#dau face claims

[aladaylessecondblog]

Day 3 nanowrimo chapter out

Summary:

Sadrith muses on her dream, situates the mask, and meets Marcurio at the Retching Netch. A nasty surprise comes while she's there.

For a minute or two after waking, that strange sense of security remained, despite a pain in Sadrith's chest that lingered until after she had been awake several more minutes. That happened with the Alduin dreams, so it wasn't ENTIRELY unexpected, but still...it never stopped being unnerving.

Deep breath.

I've been through a lot in the last couple of days, that's all. The undead at Ashfall Tear...and then finding that Erden's note in the chest. Reading that was creepy. Then actually going there, and...I don't think it would've affected me like this if I weren't a Dunmer, if I hadn't been fed a steady diet of fear on--him. I'm fine.

Yes. Fine.

The Tribunal had fallen more than a hundred years before she was born, and their masks she could look on without feeling much of anything. Her mother had said the Tribunal were wicked thieves who had cast aside their oaths to (and murdered) Indoril Nerevar, and disobeyed the will of Lady Azura to use the profane tools of Kagrenac. To obtain the power they used to rule over all Morrowind. They were thieves, but not something to outright fear.

Their masks had been tucked away into a chest with those belonging to the dragon priests, and that had been that. Nothing to be afraid of or look back on, really.

But the mask of Dagoth Ur--

--if she shut her eyes she could still see the expression on her mother's face as the woman spoke of the demon himself. How he ensnared those who wished the Empire cast out of Morrowind. How he promised vengeance and power, but gave only death and despair. His divine disease had been the end of many an unwary soul, and no one had ever survived a case unscathed. Until the Nerevarine had come, released the Heart from its prison, and saved all Morrowind.

Some hero, she thought ruefully, Dagoth Ur's mask in one hand as she lifted the lid of what had become the mask chest. Cast down the false gods, sure, they had it coming. But what did he do about Baar Dau? The Red Year? Nothing!

The Nerevarine claimed to love the province, yet--yet after defeating Dagoth Ur, and Almalexia, he had set sail for Akavir, never to return. The lands he claimed to love were a fading memory of what they had been because he had refused to stay and lead to betterment what remained. It would have been easy, so easy, and yet when he was most needed he was not there.

"I wouldn't have done that. I would have saved them. I would have torn that stupid Baar Dau down to rubble with my bare hands if I'd had to." Wasn't that what heroes did? What good was victory over one's enemies if the place was a barren wasteland afterwards? She felt the slight sting as she considered her own situation with the civil war...but...

But the fact still remained. With the heart gone, Morrowind had practically gone to Oblivion.

Sadrith took a deep breath. There wasn't really enough room for the mask in the trunk...not without breaking the damned thing.

...would never have abandoned our people...

"I'd see it too frequently here anyway," she muttered to herself. As she walked about the back room, thinking. She didn't want to look at the damned thing every day, but she didn't want to put it someplace she'd forget and later end up scaring herself on finding it once more.

She ended up putting it on one of the mannequins, close to the one she had set up with the Crusader's relics.

It would be easy enough to avoid that empty gaze, and perhaps if any thieves broke in, sight of it might be enough to frighten them. So long as they were Dunmer, anyway. Better to take every advantage one could get, right?

...sovereign, immutable...

It was a strange thing to see the mask there, atop the wooden body wrapped in Telvanni robes. If it were taller, it was almost be...right.

Sadrith shook her head, and made herself look the mask directly in the face.

"You're dead," she said quietly, "But I still know more of you than I do of the Tribunal...the Ashlanders still tell stories about you, even now."

It was much more than the Tribunal still got. Certainly they were considered saints, but they were severely reduced from what they had been before. But Dagoth Ur? HIM they spoke of still in hushed tones, as if fearing that he would overhear them. He had lost none of his presence in the culture of their--the Dunmer people's minds. Though he was gone, his shadow remained, and it engulfed the Tribunal's remnants.

As it had when he still lived.

She turned away, and headed up the stairs.

...cursed false gods...

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

"Marcurio!"

The moment she made it down the stairs in the Retching Netch, Sadrith spotted the mercenary at the bar. With a grin she moved on over to take the seat beside him.

"Sadrith," he lifted his bottle, "Good to see you again. I'd heard you moved up here."

She ordered a bowl of horker stew and a bottle of Sadri's sujamma, and then made her reply. "And you, what brings you here?"

"Oh, you know me," Marcurio smirked. After staying quiet for a few seconds he went on, "No, but really, Riften's gotten a bit boring...not like I wanted for jobs, but it gets tiresome escorting the wealthy around."

"As opposed to escorting me around?" she asked. "Surely walking the paths and zapping bandits and big cats is preferable to being dragged into musty caves full of undead and dwemer ruins full of traps?"

"You don't really need escorting so much as you need back watching...and who's to say I don't like the danger?" he gave a laugh and took a long swig from his bottle. "Sure, I bellyache about it, but we both knew that was just my fun. The fact that you share the things you find means you pay well beyond the gold you hand over."

"So are you here to ask for a job? You'd really rather pay for the trip here on the off chance I might have work for you?"

"You always have work. And even if you don't, I'm sure someone here does."

Her food arrived. Marcurio ordered some of the same, and for the next fifteen minutes both were silent.

"Anything interesting since the last time I saw you?" he asked. "Doesn't look like there's much going on here. What draw does it have for you?"

"There's people here and the worst thing they do is call me outlander," Sadrith replied. "They're friendlier than the nords by a long shot...and I was given a free house by the councilor for preventing his assassination."

"Ah, there it is," Marcurio laughed. "Of course, you might give it up tomorrow if the urge took you. You're unstable...no, impulsive, more like. No, but really, are you getting into anything here?"

"Well, Glover's been asking me to fetch some stalhrim. There was a smith of some kind from that village on the east side of Solstheim...and some Thalmor at the place he was telling me they were...the point is the Thalmor are where I'm thinking the stalhrim will be. I was trying to take care of that, but uh...got mildly distracted with a..." She leaned closer, and whispered, "...Tribunal adjacent issue."

"Eh?" he asked, "Well, you've been poking around in some strange places. And tell me, what did you get out of it? More than a few cuts and bruises, I hope."

"A very good sword," Sadrith replied, "And some...very interesting masks."

"Good, more for you to carry around like a beast of burden," he laughed. "And don't get upset, we both know you carry around far more than is healthy."

"These're like the dragon priest ones...creepy enough in the face I don't want to see them every time I open my bag. And especially the fourth one. Gods above, I'd huck it into the ocean if I wasn't scared it would wash up somewhere and start problems."

"Can't believe I'm hearing this, honestly." He chuckled over his now-empty bottle. "The mighty dragonborn, who I've seen rushing into trap laden dwemer ruins, shouting draugr infested burial cairns, and the realm of daedric prince Hermaeus Mora, is frightened of some piddly little artifact?"

"It's not just some piddly artifact," Sadrith replied with an edge in her voice. She saw Marcurio's expression shift, and in a softer tone she added, "It's...a Dunmer thing. It'd be like if...let's see here, what would...some artifact of Mehrunes Dagon's from the Oblivion Crisis turned up for you."

"Oh, really. Did you happen to find any...profane tools?"

