alfred made some cookies for your stay. Trust me, you don’t want to miss them. I’m Duke by the way, nice to meet you!”

Danny gave him a nod and followed the guy down the hall and stairs to the dining room. Already sat around was Bruce at the head of the table and Damian in the seat to his right. Duke took a seat across from him and gestured for Danny to seat beside him. As soon as he took a seat Alfred placed a serving of pasta and salad in front of him, a glass of water already on the table.

“Thanks.” Danny said, grabbing a fork and digging in. As the food hit his mouth Danny had to keep himself from scarfing the whole thing down. The pasta had a creamy sauce of cheese and marinara with well-seasoned chicken shredded and mixed in. It was delicious, he could only imagine the cookies Duke had mentioned.

“So, Danny how was the tour Damian gave you?” Bruce asked from across the table.

“Good.” Danny answered in between bites. Duke gave a look to Damian almost surprised at the kid.

“If it was anything like mine, I’m sure he threw some odd comments in.” Duke chimed in.

“Excuse you, Duke. Both of my tours for you and Danny were quite excellent. We even gave a visit to the animals.” Damian smiled pointing his fork at the teen.

“I’m sure, did he tell you about the booby-traps on the grounds? Loves to mention them but not which ones are real or not.” Duke said elbowing him. Bruce smiled at the antics between the two.

“He is right though, most only get armed at night though so there is nothing to worry about.” Bruce went on. “Most are there due to large amount of villain attacks in the city, though we’re far from most of the dangers you can’t be too safe.”

“Yes, very safe with the laser grid that got installed over a month ago.” Duke tagged on sarcastically, Bruce giving him a quick look. I thought I was done with lasers, Danny thought sinking into his seat. Things continued like this for most of the meal and he was starting to get some sense of what everyone was like. Damian, being the youngest, tended to boast about his skills and achievements. Duke was like Danny in being new to the manor but was more familiar with everyone than he was. Bruce was still a bit of a mystery; he was trying to be a positive influence in the conversation but seemed to be holding back. They all were in some way, dancing around a topic none of them were willing to bring up. It was probably due to him just showing up, the people at the CPS had told him the home he was going to didn’t normally foster random kids.

Alfred was just bringing out the cookies when he stopped by Bruce and whispered something in his ear. Danny watched as Bruce’s face shifted from the smile he had been wearing all night to something more serious. He almost looked like he was brooding as he listened to what Alfred said, Damian and Duke looking at him waiting.

“Sorry Danny, but something has come up at Wayne Enterprises. It’s nothing to terrible but as CEO of the company I need to look into it.” He rose from his seat; Damian was following suit.

“Do you need any help, Father? I will one day work at the company so it would benefit for me to accompany you.” Damian was practically already out the door when Bruce responded.

“No Damian, I need you here. It’s a school night anyway so you’ll need to get some rest.” Bruce reasoned, meanwhile Duke held back a laugh. Damian scowled at the two before returning to his seat and grabbing a cookie from Alfred’s tray.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow.” He said before continuing out the door. Danny didn’t give it too much thought, he had never owned a multibillion-dollar company so who knows what stuff that entailed. So, he grabbed a cookie or three and made his way back to his room. As he went, he thought for a moment that the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs was off. Its face read 10:48, taking a look at his burner in his pocket it read 8:06. It must be broken, Danny thought and returned to his new room for the rest of the night.

Master post - Chapter 4 Prev. <<< Next >>>

[3ofpents]

Lake Champ // Fabric design for @shapeshiftersvt and the Cryptid Collection

Ah Champ. Vermont's very own lake monster that seems to illicit panic and terror from half the people who see it by just ... swimming around.

Out of the six fabric designs in The Cryptid Collection, there are three where I adapted elements from the existing poster to create the design. But while there's still one more I haven't talked about yet, I think this one and the Jersey Devil design I talked about yesterday are the only two that are truly a straightforward adaptation of their respective posters. Like, if the brief was "turn these posters into a fabric design" I think that the Jersey Devil design and this Champ design are the ones that really fill that.

Here's the Champ poster for reference:

Like, I rendered the water a bit differently, I took out a couple of elements, made the clouds more sparse, and shifted the colors around a bit. But yeah, pretty much turned the poster into a fabric design. I mostly used the same palette save for the Champs, which are a dark green that wasn't in the original poster. But I did also make the maroon a little more red and the yellow-green a little more yellow. Because, I think, for this one especially, I took the opportunity to alter the palette into something I preferred a bit more.

Well, I also had to shift some colors around because I wanted the pattern to repeat vertically along the length of the yard, but I didn't want there to just be a hard line where the water stopped and the next repeat began. There's already a hard line where the sky stops and the water begins and I thought it would look a little weird. But also I just thought it would be really cool to have the bottom of the water just fade back into the sky. That's why you can see more water ripples at the top of the tile. Oh wait, I can just show you! And I'm going to because I'm really very proud of this:

Look at that! Look how smooth it is!

Now, obviously this was designed with a binder or sportsbra in mind, that's why the tile is the height it is. But since, with the binders especially, folks can get them made anywhere from 14-30" long, I not only wanted to make sure there would be no issue making longer binders with it; I was also thinking about folks who might buy it to make other things with it. And I really love how it came out. The colors I think contrast so well together, and, like I keep saying, I'm so thrilled, like insane over the way the fade between tiles came out.

Oh, I realize I haven't talked about Eli's influence on this one. That's mostly because this isn't a design they're using in their runway collection! They're using a completely different version of this that isn't available as a binder/sportsbra, so I didn't want to use it as one of the main photos. But here it is as a bonus:

So right off the bat, you can see that it's a completely different color scheme, and also it's sideways and much taller. This is, Eli informed me, what's called a border design, where the main design element runs along one side of the fabric, repeating along the length of the yard. So when you make a garment from it, you are (typically) putting it together so the border is along the bottom hem.

This is why this version isn't available for a binder/sportsbra, there's just too much empty space. We'd end up having to use multiple yards for some folks in order to make a garment that had the design all the way around, which would also waste a ton of fabric.

So Eli's original concept for the Champ runway look was a vintage style swim costume — essentially a one piece suit but with shorts. They were taking inspiration from the way the mountains fade into a misty blue as they get further away, hence the color scheme. And they wanted the lake and Champ to just be a border around the bottom hem.

And here's where we get into Eli's unintentional influence on the Cryptid Collection version. While they asked me to create the base design, they asked me to leave out the mountains because they wanted to add the mountains themself using some physical techniques. Then, because they felt the final design looked a little too empty, we decided to add the second Champ.