She stiffened, without knowing why.

"Read that in a book somewhere once," Marcurio went on, "When I had a little too much time on my hands and a few too many books at my disposal. The tools of that...Kagrenac dwarf."

"I've found those too, but there's nothing left in 'em," Sadrith replied quickly and then lowered her tone once again, "Finding the war masks that the 'blessed three' used was one thing. It was more so the mask of their ENEMY that is causing me concern."

"Oh, now this I've got to see," Marcurio replied. "If you don't mind, that is. I've seen a fair few incredible things in my time thanks to you, but the novelty doesn't wear off."

"You probably--you really shouldn't want to see it."

"I think you need to relax. Maybe we should get you another bottle of sujamma before you hand me my money and we go out after those Thalmor."

"Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut about it? I'm trying to stay out of the war."

"The war'll find you regardless," Marcurio replied, "Hell, it was on its way to--"

"What was that I heard about another bottle?" Sadri interrupted them, and raised one.

"I'll get this one, but after that, you're on your own." she spoke up, and reached down to the bag at her side to pull out her smaller bag of gold.

She lifted the flap, put in her hand, touched solid metal...

...and then rust...

She tensed up, and brought her bag into her lap. "Hard to reach in and dig around, with everything I've got in it," she reasoned.

Again the flap of the bag was lifted, but this time she was looking down into it, and saw exactly what she was afraid she would see.

The three branching parts of the mask, and the empty third eye staring at her.

What? ...how...how did it get in here, I don't remember...

After some false digging around she found the gold bag and paid for the bottle. The bag was tucked back in, and the mask covered up.

But there was no tucking out of sight the chill running down her spine.

[my-timing-is-digital]

Counterfeit childhood evocations, fake parental figures, of which the father had been a fictitious fabrication with his voice integrated in every word, every sentence the impersonator had enunciated. Oddly enough, this revelation ignited a subconscious tincture of disquietude, unease, in the android; his individuality had been violated — his voice had been utilised to deceive, to falsify the authenticity of Soji’s past. A tsunami of discordant notions crashed drown on him and inevitably disorientated him to the point where he had to close his eyes to restore his equilibrium, to compartmentalise the blizzard of uncultivated hypotheses, unsound conjectures, and unblemished accusations. And for the sake of what had they, Altan, Agnes, and whoever else had been involved in this enterprise, subjected his daughter to... this?! What had been the purpose? Had it all been an aberrant experiment at the expense of artificial lifeforms? to see how well this new type android could pass for human? to assess their competence, their adaptive nature, and rate their chances of survival in a humanoid world? And why had it been imperative these androids were incognisant of the fact that they were androids? What did the cyberneticists wish to accomplish with the implementation of this particular feature?

If he had not known better, he would claim his daughter’s unjust treatment had been the catalyst for the turmoil, dystopia, the indignation that welled and coursed inside of him, but he did know better — he was incapable of experiencing emotions. There was no emotion chip that could generate these basic feelings — he suspected the chip had been stored elsewhere, or otherwise had been rendered obsolete, incompatible with this new synthetic body. And yet, something had moved him...

Soji had captivated every stretch of his attention, his chartreuse eyes remained trained on her tear streaked face throughout the duration of her recount of events; his arms were still wrapped around her, but permitted sufficient flexibility for her to shift her position and look up at him. His thought processes were scattered and the majority of the focal points were nonsensical, apart from one — the one that orbited steadily around her. Everything confused him, his mind was jumbled, cluttered, not operating in the desired parameters. He required a private room and time to reconstruct his subroutines, the algorithms, and pacify his interrogative nature by perusing reliable sources and establishing answers and clarifications to his queries. With the exertion of resolution, the android managed to reduce the farrago to a minor inconvenience and focused on the only thing that mattered: Soji.

‘No, Soji, trust me. You administered the right course of action,’ he reassured her cordially — there were still numerous questions he wished she could answer, but those would have to be postponed to a more opportune moment. ‘And do not worry about my endless list of queries; once I have access to a console and database containing accurate records of the time during which I was offline, I will be able to conduct my own research without exerting you with that task.’

An interlude of silence suffused between them for several hydraulic circulations; a period in which Data simply analysed his daughter, and savoured the quiet that allowed his positronic brain to process the new information more adequately.

‘I am proud of you,’ he eventually broke the silence and the corners of his mouth curved upward in a small smile. Although he could not feel the pride he articulated in his statement, he did know that her successfully activating him had been a commendable accomplishment worthy of his appreciation. ‘And although I am curious as to what affairs have transpired these last several days, I can imagine you would prefer not to talk about it — not yet.’

Whatever events had occurred in the timespan of less than an Earth week, must have had a profound effect on his daughter, judging by her discharge of emotions. Perhaps it would be better if they focused on each other rather than on the circumstances that had brought them together.

‘What would you like to do?’ he asked inquisitively, attempting to divert her mind from the cyclone that had been tormenting her for far too long.

Data surveyed the room, as if consulting the furniture for ideas. His ocular components eventually ceased their oscillation when they arrived at the window pane several metres away from them. The outside world...

‘The weather is looking particularly agreeable today.’ He glanced back down, an expectant glimmer scintillating in his eyes.

He returned her hug and, in a voice she never thought she'd hear again, reassured her. It was all she wanted to hear, for weeks, that it would be alright-- Soji squeezed her eyes shut as she sobbed with renewed force. She tried, very hard, to be done crying but, unfortunately, it wasn't entirely up to her. Every little pain and grief compounded with her stress and now that she'd started letting them out, she couldn't stop. The worst of it passed in a few minutes and her wracking sobs became silent shaking of her shoulders, her limbs. She was exhausted. Her systems flooded and siphoned away the sharply imbalanced neurochemicals soaking into everything. Eventually, when she was finally able to stop crying she found it very hard to let go. "You didnt--" she starts and has to sniff in a really unbecoming way. It startles a rueful smile and laugh out of her, forcing her to draw back just enough to scrub her face with the heel of her hand. What a mess she must be--an android that devolves into sobbing like an overwhelmed toddler. There's only one of them that does that, and it's her.

Just her. "You didn't do anything wrong, I--I'm so sorry. I can explain--this--everything, but please, just another minute," she asks and, when she's not rebuffed, moves in for a much less desperate hug. He feels warm. She never would have imagined he would. She's so glad he does. Ultimately, she decides to start explaining before she draws away. "When they made us, they gave us memories," Soji says and sounds both miserable and amused. "Fake ones so we could blend better, I guess? I thought I was human. I remember growing up, even though I never did, and I remember mom, even though I don't have one. I remember my dad and he's fictional--imaginary--but…he sounds just like you. They made him sound like you and I…I don't know why they did." And finally, she finds the strength to lean back and look at him in the face again. Her eyes are red, she's sure, but she's already hit rock bottom, what're a few tear streaks? "Everything fell apart, everything in my life that could fail, has failed. In the last what? Four days? I knew Agnes fixed the transfer protocol, and Alton was so proud of this body when he showed me it, and I just thought--I thought maybe, just maybe, I could make something good happen. I didn't know if it would work I--I'm not a--this isn't my field. I didn't expect it to work, but it did, and you're here, and I'm in the middle of a breakdown--God, I was so desperate for a hug that I resorted to resurrecting the dead. I should have just gone to the Tal'Shiar. I'm so sorry--you've done nothing wrong--nothing at all--I wish I could answer your questions but I don't know what's real anymore."