I wanted these two designs to coordinate. Like, obviously, they're part of the same collection! So I ended up merging Eli's design with the poster and just slightly tweaking it to make it work on its own, as a repeatable design, at an appropriate size for making binders and sportsbras. I pulled the colors from the poster, I added the second Champ, I left out the mountains, but kept the clouds.

So it really is the lovechild of Eli's runway design and my poster design.

As I keep saying and will continue to say, if you'd like to purchase your own binder or sportsbra in this fabric like the ones pictured above, you can find those listings (and the poster listing) here on the Shapeshifters website.

If you'd like to purchase either fabric for your own sewing projects, you can get both the runway border design and the Shapeshifters design through our Spoonflower shop.

[telleroftime]

Coffee ||| Gavin Reed x Reader

You've always had a crush on the unapproachable detective, and finally it seems he's returning the interest.

———————————————

Request - Anonymous : Can I request a Gavin Reed x Reader. I don't really care what, but can it be fluff? :)

Pairing: Gavin Reed x Gender Neutral ! Reader

Relationship: Romantic

Tone: Fluff

Word Count: 1.3k

Oneshot Masterlist

A/N: I’m finally getting to answering requests. University has been... something alright. I'm sorry for the wait. There will be more Gavin fluff to come in the future too, if this wasn’t fluffy enough. Plus the other requests I'm yet to write! (Reposting this because I had to fix the tag issue)

———————————————

It was nearing midday when you arrived at the Detroit Police Station to start your shift, two cups of steaming coffee in your left hand, carried neatly in a cardboard holder. The bright light of the high sun was enough to fuel the smile on your face. The gentle breeze of late spring pushed you forward. Simply put, you were lucky today. 

The altered hours meant you didn't have to wake up at the crack of dawn, instead sleeping in for a little while longer. You could take your morning routine slow and steady, and finish writing and preparing the documents for the day to come. Your apartment was cleaned before you could so much as dirty it, and you were practically ready to return home from the job you were yet to begin.

It also meant that when you left your home you had just missed the initial wave of customers and usuals you always saw queuing up inside of your favourite café. It was empty when you entered – your ride parked outside – and it was empty when you left the building, satisfied with your order. Now, you were scanning your DPD identification card on the staff entry after greeting the receptionists. There was a very obvious bounce of eagerness in your step that caused the small heels of your work shoes to clack against the dark, tiled floor.

Clack clack clack as you walked through the small plastic gates that marked the border of one large room from the other.

To your surprise, as you walked along the windowed wall, the bullring was primarily empty. There were no heads peeking from past the plexiglass that functioned as dividers. No laughter of the detectives that worked diligently at their decorated desks. And other than the quiet voices of policemen coming from the break room and the Captain's muffled responses to a phone call coming from inside his office, the overall room was uncharacteristically quiet. Even as you moved to where your eyes kept flickering, constantly glancing at the empty desk of a particular detective, the silence persevered for long enough to etch a childish pout onto your lips. Like most other seats, Gavin’s was empty.

Gavin Reed. Through the weeks you've got to know him, and even since just starting your job as a forensic pathologist at the station, you started to recognise your blooming crush for the detective. And ever since you have, your actions were quite the opposite of 'subtle'. In your eyes, there was no reason to pretend they weren't there. You liked the guy, and you weren't going to hide from those emotions.

You've left him chocolates; small snacks; little trinkets you believed he would like. Well, trinkets that disappeared from his near-empty desk the very next day, but no matter. You even started leaving some cheesy pick up lines that made you chuckle, written neatly on cream sticky notes you carried in your coat pocket out of a forced habit. You tried suggesting outings, yet he always ignored your suggestions. Brushed you off for the lack of a better word.

And now, with the steadily cooling coffee cups in hand, it wasn’t much different.

Slowly, you stepped around the short wall and towards the empty desk, glancing around in hopes of catching his eye. You knew he was here, if the slight blue glow of the power switch on the monitor was anything to go by. His jacket was draped on the back of his chair, and a small drop of a dark drink was splashed next to a ring of moisture. There were papers on the desk too, placed a little ways away from where a mug had obviously been placed, paired with blurry images of undisclosed origin. A new case he was working on you assumed. 

Nevertheless, with another look around, your right hand gingerly pushed the documents to the side, not bothering to neaten them into an even stack. You prioritised removing the paper coffee cup from the holder, politely labelled 'Hot Stuff' as per your request, and placing it down in the now clear centre of the surface. You just hoped he wasn't too full or caffeinated from whatever he had beforehand.

Quickly reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your trusty sticky notes and reached for the ballpoint pen that sat in the breast pocket of your work issued shirt. Tapping the butt end of the pen against your chin, you blinked in thought before your lips twitched up and you scribbled down a little message on the small square of paper, a terrible pun you hoped would make his day. You didn't hesitate sticking it on the white plastic of the cup.

“Words cannot espresso how much you bean to me.”

You practically flinched at the sound of the deep voice that appeared out of nowhere, your right hand darting for the remaining cup of coffee in the holder to keep it steady as you spun around, sucking in a sharp breath at the proximity you had to Gavin. A breath that caused the man to take a step back with a slight cock of his head. Detective Reed was standing in front of you, his body weight resting on his hip as his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyebrows raised in what you assumed was humour.

And yet neither of you spoke until the silence began to threaten to thicken in the layer of awkwardness.

"Sorry detective," you began, averting your eyes and looking anywhere but at him, "I didn't see you at your desk so I thought I'd just leave the coffee here. It's still hot."

What was hot was the heat in your face, your cheeks and ears no doubt a shade darker than before. Your lips had contorted into a mix of a wonky smirk and the visible effort of you trying to straighten them. Your jaw was clenched, your breathing forced down to a steady pace on your will alone. Refusing to look back, finding the uneven flicker of a distant light quite entertaining, your eyes moved to him when a short puff of hair escaped him.

You could see a sparkle in his dark eyes, the very same you fell in love with. The very same you bought coffee for. Yet this was the first time he willingly confronted you instead of keeping his distance. This-

“What are you doing this weekend?”

What?

With the way his brows furrowed, causing his scar to crease against his skin in the process, you were certain that your bewildered expression was caught by the man. However, other than actively avoiding your wondrous gaze, he didn’t take any action to move or to clarify his words and the meaning behind them. The most he did was readjust his crossed arms and scratch the stubble at the base of his jaw.

“Nothing. I should be free.”

A beat of silence passed, your heart fluttering with hope. Then he nodded.