[georgiapeach30513]

Is zephyr and brooks next relationships be reader inserts?

You don’t want Zephyr’s relationship to be a reader insert 👀 but no, Zephyr goes with a bit of a younger girl, related to Owin 😏

Z’s first wife is horrible. It’s a terrible terrible story. I did say that he falls fast and hard, and he got two little girls out of the relationship, that he has full custody of. Piper baby trapped him, and walked away with a two million dollar settlement. She also isn’t in their lives. We’ll see his daughters in the Hamptons.

And Brooks is going to have a hard time for people to get over what happens. However, sometimes sparks fly. And he’s the best boyfriend to a Barnes.

I don’t know how many reader inserts I will do, because there’s a lot of characters. And of course not every character is going to have a lot of drama finding their one. But that’s life. Most of my stories are reader inserts though, DAU since I have so many babies, it’s easier (it it makes sense) for the babies to marry babies. And while I see a character as a certain face, I don’t add a ton of physical descriptions, so you can see yourself or someone else with them.

[tes-trash-blog]

The Clockwork City DLC uses “some kind of” so much I thought I was playing a Star Trek episode.

[pricemarshfield]

first of her name

Written for Day 4 of @acocweek; Tragedy + Favorite (Platonic) Relationship + Amethar. Read on AO3 here.

Saccharina knows, when Ruby's gaze meets hers, that she might die.

It's not the first time she's thought she might. The nuns never cared for her well-being, and she'd not always been so good at finding enough food to feed herself after she'd drowned them all. A Bulbian priest who was better with a sword than she thought, a marauder whose views on magic were less positive than they'd assumed, an arrow that could hit Cinnamon while they were in the air so she'd fall gracelessly and never bring magic back to anything.

She could move first. Gooey meets her eyes with a pleading look, or Cinnamon's fire could reach her. She could run, get out of range of her arrows. But that's her sister, even if she doesn't seem to care.

Saccharina shakes her head at her marauders, then looks back to Ruby. Ruby, whose gaze has hardened, who doesn't answer when Saccharina messages we don't have to do this. Who nocks an arrow and fires it at her faster than Saccharina can even process.

She throws up a shield, knows her dear sister's aim is true enough for it not to matter. Saccharina doesn't have the energy to feel anything other than tired, and closes her eyes against it.

She doesn't die, or feel an arrow pierce her armor, or hear Cinnamon roar in rage. Instead, Ruby screams.

Saccharina opens just one eye just in case Ruby's missed and she has time to run, and sees Amethar lying on the ramparts in front of her, an arrow in his neck. She's sliding down Cinnamon's hide to get to him before she's finished processing what's happening, his scales opening cuts on her skin.

"Amethar?" she asks, rushes forward. "I can heal you, just wait--"

"Saccharina," Amethar says, blood gushing out of the wound. She knows enough to not take the arrow out, but God, she's used most of her spells, and he's so far gone-- "Are you okay?"

Saccharina laughs. It's not funny, but she doesn't know what else to do. "Why did you do this?"

"You're my dau--" Amethar coughs, and Saccharina tries to heal him, but he'll die too fast if she takes out the arrow, and he'll lose too much blood if she does nothing. "And I couldn't let Ruby kill you. She'd have regretted it."

Saccharina thinks of the steel in her eyes, and thinks he has to be wrong. "If you cared, why didn't you just tell me?"

Amethar frowns until some recognition sparks in his eyes. "I don't know. I don't know."

"It's fine," Saccharina says, like Ruby hadn't tried to kill her for it. "Don't talk, it's only making it worse--"

"Dad!" Ruby says from far-too-close, and Saccharina throws up a shield between them without even thinking. "Let me in, I need to see my father!"

"Our father," Saccharina snarls, and it would be so easy to throw a lightning bolt into the other girl, fry her alive, let Cinnamon eat her heart and make sure she's tasted enough of betrayal. It would be so, so easy. "This is your fault."

Ruby's face twists into a grimace, reaching back to her quiver. It's only Amethar coughing again that prompts Saccharina to look away from Ruby. It's just like her life, to find out her father cares enough about her to die for her when he's going to.

"I don't think I can heal you," Saccharina says, and she's choked up, fuck. "I don't--none of my spells can take care of this. I don't know what to do."

"It's okay," he says. "Can you drop the shield? I want to see Ruby."

It's stupid, and it's dangerous, and she drops the shield anyway. She trusts that Cinnamon will fry Ruby if she tries anything, or that her magic will be enough now that she's on guard. Ruby drops to her knees next to Saccharina, taking her dad's hand instinctually.

"I'm sorry," Ruby says, sounding younger than Saccharina's ever heard her. It's been easy to forget she's only barely 18, with the way she always looked down her nose at Saccharina. "I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. Please don't die. You said you wouldn't go anywhere."

"Yeah, well," Amethar says. "I've never been a very good dad, have I?"

"No," Ruby says. "No, this is my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Amethar says. There's blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth now, and Saccharina casts a spell to ease the pain. It's all she has now. "I would do it again."

"Why?" Ruby says, voice venomous. "Why would you die for her?"

Saccharina would throw her off the ramparts now, but she does want to know the answer, and besides, there'll be time enough for it after Amethar stops breathing. He deserves that much, since she can't save him.

"She's my daughter," Amethar says simply, and Saccharina's heart breaks. "So are you. You two shouldn't--you should hold onto each other. Family's all we have. I would give anything to have found one of my sisters alive."

There's a tug in Saccharina's mind at that, the wind whispering to her about some chocolate in the woods, but she waves it away. She'll follow that thread when anyone who might've betrayed her is gone.

"Dad," Ruby says, and then just weeps. Amethar lifts his other hand, moves it vaguely in Saccharina's direction until she takes it.

"Don't hurt her," Amethar says, making eye contact with Saccharina. She nods, and isn't sure if she's lying as she does it. Amethar smiles, though, and it feels, for a second, like all she's ever wanted.

Then his eyes slip close, and he exhales one long, rattling breath, and he shits himself.

Ruby doesn't nock an arrow, and Saccharina doesn't throw a bolt of lightning at her. For just a moment, they sit, mourning their father. Then Ruby stands, says, "I'm going to make sure Cruller is dead," and leaves.

Saccharina stands. The castle around her is throwing up white flags, Cinnamon is shifting, eager to get back to it, and her father's still-warm corpse is on the ground in front of her. There isn't a battle to be won, but there's a throne to be claimed, a land's magic to resurrect, a church to raze to the ground.

A sister to...

Something.

---

Sitting on her throne, Gooey at her right, Theobald at her left, Saccharina waits.

Liam approaches with the Book of Saint Citrina. Its holy light illuminates the room, painful to look at directly, and everything in Saccharina tells her to burn it, feed it to Cinnamon (sticking his head through one of the holes their siege weapons had left, keeping a watchful eye on everyone), throw it into the sea to join the nuns that would have revered it.

Instead, she puts her hand on it, and says, "I am the daughter of Amethar Rocks and Catherine Ghee. After my father's passing in the battle today, I am the rightful Queen of Candia. Are there any who have a better claim than me?"

It's an obvious challenge, but Ruby doesn't rise to the bait, Caramelinda's arm around her shoulders, holding Payment Day and staring down at her feet.

"All kneel before her Majesty the Queen!" Gooey calls, and Theo's armor thuds to the floor first. Everyone kneels, including Caramelinda, including Ruby.

It doesn't feel the way she'd hoped it might. Isn't she entitled at least one simple victory?

"Sister," Saccharina says, and Ruby's flinch is almost hidden. "Would you swear something on the book of our aunt here?"

Caramelinda's gaze is colder than ice, and Ruby looks completely taken aback. Theo is shifting next to her, but he doesn't get up. Good. She'd wanted at least one of them to remain loyal to her.

It'll be a shame to lose Liam, if she's right, but power means sacrifice, and at least she's choosing this one.

"Of course," Ruby says, gets up. The room is quiet enough that the noise of setting down Payment Day echoes throughout. When Ruby puts a hand on the book, her eyes widen, and Saccharina studies her face.

"Do you recognize my claim?" she says.

"Yes," Ruby responds, and there's a sigh from Theo.

"Do you have any intent to take the throne, or to make Caramelinda queen again, or anything else that would threaten my reign?"

Ruby exhales, and Saccharina's certain that neither of them know what's coming out of her mouth.

"Well?"

"No," Ruby says, and Saccharina blinks.

"Good," Saccharina says, and leans in, whispers, "One more question?"

The crowd in the room shifts uncomfortably, and Ruby nods, gaze distant. Liam, still standing next to the throne, makes a face at her.

But she needs them to know. They have to hate Ruby, because trust is nothing.

"Who killed Amethar?"

Ruby shudders. "You know. Don't ask me."

"They don't," Saccharina says, glaring at a Dairy Islander who seems to be trying to listen in, who ducks his gaze. "Ruby, answer the question or I'll tell the room myself. I'll tell them you and your mother conspired." She pauses. "Haven't you lost eno--"

"I did," Ruby says, and Liam's face goes blank. Saccharina wants to turn and look at Theo, but doesn't. It's an obvious sign of weakness to care about the opinions of any but her most trusted generals; she can't do that anymore. "I didn't mean to. I didn't know he would jump in front of you. And I wish he hadn't."

"That will be all," Saccharina says with a polite smile, loud enough for the room to hear, lets her hand accidentally brush the Book of Leaves as she says, "I just wanted to remember my father as he was." The room all seems to nod, understanding grief and loss, after everything. There's a brief rush of magic from Caramelinda's direction, and her gaze is as openly defiant as it could be, given the circumstances. Saccharina makes a note to make sure to keep shield stocked.

As soon as Liam takes the book back, face still blank, hands shaking slightly, says, "Our father would be proud, don't you think?"

Ruby's gaze flashes to hers, and it's not the cruelest thing Saccharina's ever done, but it's possibly the worst thing she's ever said. She doesn't care. She tried politeness, and it got her father dead from an arrow that meant for her.

"Sir Theobald?" she says, and he rises to put a hand on the book. His expression is stormy, but she can't see any resentment of her on his face. When he looks at Ruby, though? There's disbelief, not-quite-hatred, and it works. It's enough for Saccharina's shoulders to relax slightly, to nod at Gooey, who looks more relieved than she does.

"Before Emperor Gustavo Uvano's passing," he says. "I watched him name Amethar Rocks as Emperor of the Concord." The room gasps.

"A shame that excludes you from the running to be Empress, Ruby," Saccharina says with a little put-upon sigh. Ruby doesn't even respond, goes back to her place besides Caramelinda and kneels again. Her hands don't shake.

"The Dairy Islands recognizes the claim of Queen Saccharina Frostwhip, First of Her Name," says Primsy from the front row, and Saccharina manages a genuine smile that she doesn't quite return.

Gooey's hand stays on her sword, and Caramelinda refuses to duck her gaze, and Liam glances between everyone with that same blank expression. She'd hoped the throne would be the end of her fighting to keep her place. But it is hers, for now, and she'll do what she needs to keep it.

This time around, if she's given a chance to strike first, she'll fucking take it.

[flowers-creativity]

Fic: Sweet Daughter Mine

Fandom:  The Musketeers Characters: Porthos, Marie-Cessette, original male character Warnings: None Summary: Even sweet little girls (and of course Porthos is adamant that his girl is the sweetest of them all) get in trouble sometimes.

Notes: Originally a fill for Musketeer March, vaguely covering either "Porthos" or "Favourite Character" and "Favourite AU", but well, it's May by now, so it gets to stand on its own.Children are pretty hard to write, yo!

AO3 link

Porthos looked up at the grey, nondescript building and scrubbed his hand through his hair uncomfortably, then let his hands fall down to tug at his suit jacket. He had managed to put on an outfit that was making him feel both over- and underdressed – or, no, it wasn't so much the outfit as the situation that was making him feel ridiculously nervous. Someone who faced terrorists, bomb threats, mobsters and a disgruntled Captain Treville on the regular should not be intimidated by a meeting with the principal of his daughter's school.

But he couldn't help it, schools just sent him back to the time when he'd been the one called to the office for whatever trouble he had gotten into in his illustrious career as an adolescent delinquent.

He sighed and gave his sleeves a last tuck before he squared his shoulders and marched towards the building. Hopefully, Marie-Cessette had good reason to be in trouble and hadn't stepped into his shoes with regard to petty crime. Not that she'd ever even know about that if Porthos had any choice in the matter.

He made his way to the office and gave his name to a kind-faced secretary. She did not smile but her look was sympathetic as she lead him into a small hallway leading to a closed door. Before it, two chairs were sitting side by side, and on one of them was his daughter.

“Papa!” Marie-Cessette cried out and jumped up to rush to him and give him a hug.

He returned it and smiled, glad to see that whatever was going on, she was fine, no sign of tears, ripped clothing or bruises. “Hi, little bug.”

“Papa, they--” she started to say but broke off when the door behind them opened.

A man stood in the door, critically eyeing Porthos and his daughter. After a moment, he said: “M. du Vallon? I'm principal Porchet. Please come in. You too, Marie-Cessette.”

Porthos nodded and followed him when he went back into the room. Inside, M. Porchet shook his hand and gestured to the two chairs set up in front of his large desk. Porthos took a seat and pulled Marie-Cessette onto the chair next to him.

They sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and Porthos had to suppress the urge to fidget. Next to him, Marie-Cessette was losing the same battle, tugging at the hem of her shirt not very unlike how he had tugged on his suit jacket earlier. Finally, M. Porchet started to speak: “I'm sorry to call you in during work hours but I really felt the need to address this situation with you in person.”

Porthos made a dismissive gesture. “No need to apologise. I've got a very understanding employer when it comes to family affairs,” he replied. Well, that and they were between assignments anyway, so work was slow and mostly involved paperwork that ended up being used as paper planes Aramis and he were throwing at each other across the room.

M. Porchet didn't look exactly pleased by that – he was probably a stricter employer – but nodded and continued: “Alright, then. Now, are you aware that your daughter has an ongoing feud with one of her classmates?”