“Meet me at the café down the street at two in the afternoon. Saturday.”

Did he…?

“Okay!”

You felt your spirit physically lift your body, eagerness blooming in your mind at Gavin's words. Genuine joy made your eyes no doubt shine, feeling them grow wetter as more of his words processed and your vision grew slightly blurry because of the saline. He just asked you out on a date. You couldn't believe it. The grin on your lips couldn’t have been bigger as you nodded, feeling your body grow in energy with the increasing serotonin. Your cheeks stung at the intensity of your smile. You were so happy.

However, before you could add to the conversation, your lips frozen ajar, you heard your name be called from the other side of the room, forcing you to excuse yourself and officially start your shift.

“I’ll see you then, Detective!”

Gavin Reed has asked you out on a date.

———————————————

Oneshot Masterlist

[graycats-arcane-blog]

Lightcannon Week, Day 8 Fic!

Prompt: Free day (wingfic)

Title: Shooting Star

Rating: T

Length: 3.3k words

AO3: link

@lightcannonweek

Synopsis:

Lux feels defeated after a mageseeker's net pulls her from the sky.

Meanwhile, Jinx is looking for a shooting star.

Reference:

A blue jay, seen from the back. Photo by Brian Kushner, Audubon Photography Awards

A white-tailed kite in flight the wings are mostly white, darkening to gray on the primary feathers, with a dark marking at the curve of each wing. Photo by Matt Davis, Macaulay Library

. . .

Everyone had a little magic in them. No one would get off the ground otherwise.

Magic was the force that made people weightless when the sky called them. It stole the heft from the most cumbersome pieces of the human torso, causing each long, leaden leg to float like a feather rather than dangle like a pendulum. There was a shift in weight, a shift in strength, as if all the power in one's body were gathering around the muscles of their second shoulders where their wings attached. Without magic, no being in Runeterra, no matter how broad nor how swift their wings were, would have the strength to launch their bodies into flight.

Lux was born with far more magic than the small amount needed to fly. Her power ran dangerously deep, as far as Demacian opinion was concerned. In other regions of Runeterra, those with strong magic were admired, especially when their arcane skills proved to be useful, but Demacia, on the other hand, never forgot nor forgave the terrors that magic had wrought in wars of old. Any Demacian with strong magic was imprisoned, or worse, trained to hunt and harm their own kind.

That was why Lux had needed to flee.

That was why she had been chased.

That was why, just when she'd dared to hope that her pursuers were falling behind, one of them had tossed a net threaded with beads of petricite into her path.

No mage was allowed to escape Demacia. No mage was allowed to fly free.

Dazed and entangled, Lux plummeted. The light in her luminous kite-wings blazed in one last show of defiance before fading into darkness.

. . .

When she woke, Lux was hanging in the net, breathing slow mouthfuls of cold, sour air. Some of the beaded ropes had snagged onto a bit of rusty gutter cutting out awkwardly from a sloping rooftop. The roof tiles were broken along the telltale trail where her body had landed and rolled down.

Groaning, Lux swept her bleary eyes over her dark, derelict surroundings. She'd fallen into some sort of vertical city built layer over layer, so high - or, perhaps, so deep - that the top wasn't visible. About three stories up, a gauzy haze fuzzed the air, hiding the starry sky from view. If it weren't for the flickering streetlamp standing just past the gutter, Lux wouldn't have been able to see a thing in the darkness.

No sooner had she wondered if the city's residents might take pity on her than a glimpse of masked figures descending from the fog dashed her hopes.

The mageseekers had tracked her descent, and now, they'd come to collect their quarry.

One of them landed heavily on the walkway next to the streetlamp, shaking out his dark, glossy starling-wings before furling them against his back. He looked up at Lux, cocking his head to the side. "I'm glad you survived your fall, Lady Crownguard," he said smoothly. "I know you don't understand it now, but we only want to help you. You'll be grateful, in time."

Another two mageseekers landed on the rooftop, one on either side of Lux, their smoky petrel-wings long and gloomy. They reached for her net, their hands shod in thick, leather gloves, and didn't falter when they grasped the ropes beaded in petricite.

"Haul her up," the leader of the hunt called to his fellows as more mageseekers landed beside him. "I know it's been a long trek, but we must return Lady Crownguard swiftly. With the wind under our wings, we may cross back over Demacia's borders in a week's time."

Magic-draining weakness riddled Lux's body. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

Why couldn't they just let me fly away?

As her captors tugged her bonds free of the gutter and dragged her up onto the roof, she could feel her feathers fraying and getting caked with dust from their rough treatment. She shivered - the air was as chilly as it was dark. It was easy to let despair overtake her in this state, to let her mind go numb and lose focus of her surroundings.

She'd almost dissociated completely when a note of song snuck into her ears.

It was comforting and light, fluttering softly like a friendly spirit in the darkness. Instinct told Lux that these notes spoke of hopefulness and excitement, of anticipation, of a search for something wonderful. The song reminded Lux of her own search for freedom, and although her hunt had failed, she felt better for having this song in her hazy mind. She would have to remember the tune when the mageseekers returned her to Demacia - perhaps it would comfort her in her imprisonment.

“Save your songs for when we’re back in the air,” The leader of the hunt called up. “Let’s avoid attracting the attention of the locals. This strange place doesn’t sit well with me.”

“The song isn’t ours,” one of the petrel-winged mageseekers called back. “One of the locals may already be near.”

To Lux's dismay, the song trailed off. However, she had little time to mourn before an unseen voice said, “Oh, the local is near alright!"

The voice that echoed eerily around them as if it were flowing through every pipe and gutter in the vicinity, coming from everywhere, pinned down to nowhere. Lux could feel her captors’ grip on the net tighten as they turned their heads, searching for the source of the voice.

“Who goes there?” shouted the leader of the hunt. “Step into the light and state your name!”

“Hmmm…" The voice's hum thrummed through the rooftop, making Lux's feathers tremble. "Nah, I’m good.”

The leader of the hunt straightened his back, flaring his glossy, speckled starling-wings. His wings assumed a tense, half-furled position, partially on display, partially wound-up as if he intended to punch someone with his wing-joints. This was a show of threat. “This is no game, dark-dweller,” he warned. “By order of the Mageseekers of Demacia, reveal yourself!”

“Tell you what,” The voice replied, her tone far more playful than a response to a threat display ought to be. The voice had seemed to speak from atop the opposite building, but when it resumed speech a moment later, it resonated from under the walkway. “If you can answer a suuuper easy question, I’ll let ya get a good look at me, just like you asked for! How’s that sound, stranger?”

Lux could see the feathers lifting along the head hunter’s back as he cautiously eyed the metal panels beneath his feet. “I don’t entertain riddles.”

The voice laughed, and the laugh bounced all over the walls and rooftops, haunting in its pervasive presence. “my question isn't a riddle, silly!” she chuffed. “I just wanna know where the star fell!"

“… The star?” The lead hunter said slowly.

“The shooting star!” The voice became incredulous as she continued, “Even you dumb-dumbs had to have seen it! The light trail hit the fog just above here; it must’ve flown right by ya! C’mon, tell me where it went!”

Understanding filled the hunter’s face, and his mouth curled into a derisive scowl. “The light you saw is no concern of yours," he spat harshly. Tipping his head up to show of the condescending gleam in his eyes, he added in a magnanimous sneer, "Leave this place, and think of the light no more.”

“Awww, but I reeeally wanna have it,” The voice complained. Her petulance was almost childlike, if a child could make their voice resonate through the street as if their words were spoken by the shadows themselves. “If you tell me where it is, I might even let you live!”

At that ominous offer, the wings of all the surrounding mageseekers flared into threat displays. Most of those wings, well-trained over years of hunts, were stiff and steady. However, the youngest mageseekers’ wings were trembling. “Don’t test us, dark-dweller,” threatened the lead hunter. “Leave, and keep your life!”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk… Those are some fighty words for a bird out of their element. Didn’t anyone ever tell you…”

The voice vanished suddenly, echoes of it rustling like a dying wind over the metal walls of the buildings. More mageseeker wings began to tremble. The voice had been spooky, but the silence was somehow worse.

Then, there was a hiss, almost more feeling than sound, which seemed to slither straight up Lux’s spine.

“... There’s monsters in the dark,” the voice whispered, and, suddenly, she was right in front of Lux.

Wings spread wide open – no, not wings, but a giant, monstrous face, flashing out of the dark with wild, round eyes and neon fangs. The petrel-winged mageseekers on either side of Lux shrieked, leaping back. Light glinted over metal as something attached to their armor, and then…

BANG!

Twin bodies of fire fell, howling, from the roof.

The mageseekers below screamed, some in fright, others in fury. A few of them launched themselves toward Lux and the monster, but the terrible face twitched, then growled in staccato like gunfire and madness. The mageseekers fell. Others tried to fly away, but they fell too, blood blooming red over skin, clothes and feathers.

Lux watched them fall numbly. Did she feel numb because of the petricite in her bindings, or because her body didn’t know how to react to the sudden presence of a monster? Maybe it was both.

In time, all went quiet. The gunfire-growl ceased, and the mageseekers on the walkway were silent as the grave. Not knowing what else to do, Lux turned her glazed eyes to the face of the monster looming over her.

How strange. The face was folding – like wings.

As the neon feathers furled away, Lux saw the small woman who’d been tucked between the halves of the monster’s face. Her wings had been so eye-catching that Lux hadn’t noticed there was a person between them. Judging by the satisfied grin on the woman’s face, that had probably been by design.

“Well!” Releasing her minigun so that it pitched down on its strap and bounced against her hip, the woman clapped her hands in finality. She shook her head, sending a pair of long, blue braids swinging. Her vibrant, magenta eyes landed on Lux. “ You don’t look too cozy!”

Lux doubted she’d find mercy at the whims of the woman who’d just gunned down an entire dispatch of mageseekers, but she pleaded anyway in a frail, tired voice, “Please… I’m not with the people you killed. Could you please set me free?”

The woman tipped her head to the side. Lux didn't know what to make of the eerie smile on her face, if it was meant to be friendly or unsettling. “Depends,” she chirped. “I’m lookin’ for a shooting star. Did you see where it went?”

Lux had a bad feeling that, if she were to say no, she wouldn’t have long to live. “… I can take you to it,” she agreed, trying not to think too hard about what would happen when the woman realized that there was no star. “ Set me free, and I’ll show it to you. ”

A broad, excited grin swept over the woman’s face. “Alrighty! Fair warning – if you fly away, I’ll put a bullet in that pretty spine!”

Wincing, Lux nodded weakly. “Okay. I won’t run.”

As the woman procured a knife from one pocket and began sawing cheerfully through the net, Lux hesitantly inquired, “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need a shooting star for?”

“I heard they’re full of reeeally rare metals!” the woman announced eagerly. “Top-tier stuff! I’ve been itching to get my hands on star-metal and see if it’s any good for making explosives with. I mean, stars burn super hot when they fall, so star-metal's gotta pack some heat, right?”

“… That makes sense,” Lux tentatively agreed.

Damn it, this woman would be ticked off when she learned that there was no star.

“Those are some sleek wings,” the woman commented. Lux felt her prod a secondary as she pulled the net away. “What are you, some kind of falcon?”

“A kite,” Lux shared, her tone growing more sure as the net finally came off. Wings above, it felt amazing to have those petricite beads off! Euphoria trickled through Lux's veins as she stretched her strong, sleek wings out as far as they would go, showing off their backdrop of downy white and trimmings of smoky gray. As she stretched, warmth returned to the channels in her body through which magic flowed. She furled her wings back in gingerly, letting them rest at her back.

Eager to keep their conversation away from stars, Lux returned the woman's interest in wings. “Your wings… I’ve never seen anything like them. What type of bird has a neon face on its wings?”

“Ha!” The woman’s laugh resounded over the rooftop. “It’s paint," she announced proudly, extending her left wing. Lux was prepared for the monster's face this time and didn't flinch at the sight of a vivid eye and pointed teeth. "Feather-safe and glows in the dark. I made the stuff myself!”

“Wow!” Lux was genuinely curious now – that, and focusing on the woman’s artistry felt much better than focusing on her gun. “Decorating your wings? That’s a really cool idea!”

If possible, the woman’s grin grew even wider, preening under Lux's attention. “It is a good idea, right? You’d be surprised by how many people don’t get it! They all run away screaming; hardly anyone takes the time to admire ‘em!” The woman let her right wing join the left, showing off the entirety of her handiwork. “I just decorate the underwings, since those feathers are kinda boring and dusky. My back feathers, though…” She spun around, showing Lux the backs of her wings. “Look at ‘em! Cool, am I right?”

They were indeed cool, such an intense, vibrant blue that they rivaled the Demacian sky at noon. The woman's wings were interlaced with trimmings of black, white, and cyan, seeming iridescent in their vividness. To Lux, who's mind had been dredged in darkness ever since she'd fallen into this strange place, the feathers' beauty might as well have been hypnotic.