Porthos frowned and looked sidewise at his daughter. “I know there's one boy who she's been clashing with before,” he said slowly, trying to remember what exactly Elodie had told him over the phone after she had been called in to see the principal before. “I think he's called … Christophe, I believe?”

M. Porchet nodded. “Christophe Faucher, that's correct. As this has been ongoing for some time, we have kept a close watch on the two of them. Children fight, it happens, but the level of animosity between your daughter and Christophe is worrisome.”

“Marie-Cessette,” Porthos said, using a moment where M. Porchet had to take a breath and not caring that he didn't seem to be finished yet. He could feel Marie-Cessette give a start at his side at her name being spoken and put a hand on her knee to calm her.

M. Porchet raised his eyebrows at the interruption. “I beg your pardon?”

“My daughter's name is Marie-Cessette.” He quickly looked at his girl to give her a smile. “I'm well aware that she's my daughter, so please give her the respect to call her by her name when speaking about her.” He returned the principal's gaze with a hard look, which he knew was hard to resist.

As predicted, M. Porchet looked away first.

He cleared his throat and then said somewhat stiffly: “Of course. Now, as I said, we were keeping an eye on the two of them. For the most part, they seemed to keep it to the occasional insult and argument, steering away from anything physical, so we left it at reprimands for inappropriate language and made sure they didn't spend too much time near each other. That is, of course, until the unfortunate glue incident last month ...”

Porthos pinched his lips and fought to keep back a growl. Elodie having to cut their daughter's hair by about a hand's length to remove the strands stuck together with superglue had indeed been unfortunate, and he'd hated not being there, not being able to hug her when she cried about losing her beautiful blonde curls. They had just grown back enough that they were brushing her shoulders again. Porthos thought that she'd looked absolutely adorable with that curly bob but he knew that Marie-Cesette had loved her long hair.

Out loud, he said: “Elodie – my wife – had told me all about that, yeah.”

M. Porchet nodded. “We kept a close watch on them afterwards, in case any retaliation were to take place. Christophe had been punished, of course. But things seemed to settle down again. Until today, when they got into a screaming match during lunch break. I'll spare you the details but I need to tell you that we are very concerned about some of the things your dau-- Marie-Cessette said during this argument.”

Porthos raised his eyebrows and looked at Marie-Cessette again who had her arms crossed over her chest and was staring intently at the floor. “Which were?” he asked.

“Among others, she claimed that you are a super-spy,” M. Porchet declared, and Porthos felt a whoosh of air leaving his lungs as if he had been punched. “Never mind that according to our files, you are a pharmaceuticals salesman.”

Porthos kept his face carefully neutral when he replied: “Marie-Cessette has a very lively imagination.” He ignored the hurt little “Papa!” whine coming from his daughter. “Was that all?”

“No.” The principal steepled his fingers. “She also told Christophe that you would hunt him down and that you would hold him over the edge of a roof until he apologised, and if he didn't, you would break every bone in his body, one after the other.” He fell silent and let the silence stretch before he continued: “Now, lies and tall tales are one thing. As you said, Marie-Cessette has a lively imagination. But threats of violence of that kind are something we are not willing to tolerate, M. du Vallon.”

Porthos directed a frown at Marie-Cessette who was still finding the floor extremely interesting. “I understand,” he said. “I can assure you that I will have a serious word with her about this.”

M. Porchet nodded. “I appreciate that. Since it was still only verbal, Marie-Cessette's punishment won't be too severe this time but I sincerely hope it will not happen again, or I would be forced to take more drastic measures.”

Porthos sat up straight and looked the principal in the eye, mustering his best look of absolute honesty. “I'll do my best to ensure it won't, as will my wife.” He waited a moment, then added: “Lessons should be over by now, so I can take my girl home now, right?”

M. Porchet looked at the clock on his desk, then said with a sigh: “Of course. Thank you for coming at such short notice. Let's hope it won't be necessary again.”

“Yeah, let's,” Porthos agreed. He stood and shook the other man's hand, then turned and held out a hand to his daughter. “C'mon, bug.”

She looked at him with something that was a cross between a pout and a scowl – he had no idea how she managed to do that, and how it could be so cute – but took his hand. “Goodbye, M. Porchet,” she said politely, despite the general air of annoyance she was projecting.

“Goodbye,” Porthos followed her lead almost sheepishly. They made their way outside, with Marie-Cessette smiling sweetly and waving at the secretary when they passed her.

Once outside, Marie-Cessette pulled her hand free and whirled to face him, again crossing her arms over her chest. “I don't have a lively imagination!” He almost thought she would stomp her feet but the glare she gave him was impressive enough.

“You have, little bug,” he returned.

“Not about the spy thing!”

Porthos sighed and dragged a hand over his face. “No, not about that,” he allowed. He had known that it might become a problem one day – he hadn't wanted to lie to his family about what he really did but it was hard to drive home the need of secrecy to a child. “But do you remember what I told you about bein' a spy? What's the most important thing?”

“Uh...” Marie-Cessette's glare melted as she thought. “That you're keeping everyone safe?”

“That, too. But I meant that a spy needs to be secret, that no one knows he is one,” Porthos explained. “Else I can't work anymore when everyone knows I'm a spy, darlin'. You can't go around and tell people about it.”

His daughter's face crumbled in dismay. “I'm sorry,” she said, stretching out her hands, and he acquiesced with the unspoken request and picked her up. She hugged her arms around his neck and hid her face in his shoulder. “Christophe said such stupid things about you, that you're a loser and just a stupid salesman who doesn't even have his own shop.”

Porthos couldn't suppress a snort of laughter at that. “He doesn't know much about pharmaceuticals salesmen, then,” he said, unperturbed. “I mean, would've been impressed if he did. But point is, let him say about me what he wants, bug. You know I've got a great job. That's enough, isn't it? Your classmates can think whatever about me.”

She peeked at him and then nodded against his shoulder.

“Good,” Porthos said as he turned towards the visitor parking space and started walking. “And now, about that threat ...”

“I know,” Marie-Cessette sighed, “I shouldn't have said that.”

“Damn right you shouldn't,” Porthos agreed. “How do you even come up with somethin' like that? Danglin' someone from the roof?”

His daughter was quiet, drawing patterns on his chest. Porthos tried to be patient but when no answer was forthcoming by the time he had reached his car, he poked her with his free hand. “Cat got your tongue?”

She shook her head. “No, but--” she looked up at him, “you're gonna be mad.”

Porthos frowned. “Why d'you think that, bug? I'm not gonna be mad at you.”

“No, not at me,” Marie-Cessette clarified, “but--- Uncle Aramis, he--”

Porthos groaned. “He told you about that?”

She just nodded, and he had to fight down the urge to faceplant on the roof of his car. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I promise I'm not mad. Okay, I'm a bit mad. But I promise not to yell at him, okay? I'll just tell him the same I'm tellin' you: Don't talk about things like that outside of home. And in your case, darlin': Don't threaten other kids, you understand? You can tell them I'll come and yell at them – no, wait, probably not that one, either. Just don't threaten them.”

Marie-Cessette could not suppress a giggle but then nodded, giving her best attempt to look serious. “I promise I won't, no matter how much of an asshat Christophe is being.”