Lux forgot the red of her pursuers' spilt blood, and the red of her own highly-spillable blood as well, as her mind sunk into the enrapturing blue. Thoughtless, she trod closer, reaching out a hand. “They’re lovely,” she murmured as her fingers gently traced the shaft of a long, vibrant feather.

Lux was so enthralled by the woman’s wings that it took her several moments to realize that she'd overstepped.

Oh, shit. Had she really just touched a complete stranger’s feathers, uninvited? A stranger with a taste for murder, no less? Mind, this woman had some of the loveliest feathers Lux had ever seen…

… But now was not the time for the bird-side of Lux’s brain to start showing interest in a stranger's feather display!

Lux forced herself to step back, tucking her hand to her chest as a wave of mortified embarrassment swept through her. “Um… Yeah,” she choked out, shifting her weight awkwardly between her feet. “You have really nice feathers.”

At some point, the woman had turned her head to watch Lux over her shoulder, her back still facing Lux. The woman's feathers trembled slightly, as if ruffled by a breeze, and there appeared to be a faint blush of pink on her cheeks. The woman turned to face Lux, furling her wings back in, then cleared her throat. “ Uh … Aaanyway!” Her fingers twitched restlessly at her sides before she shoved her thumbs into her shorts-pockets. “You owe me a shooting star! Lead the way, kite!”

Lux’s spirits plummeted.

Right. The star.

“… Very well," she acceded as a sour, sick kernel of dread formed in her gut. "Just… Don’t freak out, please?”

Jinx tilted her head to the side. “ Freak out? About what?”

Lux bit her lip… Then, she spread her wings out as far as they would go, letting her feathers puff out.

The woman noticed that this was a display pose rather than a takeoff pose. Had the color in her cheeks darkened? “Hey, uh…” The woman stammered. “Just ‘cause I gave you a good look at my super-awesome wings doesn’t mean you've gotta…”

Lux pushed her magic into her wings, heat rushing through her as her light shimmered to life.

The woman’s eyes went wide. Lux could see her light reflecting in them, brightening the magenta irises even as her pupils went wide.

“Woah.”

Now, the woman was the one stepping forward, arm outstretched. Lux didn’t stop her as she pressed a thin-fingered hand into Lux’s pale underwing, and didn’t push her away even though the woman’s twitching fingers were a bit ticklish. “Shiny,” the woman murmured, her eyes not leaving the luminous feathers. “I thought angels were just a myth.”

A warm blush rushed to Lux’s cheeks. “I’m not an angel,” she said quickly, “just a mage. A light mage.”

The woman’s hand trailed down over Lux’s shining feathers. “You look pretty angelic to me. A light kite, huh? A bright-light-kite...”

Unlike Lux, the woman didn’t awkwardly pull her hand back after moments of staring. When she raised her gaze back to Lux’s, her hand was still pressed tenderly to Lux’s wing.

“I’m guessing you're the star, then,” she said.

Lux dipped her head sheepishly. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the metal you’re looking for. You seemed really excited about it.”

“Aw, it’s fine… I bet another star’s gonna roll through eventually,” the woman deflected. “It’s just a matter of time before I get my hands on some star-metal! So... where are you off to, now that you’re out of that net?”

It sounded like the woman wasn’t interested in killing her, which was nice. It was, admittedly, also nice to be near someone who didn’t look at her magic-filled wings with disgust - who was willing to touch her, even. “I don’t suppose you could recommend a place for a newcomer to find shelter?” Lux asked hopefully. “Those people you… took care of… chased me here. I’ve never traveled this far before, and I don’t know where to find a place to spend the night.”

The woman’s eyes brightened. “You know what? Seeing as how I freed you and all, I feel kinda responsible for you. Why don’t you come stay at my digs for a while?”

“Really? You’d let me stay with you?” Lux was caught off guard by the woman’s boldness. “You barely know me.”

“Well then, this’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better!” She spread her arms, gesturing to the darkness around them. “What do you say, Light-Kite? Feelin’ up to spending the night with one of the monsters in the dark?”

A strange, fizzy sensation bubbled in Lux's chest.

Be careful, warned the logical side of her brain. She set you free, but she's a killer.

Go for it, encouraged her bird side. Such nice feathers... Pretty bird... Pretty bird...

It took a massive effort for Lux to keep her cheeks from heating like the sun.

Well... Seeing as how she didn’t have any other options, she supposed that she might as well spend the night with the killer who seemed refreshingly fond of her illuminated wings. This was preferable to a night on the street, right?

Lux took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. “Lead the way,” she accepted. “By the way, it’s Lux, not Light-Kite.”

“And I’m Jinx! Jinx the Jay! The Mad Bomber! The Loose Cannon of Zaun!” Grabbing Lux’s hand, Jinx tugged her across the roof, away from the streetlight’s yellow gleam. “Welcome to the shadows, Lux the Light-Kite!”

As they dashed into the darkness, Jinx hummed a song of excitement and discovery...

... And Lux, feeling her spirits lift, joined in.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Lost & Found - Chapter Six

Guys! I'm sorry this is a few hours late! I threw myself into getting everything done early this morning so I can relax for the rest of the day, but here you go, update is here! I'm so pleased you're all enjoying it, thanks for the lovely feedback you've been kind enough to leave. I truly appreciate it :)

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five

Words - 3,572

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, Minors DNI. Recounts of kidnap, child trafficking, physical/verbal/sexual abuse in the coming chapters.

Even under the darkness of nightfall, the difference was stark. Riding onto his driveway at just gone 11pm, Guero killed the engine, climbing from his bike and removing his helmet, eyes widening at the front yard. The grass was immaculately mown and raked, the border edged, the tree trimmed, and path swept. Although he had all the necessary tools to do it, he’d only bothered twice since arriving.  

“Hey, fuckboy!” A flurry of curtains revealed Tyrone, chomping uncouthly upon a candy bar of some description as he stuck his head from the window. “You better get in there and give that fine assed girl of yours a damned good dickin’ in thanks. She been out there all afternoon, breakin’ her back!” 

“She ain’t my girl, homes,” he called back, still a little stunned at how good it all looked.  

“Whatchu mean, she ain’t your girl? Bro, you got that grade of hottie in yo’ crib and you ain’t tappin’ it? Pfft, what’s wrong with you? Crazy assed fuckboy.”  

“Later, Tyrone.” he called, letting himself into the house. Inside, his surprise only grew more, the immediate smell of freshness hitting him. Everything was pristinely clean, everywhere tidy, his eyes scanning further at the details. So that was what colour his tan couch was, beneath the ground in dust and dirt. Fuck, the leather sheened once more, and his carpet! It was actually fluffy again.  

Back when he’d moved in, he’d bought some storage baskets that had remained in their packaging, Guero having every intention to actually fill them, but never getting to it. Not only had she filled them but added a neatly written label to each.  

He had labels?! 

“Magazines, bits and pieces, dog toys.” He spoke, smiling, his eyes then taking in something he wasn’t expecting to see across the room; all of his dad’s vinyl collection and record player placed out on the unit, the hundreds of classic and modern rock albums, all catalogued alphabetically. Everything was organised, and beautifully so.  

Little did she know that they’d remained in boxes for a reason, Guero not able to face removing them all, being reminded of memories from his childhood. He sorely missed those days, his dad cranking out Motley Crue, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Soundgarden, to name but four of Ibarra’s favourites, all at window rattling decibels. 

“Emma? Where you at?” he called, the bathroom door suddenly opening, the fresh smells of disinfectant and bleach hitting his nose, Emma in a pair of rubber gloves appearing.  

“Hey, I was just finishing the tiles,” she spoke, wiping her clammy forehead on the back of her arm. “How are you?” 

“Fucking surprised as hell at what I’ve come home to, shit,” he spoke, her eyes suddenly widening. 

“Oh, oh I, I’m sorry. I sh-should have asked if you minded. I’m sorry, I didn’t m-mean to overstep, I shouldn’t have, I’m so sorry. Please d-don’t be mad.” Her reaction went from zero to a hundred, her panicked babble delivered at speed, suddenly crouching, wrapping her arms around her head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  

He was confused at how badly she’d misunderstood his surprise. “Woah, it’s alright. I’m not mad, blue eyes.” Moving to her, her crouched, resting a hand to her back. The muscles beneath his touch immediately knotted in tension. “It’s okay, I just... I didn’t expect all of this. It’s not your job to clean my mess, but I gotta say I appreciate it.” 

Eventually she revealed herself, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You mean it? You’re n-not mad?” 

The stammers again. It pinched at his chest, to see and hear her so unravelled, wondering even more just what the hell kind of situation she’d fled to crumble like that so quickly. He hadn’t even raised his voice. Hell, he hadn’t even been angry in the slightest, yet she’d read his surprise as negative.  

“Of course, I’m not mad.” He slowly reached to cup the side of her face, thumb stroking the apple of her cheek, Emma feeling herself relax, a pleasant little tingle fluttering through her stomach. “Now, you need to tell me what in the hell else you made that smells so damned good, because it’s making my stomach rumble!” 

She pulled off her gloves, standing up, her smile shy, not able to look him in the eyes for that moment as bashfulness tugged at her. “Lasagne.”  

“Yeah? Shit, haven’t had any of that in years. Lead the way.” They moved into the kitchen, Guero taking in the extent of her cleaning, everything utterly spotless, the fresh scent mingling with the scent coming from the oven.  

“I ate already. It’s still warm, though. Big piece?”  

“Please, yeah,” he spoke, pulling off his t shirt. “Imma take a shower first, though.” 

When she turned, she almost dropped the dish she was placing onto the counter. Oh, hell. He had the kind of physique that came from dedication to the gym, a lean waist, ripped abs and a thick chest, the mass of his upper arms and shoulders perhaps the most impressive where bulk was considered. She’d also never seen anyone with that kind of tattoo coverage before either. What was more, she liked it.  

Realising she was staring at him with eyes like saucers, there was a little fluster to her actions, looking down as she cleared her through nervously. “Uh, um... that’s quite the collection of tattoos you have.” Feeling her cheeks flushing, she turned away, focusing on slicing a piece of the lasagne, chewing at her thumb furiously.  

Of course, he’d noticed her taking a moment to check him out, and usually he’d have been playful in response to that, him and his big mouth engaging in a little flirtation. He spared her, though, thinking it was adorable how furiously she blushed. “Yeah, I’m a walking canvas at this point. Anyway, won’t be long.”  

As soon as he’d left the room, she began to fan her cheeks, bouncing from one foot to another. “Oh god, that’s hot.” Men who looked like him were not what she was used to seeing shirtless. Seeing his body, she realised, had taken the edge off the little tumble into her repeated behaviour from her old life. Her natural reaction to whatever she deemed as upsetting someone was to literally drop down low and cower in fright, her submission expected in an instant.  

She could tell Guero wasn’t like that, but conditioned responses took a long time to break in habit.  

He joined her a few moments later, seating himself adjacent to her at the small table, dressed casually in light grey sweats and a black vest. “You even did my laundry for me and tidied my bedroom. Everywhere smells amazing. Thanks so much, but don’t feel like you have to for however long you wanna stay, alright?” 

Looking after people was all she knew, though. Turning it off would be like those conditioned responses; a hard habit to break. “I like it. It’s my pre-programmed state.” 

He was about to ask her what she meant by that, prior to taking his first mouthful of lasagne, pausing chewing a moment in surprise as a world of flavour burst upon his tongue. “Holy shit, that’s unreal! Were you a chef or something? Seriously, that’s amazing! Where’d you learn to cook like that?” 

Shrugging slightly, began chewing her thumb. “You pick it up around Italians.” Closing her eyes, a flash of the past transported her away for a moment, held at the neck, a hot knife pressed into her side.

“You think you can disrespect my mother’s memory by serving me this plate of crap? She’d turn in her grave if she saw what you’d done to her recipes, you idiot bitch!” 

He only ever burned her where people couldn’t see.  

“Emma?”  

Guero’s voice brought her back with a jolt. “Sorry, did you say something?”  

“Just asked if you wanted a beer?”  

Her reply was an immediate, pre-programmed response. “No, thank you. I’m not allowed to drink.” 

He frowned. “Says who?” 

Him. He says. She blushed, shaking herself softly, repeating her reminder in her head. “There’s no mafia in Santo Padre.” “Actually, I will. Thanks.” 

He smiled, going to the fridge and pulling it open. Fuck. She’d even cleaned in there, too. And filled it. Fresh vegetables, deli meats, cheese, fruit, milk, juices and cherry Coke. Obviously, she’d visited Khalid, whose large store was always abundantly well-stocked. 