Porthos laughed a bit desperately. “And where does that word come from?”

“Uh … Uncle d'Artagnan?”

Porthos gave in and slumped forward onto the roof of his car, bouncing his forehead lightly on the cool metal. “Shouldn't be a surprise,” he mumbled. He straightened up again and gave his daughter a glare. “We'll talk about that, too,” he promised her. “Lots of serious words to be had all around.”

She shrunk a bit under his glare and nodded.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh. He unlocked the door and set her down in her seat, then rounded the car and got into the driver's seat. A quick check that she had buckled herself in correctly, and he was pulling out of the car park and turning the car towards home.

Where he would have to have some words with those brothers of his. Wasn't it fun to have kids? Especially the part where he was also parenting two grown men in their thirties ...

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader (A/n- it’s back, after that unexpected hiatus. It’s all written, I’m just too lazy to edit.)

Masterlist   Protective Service Masterlist

Chapter 7 One Step Forward, Two Steps Back.

It was strange being on John’s arm instead of Donavan’s. Usually, wherever Y/n went, from charities held by fake philanthropists to events held in the criminal underworld, Donavan was the one she’d take as her date, it had become an unquestionable fact. But that evening, after the sun had resigned past the orange hued horizon and the soaring towers speckled with bright white lights had started illuminating the darkened city, Y/n had journeyed up the stone steps of Gotham Hall, needle straightened hair falling over her face as she bent her head down to mind her steps, it wasn’t with him, and she found herself enjoying the change. Pencil thin heels clicked quietly, in sync with the soft thuds of John’s steps, the slit starting high on her thigh allowed for her to take unrestrained strides, only waiting for John to hold the door open for her before stepping inside. The velvet of her skin tight dress was soft as it cradled her skin, leaving very little to the imagination with a generously cut sweetheart neckline and delicate off the shoulder straps leaving a large majority of her arms exposed. 

Occasionally, Y/n would sneak a peek at John through her peripheral, trying to contain a sly smirk upon being reminded of how absolutely dapper he looked in a tuxedo. His Italian cut work suits were one thing, but that tux; the arms of the dark fabric almost strained to contain his hulking biceps and every cut fit him perfectly, like it had been tailored to him. John, she knew he was handsome, but when Y/n had greeted him in the sitting room after getting ready, the sight of him had all but taken her breath away; his hair had been slicked back, his beard groomed and perhaps the most surprising thing about his attire was that he’d taken off his wedding band. Its absence had made her giddy, though Y/n supposed that he’d only done it to avoid misunderstanding. Truly, she’d wanted to ask, but the question seemed so personal, too personal and Y/d didn’t think that any good would come from knowing him that well, especially considering the little spat they'd yet to get over.

Even pleasantries had been stiff between them up until then, though, when they locked arms upon exiting the car, Y/n could have sworn she felt him relax, and she knew that she did too. Being with John, it was easy, sort of like being with another version of herself. She knew what would upset him; how many of his buttons she could purposefully push until he’d had too much, and how far she could take her bitter quips before he snapped at her, how much underhanded flirting she could do before he really noticed and that pained look of guilt crept of on his face again. It was nice, she thought as they walked past the man who’d taken their invitation, heading into the main room where guests were mingling with drinks in hand, being able to see parts of yourself reflected in someone else, without having known them otherwise, it was nice. It made Y/n feel…..less alone in the confines of the ivory tower she’d built around herself.

“So,” John intruded, his words interrupting her thoughts as they claimed two glasses of bubbly, “What do you want to do first?”

“We hang back for a bit,” she explained coolly, glancing around the room, checking to see if there were any signs of enemies in their wake, even if Y/n knew that John had probably already done the same thing at least twice. “He probably already knows we're here, but we don't want to seem too eager." Y/n used the back of her delicate, jewelry adorned hand to sweep some hair from her face, glancing at John though averting her gaze before she thought he’d noticed, “So for now we just……hang out.”

"Okay, got it," John nodded stiffly, leading them out of the way when another pair almost walked into them. He hadn’t considered that they’d be doing something besides working that night and John didn’t think he knew what the phrase ‘hang out’ meant anymore. Everything he did was with purpose, especially after he’d been tossed back into the life he’d escaped for the best four years of his existence. John Wick simply didn’t hang out. He was either working, or spending his down time thinking about work. And occasionally reading. Y/n didn’t seem all too familiar with the notion either, clearing her throat awkwardly as she’d suggested it and then washing her words down with another sip of champagne. 

Standing in the midst of all the other guests, gloved in a tux that he’d had dry cleaned specifically for that evening, with Y/n’s arm looped in his, John could have sworn that it almost felt like they were on a ritzy date. Though, he supposed they were, considering that he was in fact, her date that night. Maybe they should just do what dates did, it wasn’t like they wanted to mingle with socialites and financiers anyway. 

Downing the rest of his champagne and carelessly leaving the elegant flute on the tray of a passing member of the wait staff, John casually stepped in front of Y/n, barely taking a second to admire her alluring appearance. Seeing her like that, like she’d just stepped off the cover of a special edition of Vanity Fair, when Y/n had first walked into the living room back at the penthouse had almost knocked the air out of him. She was unquestionably stunning, dark, rich velvet hugging every perfect curve while sleek, simple heels added just enough height and a racy design encouraging John’s imagination to run wild. Y/n was always beautiful, he couldn't recall a moment where she was anything less than frighteningly bewitching, but that evening, there was something about knowing that for a few precious hours, it would just be them both coupled with seeing her so elegantly dressed had stolen his breath and quickened heart. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in so long, not since Helen, who could still even the quickest of thoughts with just her dazzling smile. 

“Would you like to dance?” John offered his hand, secretly hoping Y/n could find it in her frozen over heart to humor him. In that moment, it was easy to remember the night that they’d somehow found themselves entangled, how it had started with one simple dance to an old song. John wasn’t sure if she’d intended for them to end up like that, but he knew that his offer was just that; a request for a dance with the woman who’d recently dominated his tumultuous thoughts, with no expectations attached. 

Y/n hesitated, her astonished stare fluttering between his offered hand, palm up, and his dark gaze, fixed on her, expression, as always, unreadable. For a couple seconds, John had succumbed to  thinking that she was going to refuse, though, surprisingly, Y/n obliged, placing her hand in his and letting him lead her to where other guests were doing the same, “Sure.” The song was just changing, the lively instrumental by the string quartet switching to something slower and more conducive to a social dance. 

Without much thought of it, John’s arm reeled around Y/n’s waist and her hand instinctively reached for his shoulder. That night, they tried to keep a few inches of space between them, though, John couldn’t tell if it was on Y/n’s volition or his own. Part of him longed to hold her closer while another reminded him that he had no right feeling the way he did. “Who taught you to dance?” He broke the stretch of silence between them, hoping an attempt at small talk would banish his thoughts. 

“No one,” her eyes darted up to meet his and Y/n’s deep ruby lips fell slightly agape, as if she’d been surprised he’d asked. Or perhaps she was surprised of how easily she’d answered, “I learned from watching my parents,” Y/n paused, still looking as if she had something to say, prompting John to wait, “You know, I’ve told you more about myself that I ever told have anyone else, you should tell me something about yourself.”