Returning to the table, he twisted the tops off, handing one to her before he took a seat again, pausing in finishing his dinner. “I notice you dodged my question there.” His lips thinned in thought, considering his options. “Emma, are we about to get into a whole heap of shit for harbouring a mafia boss’s wife? You haven’t told me much, but that’s kinda what I’m assuming, that you got into that shipping container cuz’ you needed to vanish from a bad marriage without a trace, rather than heading to the airport. I dunno, or were you his...” he trailed off, snapping his fingers. “What do they call ‘em, the woman on the side? The goomada?” 

“Gooma,” she corrected softly. “No, I wasn’t married to Rocco. Gooma is probably what you could have referred to me as, but then again not really.” Her response was cryptic, her thumb going to her mouth once more. She always chewed it when nervous or embarrassed, he’d now noticed. “Can we talk about you, please? You mentioned you’re originally from Marana? I wanna know more, everything about you.”  

For her comfort, he left it, watching her begin to relax her drawn up shoulders as he started to talk about his life. “Okay, I’ll start at the beginning. I was born Guero Ramiro Ortiz on December twentieth, nineteen ninety-three. Interestingly, Guero wasn’t supposed to be my name at all. Dad started calling me that from the moment I was born, because I was light skinned like him. That’s what the word means, basically. Kinda more nickname than anything else. They liked it and it stuck, though. I like it better than being called Hector, as my mom wanted to call me, after her father.  

“So yeah, I’m the only child of my parents, but dad has a couple of others out there I haven’t met yet, little bastard Ortiz’s in the wind,” he continued with a snort. “He did some serious time, went away when I was ten and then didn’t get released until four years ago, when I was twenty-five. Mom didn’t stick by him, and she was pissed as hell that after he was released, us reconnecting led to me joining the MC. I swear, she smacked my lil’ brown ass down hard when she found out!” 

Emma chuckled at his widened eyes, sipping her beer as he continued. “I was pretty decent at school, went to community college and learned how to be a mechanic, worked in garages in Tuscon for years until I joined the MC.” 

“What made you want to go outlaw?” she asked tentatively, Guero taking his last mouthful of food and standing, placing his plate into the sink. Immediately, she sprang up, ready to wash it, finding her arms gently grasped as she was steered back into her seat. 

He leaned to her, shaking his head. “Nope.” His lips pressed a kiss to her forehead, her heart somersaulting in her chest at such a gesture. Forehead kisses from a man. They were alien to her entirely, but how sweet to be treated to one. “I joined the MC ‘cuz of dad, and the pay is pretty damned good, too. Made more money in my first year fully patched than I did in two working as a mechanic.”  

“What does fully patched mean?” 

His hand reached for Axl when he came ambling in, smiling when after receiving the scratches, he immediately moved to Emma. “It means when you become a proper member of the MC. Everybody has to take a year as prospect first, which means you get hazed to fuck, given all the shit work, have to be at the beck and call of any fully patched member. Bottles is a prospect, same as Nestor, guy with the braids. He’ll get voted next week, Bottles in four months.” Just then, his phone began to ring, pulling it from his pocket. “Speak of the devil.” Sipping his beer, he answered after a pause. “’Sup, Mr Magoo?” 

He sat and listened, Emma not able to hear the other end of the conversation, Guero beginning to frown as he laughed. “Hank’s gonna beat your ass, prospect. I didn’t see where you left ‘em, but if they fell outta your pocket while we were out earlier, then you gotta whole lotta fucking highway to go search, don’t you?” More speech from Bottles, Guero listening before he interrupted. “Hey, you’re disturbing my evening, and...” he trailed off, rolling his eyes before looking at Emma. “Bitch ass here says hi.” 

“Hi, Bottles,” she chuckled.  

“Right, no... I don’t... yo, you need to calm the fuck down and just go find ‘em. Ain’t on me. Bye!” Returning his phone to his pocket, he shook his head. “Fucking prospects.” 

“What did he lose?” 

“The damned van keys! Told him, put ‘em behind the bar or straight in Hank’s hand, but no. You’d think with how thick his fucking glasses are, he’d never lose anything. Fucking Amsco window face!” 

She took it Amsco were a glazing company, beginning to laugh at his joke. He turned to her with a smile, eyes alight. Her laughter was beautiful. Seeing her face lit up, it made his heart skip on a beat. It’d been a while since he’d experienced that. “It’s nice, seeing you relax more.”  

Nodding, she looked down at Axl for a moment, her lashes fluttery when her eyes found his. “That’s because of you. Thanks for being my safe person.”  

His chest swelled with pride, his smile growing. He liked hearing that, that he was the one she’d placed her trust in, especially after the state he’d found her in. She seemed much steadier, save a blip or two here and there, of course, but he guessed those were issues she had to work out in her own time.  

“Glad I can be, blue eyes.” He winked, and it sent her insides into a fizz, once again beginning to chew at her thumb. “You’re gonna have no skin left if you keep doing that.” 

Her shrug was soft, stopping and reaching for her beer. “It’s an old habit. I’ve done it since I was a kid.” 

“So, did you grow up in New York? You don’t have the accent,” he questioned, Emma shaking her head.  

“Spokane, Washington.” 

“Ahh. Moved out there when you were older, huh?”  

She bit her lips together, getting up when Axl moved to hover by the back door. “Little sir needs to go pee, yes he does!”  

Guero sighed quietly through his nose, trying to quell the little flicker of annoyance that she refused to talk in any great detail about herself. He shook himself from it quickly, though, remembering his own words to her on the matter. It truly wasn’t any of his business.  

“Hey, I noticed when I was tidying that you have all the Kevin Smith movies. I haven’t seen Dogma yet. Can we go watch it?” she asked from the backdoor, watching Axl sniffing and bounding around over the freshly cut grass.  

“Yeah, I haven’t watched that in a minute. Good choice.” More beers were fetched, a bag of popcorn microwaved and tipped into a bowl, the pair settling in on the couch. She then remembered what was stashed beneath it.  

“Oh, here,” she spoke, pulling the money he’d left for her from her pocket and handing it to him. “I’m not taking your money from you, although I really appreciate the gesture. I have enough of my own, which brings me to a question. Do you have a safe?” 

“Nope, although I gotta get round to buying one. I have a floorboard, though” 

She frowned, mouthing the word floorboard back at him questioningly, Guero jerking his head in the direction of his bedroom. After picking up her bundles of cash, she arrived with him, his eyes widening considerably when he saw the size of the stacks she held.  

“Jesus, what you got there, about twenty g’s?” he asked, pushing his knife beneath the floorboard over by the window and lifting it up.  

“Thirty.” It was enough for a new life, and definitely the least of what she was owed, she’d thought prior to taking it. Crouching next to him, she placed her money on the opposite side to where she could see a few more neatly lined piles, pleased he had an adequate hiding place. 

While he placed the floorboard down again, Guero contemplated asking whether it was the reason she’d fled, ripping off the mob for thirty grand, but the question never left his mouth. She’d likely not tell him. With her money safely tucked away beneath the floor, they reassumed their positions on the couch, Axl jumping up to curl against Emma.  

Whether it was residual exhaustion, or her cleaning and yard work endeavours, she dozed off before the movie even ended, Guero removing the popcorn bowl from her lap and gently lifting her up, carrying her to the bedroom and placing her down.  

She stirred, reaching for his wrist. “No, no. The couch is fine, I can’t take your bed.”  

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”  

“I do. I don’t mind sharing.”  

He paused, looking down at her. “Sure?”  

“Mmhm,” she hummed sleepily. He undressed to his boxers and climbed in, making sure he didn’t invade her space, Emma removing her sweats and placing them on the floor.  

“Fair warning, I’m told I snore loudly,” he spoke quietly, fluffing the pillows. 

“Yeah, so do I. Full on mouth breathing and hissing,” she revealed, making him chuckle quietly. “G’night, Guero.” 

“Night.” He was more tired than he thought, falling asleep quickly. He awoke a few hours later to what his sleepy brain assumed to be the hissing Emma had mentioned, opening his eyes to find the space next to him empty of her, sitting up and stretching. The noise he could hear was panicked, heavy breathing. He reached to switch on the nightstand lamp, looking to see her curled up in the corner, eyes wide as she muttered and rocked herself back and forth.  

Peeling the covers off himself, he approached her quietly, noting this was a new behaviour and wondering what had triggered it. A nightmare, perhaps? “Emma?” 

“Don’t do it again, can’t do it to me again. No, Rocco. No, please don’t.”  

She didn’t seem to even notice he was there. Crouching by her side, he tried again. “Emma, he isn’t here. You’re far away now, where he can’t find you.”  

“I did everything you said, I was good. Please don’t, it hurts me. No, don’t.”  

He tried again. “Emma, you’re safe. He can’t get to you here. You’re in California with me. New York is long gone, baby.” Placing a hand to her arm, the action jolted a response from her, her nails finding his skin and scratching as she flew into panic, screaming shrilly, her eyes wide. “Woah, woah! Emma, it’s me, it’s me. Calm down.”  

He clutched her wrists tightly, preventing her onslaught, watching as her wide eyes finally focused, taking him in as she gasped for breath. It took a few moments, but recognition softened her face, pulling herself free from his grip and throwing her arms around him.  

“I h-had a nightmare,” she panted, Guero tightening his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap.  

“Yeah, I guessed.” He waited until she calmed, feeling her breathing begin to steady, her trembles subsiding. “Look, I know you don’t wanna talk about whatever it is you ran from, but I kinda think you might have to. I think you need help, Emma. This shit, it isn’t normal, or good for you.” 

As he expected, she didn’t reply, clinging onto him as he stood and carried her back to the bed, surprising him greatly when she refused to let go. She lay curled against him, face buried against his neck, her breathing speeding and then slowing, her muscles tensing and slackening again as she wrestled with whatever it was up in her head that was terrifying her.  

She had never in her life lay like that with a man, within his protective embrace. It felt different, but good, his steady breathing and soft rhythm of his heart calming her down. Just forty-eight hours ago, she would have been too frightened to allow herself that, the intimacy of sharing a bed with a man, curled so closely against him. Allowing him to hug her had been fine, but this was on another level. A level that she was good with.  

While she settled into sleep, Guero lay awake for a time, beginning to worry about her going out into the world without dealing with her past. The way she remained clung onto him in those dead of night hours was telling, though. He doubted that any place where he wasn’t was a viable option in her terrified mind.  

He was fine with that, but he wished she’d let him help her beyond what comfort his presence could offer.  

[averagejoesolomon]

WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans. 

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside. 

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow. 

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait. 

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance. 

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home. 

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside. 

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says. 

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew. 

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

[wizardofarles]

Sneak peek of LYKMC chapter 11!

(a bit late today, sorry about that! my aim is to have this chapter done by next sunday, but as always, check back here for updates.)

Eventually he drifted off, and when he opened his eyes he saw the courtyard at school, awash in silvery moonlight. He was looking down on it from above, as though he were floating somewhere in the starless sky. There was a dark-haired figure seated on Aimeric’s bench, but Laurent knew at first glance that it was not Damianos. The figure knelt before him was too small to be Kashel, with a mop of brown hair atop his head and blue sapphires dripping out of his ears. They piled up around his knees, the puddle of frozen teardrops growing as he knelt.

A chill hand gripped Laurent’s heart, and snowflakes fell from his eyes to dust the ground beneath him. They landed unmelting in his uncle’s hair, and Nicaise’s too, glimmering like diamonds upon their heads.

Uncle looked up and smiled at him. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, in a voice sharp with amusement.

Then suddenly Laurent was watching from behind the tree where he’d hidden from Damianos and Kashel, and in his fist he clutched a rock the size of a softball. With a wordless cry of rage, he threw it toward the bench. The stone bench split in two with an impossibly loud crack that echoed inside his skull.

A plump white dove took startled flight, vanishing beyond the trees. Uncle and Nicaise were gone.

The clouds parted, and Laurent squinted against the sudden sunlight in his eyes. The grass was summer green beneath his feet, and around the border of the yard yellow and orange daylilies swayed in the breeze. They waved at him like old friends.

A rustle in the brush behind him sent Laurent’s heart leaping into his throat. He whirled, expecting a rabbit, but it was his uncle who stepped into the grass, crushing it beneath his toes. He stopped in front of Laurent, smiling.

“I have a gift for you,” he said. “Hold out your hand.”

Laurent did. His uncle pressed something cold into his palm that seemed to bite at his skin. Laurent unfurled his hand. It was a small metal razor blade, sharp as sin.

He looked up, but his uncle was gone. Nicaise sat across from him on the floor of the bathroom stall, a blue wall behind him. The razor lay on the tiles between them.

“It’s my turn,” Nicaise snarled as chips of paint flaked off the wall behind him and drifted lazily downward like a slow blue snow, “mine.”

He lunged forward, and Laurent did too. They scrabbled on the floor, fighting each other for the blade. Laurent’s hands turned red with blood. Nicaise’s remained white as bone.

Laurent gasped and sat up in his bed, his arms and legs all tangled up in his sheets. Across the room, his door knob turned, creaking softly. He never knocks. A shadow slipped into his room.