“There’s not much to know,” John deflected. What was there to say that everyone didn’t already know? What was she expecting him to talk about? An orphan, turned soldier, turned assassin. A man who’d found a love that he didn’t quite deserve and had lost it. The widower who couldn’t let go, even after he’d been forced to revert to the life he’d run away from. “What you see is what you get.”

Knitting her brows, Y/n observed him through her lashes and John couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly vulnerable in front of her. “That’s not true. Come on,” she encouraged, “You’re probably not going to see this side of me again, so just say something to make this worthwhile.”

John didn’t want to believe that, believe that the part of Y/n that could actually care for someone was minute and would scuttle back to its dark corner before the night was over. But most of him knew it was true; she was so good at turning on and off that even then he wasn’t sure if her regard was genuine or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter, a small voice whispered, almost pleading, maybe it’s enough that she can pretend to care. “I used to wish I had parents,” he admitted softly, pulling her closer against him, so Y/n wouldn’t see the vulnerability in his eyes, “When I was in the program, under the Director; I used to wish I had parents. People that would care enough to get me out of that place,” swallowing thickly, John found that it was hard to suppress the lump of emotion in his throat. That wasn’t something he’d ever told anyone, but it was a memory that had stayed with him throughout his life; the one of a little boy tucked under a ratty fleece sheet in a large sleeping hall, shutting his eyes and hoping that the next day he’d wake up and it would have all just been a bad dream. 

John thought that he was imagining it, but he could have sworn that Y/n’s embrace grew firmer with unspoken affection, and enjoying the feeling, he held her tighter. Though, sinking into the feeling quickly became daunting, for when her head unconsciously nuzzled his chest, it felt as if his wedding band, secured in his top pocket, wedged between the jacket's material and his pristine white handkerchief, was burning through the layers of fabric and searing his skin. He’d taken it off telling himself that it was so he could efficiently fill the role of Y/n’s date, but part of him had started questioning his motives, taunting that he might have meant that he was ready for something else. Something with someone who might not even feel the same. 

Thankfully, John wasn’t left to fend off his guilt for too long, as just as they’d slunk into something too cozy to be professional, the man of the hour himself approached them. A striking man of sixty something, Mayor Arthur Balinksi sported a full head of silver hair and a physique that wasn’t too hard on the eyes. His wife, standing near him, must have known well that her husband was still able bodied enough to stray, because when Balinksi asked John if he could cut in, the older woman cast a stony glare Y/n’s way, not for a second trusting him with a woman that stunning. 

“I’ve got this,” Y/n resumed her usual self, not an ounce of the woman he’d danced with left, instead replaced with her ever assured persona, ready to assume control of everything around her. “Arthur,” she purred, switching partners, leaving John to dance with a reasonably jealous wife, “I think it's time I thank you for the invitation.”

“I must say,” Arthur’s hand was stationed low on Y/n’s back as he led her up the stairs to the roped off mezzanine which overlooked the rounded, high ceilinged room, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with John Wick, I’ve been told you’re the work alone type.”

“I’m more of the work above type,” Y/n corrected, amused when the older man pulled out a cushioned chair for her and then snapped for a waiter to bring them a bottle of her preferred whiskey. He’d done his research. “And John is an associate, he came tonight as a….favor,” her choice of words startled even Y/n herself. She’d never thought of anyone as her equal, though calling John an employee seemed almost insulting, which wasn’t something she was ordinarily concerned with. Though, since she’d met John, Y/n had been doing a lot of things she would ordinarily do. Prodding John to open up to her was one of many, and longing to comfort him when he did was the one that stood out the most. 

“You like being the boss,” the tips of his aged fingers reached to brush Y/n’s, now circled around her glass as Arthur leaned back comfortably into the chair, “I can respect a woman who likes power.”

“Oh?” Y/n feigned innocence, going along with Arthur's insinuations for the time being. She didn't mind it really, there were few that were brave enough to be bold enough to make the first advances, "Is that so?"

Humming, the mayor's gaze flirted with her her voluptuous cleavage before fluttering back to her hooded gaze. "It is," he continued, unbashful as his fingers crept towards her wrist, ghosting over her white diamond tennis bracelet, "I can respect and do a lot more," the pad of his thumb grazed Y/n's vein, but the gesture barely had an effect on her. 

Chucking quietly, Y/n turned away, just so she could roll her eyes without being noticed. Of course, she had never been one to shy away from mixing business and pleasure, but that night, Y/n didn't wish to stray too far from her intention, especially when all she could think of was John. 

Gently, Y/n pulled away, masking the gesture by bringing the crystal glass to her lips, taking a tentative sip and letting smoky and wooden notes dance along her tongue. "Why do you tell me little bit more about what you're looking for from an arrangement like this."

Shrugging, Arthur swirled his drink amount its glass, "Money, power, legitimacy."

Huffing, Y/n smiled faintly, "You want legitimacy from criminals?" 

"Correction," he interjected before Y/n could get any further, "I want legitimacy among the…...financially creative."

That earned Arthur a louder, more melodious laugh and Y/n threw her head back, taking a swing of her whiskey before continuing, "So its about money?"

"Among other things," he offered nonchalantly, drumming his heavy digits on the red adorned table top.

"Like?" Y/n cocked a curious brow.

"Like security of tenure," Arthur explained as if it were the most obvious thing. And really, it should have been, after all, men like him were only ever after sating their needs for power, sex and money, and Y/n was sure that he thought she could provide all three. Little did he know, she could take it away just as easily. Maybe John was right, maybe she was the one with the more hefty leverage. "I know you can help me with that Y/n," Arthur reached out, and pretending she didn't notice, Y/n brought her glass to her lips again, evading his touch completely.

Licking her lips, she studied him closely, "And in return?" In Y/n's world, deals weren't made without some sort of bargaining tool; you had to give to get.

"I like the way you think," he grinned broadly, and just for a second, Y/n thought that if John wasn't such a major participant in her racy daydreams, Mr. Mayor across from her might have been a fun time. "Selfishly," he extended, "And what's in it for you? Well, whatever's at my disposal, will be at yours too. Cops, judges, political authority, Intel and everything in between.”

"Do we have a deal?" Arthur extended his hand after giving Y/n a moment to deliberate. 

Staring at his hand, Y/n weighed her options, briefly contemplating what hell would be raised if she rejected, but knowing that it wasn’t worth it in the slightest. Slipping her hand into his offered one, “We have a deal,” she confirmed, half her lips upturned in a glee-less smirk.

They weren't long after that, and before another hour had passed, Y/n was coming down the stairs, Arthur a few paces behind. Through the throng of guests, she searched for John, eventually spotting him; standing stiffly at the open bar, nursing a glass of what she could only assume was top shelf bourbon. Navigating was easy, and in no time, Y/n was slipping into the spot beside him, ordering herself a brandy before teasing, “Well someone’s awfully quiet.” 

In response, she’d been expecting a light quip, or at the very least, a soft chuckle and the first hints of a dashing smile, but when all John offered was an unamused grunt contained in his throat, Y/n rolled her eyes, “What’s your problem?” Maybe the words came out harsh, a little meaner than someone who cared, but anyone who tried to argue otherwise would be wrong; Y/n did care. Of course, she hadn’t always sought the best means of showing it, but when just a couple hours prior she’d felt closer to John than she ever had with anyone else, she’d found that it was a feeling she wanted to protect. He’d opened up to her, reciprocated after she’d shared stories about her parents and it was nice to know that John trusted her with a memory he guarded from the rest from the world. Y/n had though, just for the slightest second, that maybe she could learn to be something else, yet, there, at the bar, John seemed cold once again, as if nothing had changed. It was perfectly infuriating! Though, at least she now knew how it felt, even if she wasn’t going to take it very well. “Well?”

Knocking back the rest of his drink, John set the glass on the table with a thud that was audible that could be heard over the chatter and music, sniggering bitterly, “My problem?” Moistening his lips, Y/n watched as a rare flash of emotion crossed John’s face. She couldn’t tell what it was though; hurt? Pain? Something else? It was gone before she could figure it out and he continued, raising his voice to a rough hiss, “My problem is you.”

If she wasn’t angry before, which she was, Y/n was certainly past enraged then, “Me?” Scoffing, she flicked some bothersome hair away from her face, “I’m your problem huh?”

Y/n was just getting started when John cut her off, unconsciously stepping closer so his voice could drop lower, “Yeah, you are. The way you just turn yourself on and off, acting like you care when we both know that you don’t give a fuck. You think I didn’t see you with Baliski, don’t pretend for a second that you wouldn’t have fucked him if his wife wasn’t here.”

“His wife?” Huffing a mockingly baffled chuckled, Y/n shook her head, “You’re right, I probably would; selfish men like him; they’re real good in bed,” that time, Y/n was the one stepping closer, hoping her previous words were enough to rile him a bit, “And I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice. But I didn’t, and I won’t, not tonight at least. But it’s not because of his wife, I couldn’t care less about that old bitch,” Y/n’s throat burned with all the venom she was spewing, ready to top it off with the truth, which wasn’t half as harsh as everything else. “It’s because of you,” her pointed jammed into John’s chest, and she let it sink in.

Defeated, John’s shoulders slumped unexpectedly, a weight that he didn’t know was there rolling off with Y/n’s confession. Flummoxed and even a little touched, John grabbed her wrist, almost as if to prove that Y/n was really that close, that she’d really been touching him. They searched each other’s gazes; Y/n searching for any sign that he’d believed her while John sought to put truth to her words. Though, as usual; their souls were guarded, Rome wasn’t built in a day after all, and neither of them could define the line of what was real between them and what was just one of Y/n’s manipulative farces. 

He hesitated, though after a second or two, John pushed Y/n’s hand away, “You’re real good at that, you know? And you might have Donavan fooled, but that won’t work here.” And just like that, without even letting her argue, John turned to stalk off, brushing past anyone in his way.

Finishing off her drink in one swing, mostly to appease the desire to burn the sting away, Y/n followed John, simultaneously reaching into her purse to text the driver so he’d meet them at the front. “John,” her heels clicking on the old marble floors joined the almost absent sound of John’s steps, “John,” Y/n didn’t know why, but she couldn’t, for a second more, stand the thought of John thinking that she didn’t care for him. He'd hurt too much, and it was starting to hurt her. “John!” They broke out into the night air and Y/n was at the doors when he’d already made it down to the pavement, the car already having parked at the curb.

“This was a bad idea,” John turned abruptly, facing her, illuminated by the backdrop of the sparkling city. Angrily, he gestured between them, “What happened between us, that night in the kitchen, it was a bad idea, cause we both know that you don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Sighing heavily, John’s face finally softened, the rage smoothing out into something far more dangerous; nothingness. “You’re selfish Y/n, and hurt people because deep, deep down, you’re hurting too. And you know what, I don’t even want to feel anything for you, not lust, not anything. So from now on, no games, I’m just the bodyguard, and you’re just my boss.”

There was a lot she wanted to say, but for the life of her, Y/n couldn’t find the right words. Besides, he was upset and she knew that arguing with John on the sidewalk wouldn’t do either of them any good. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if there was anything she could ever say to fix it, because the truth was that he was absolutely right. So instead of fighting him, telling him that he was wrong and that she’d started changing from the moment they’d met, Y/n simply nodded in agreement, trying to decide if she was putting away her feeling for not or forever, “Alright,” holding her head up, with utmost confidence, she joined down the steps and started approaching the car, “Let’s go.”

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

[spacemilkies]

serendipity || captain allen x reader

for @thedevianthunterrk800 who unknowingly dragged me into the pits of hell dau. now i can’t play or watch footage without focusing in on this man. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am but no press are allowed on the premise without strict permission.”

The accusation nearly stuns you at first, before you realize in fact that you never quite shed your work clothing before venturing out. Not that it did much good now that you were caught red handed, you plucked your badge from you neck and offered a placating smile to the receptionist android.

“Sorry, I’m here on personal business not journalistic ventures.” As if to prove your point, you rose the hand clutching the bag of take out. “Just a wife bringing dinner to her husband.”

The android was quiet, her gaze giving you another look over. No doubt cross referencing your heart rate to your words. Perhaps had your husband not been employed at such a high risk job, a simple face recognition scan could have cleared you. But it seemed not even matrimony came with any real civil benefits. 

The android completed its assessment.

“I see. Please-”

“Hey, what are you doing here so late?”

A visible shudder of relief ripped across your skin as you whipped around. Appearing to be finishing up for the evening, Hank was looked about what you expected him to look first thing in the morning- ready to go home.

It’s easy to offer a smile in disguise of pity. “Figured if he wasn't going to make an effort for dinner, I could at least keep him from starving.”

“Yeah, is that why he’s so cranky? Missing one too many meals?”

Hank’s years of ‘facility’ comradery with your husband managed to bleed into a promising friendship of your own. It was a specific type of working relationship that only your hardened husband could achieve. Frankly most of his more social interactions were bridged by your efforts in some way or fashion. 

“Trying to keep him fed is a full time job.”

“Dealing with him period is a fucking career,” he muttered under his breath. Gratefully, Hank waved off the android. “Wife of the fucking SWAT captain, relax would you.”

“I honestly have no idea where he is but we all know his second wife is his desk.”

The obvious joke resonated differently with you than he likely intended for it to. In truth, your husband, his desk … and yourself had a bit of a polymourous relationship, to put it lightly. Not that you would embarrass David by bringing that up now. 

Maybe over drinks on night. 

Grateful for the unexpected intervention, you took advantage of the reprieve to escape through the security gates while you could. Waving to Hank, you bid him a good night.

“The fourth floor isn’t that big. He can’t hide forever.”

The few officers who did recognize you bid you a mix of greetings and farewells from those eager to return to their own families. As you climbed levels however, the gestures became more strict in the form of salutes and slim smiles that oozed stress. 

Rolling your eyes to the roof of the elevator, you began to pray that it wasn't a premonition of what to expect when you finally discovered your husband. You reminded yourself that you were merely there to deliver a meal, not stir up anything that could be settled at home. 

Your marriage worked this long because you respected those boundaries. The same ones that had been built without your knowledge back in university. 

By the relaxed posture of his assistant it was safe to assume he wasn’t in his office. Rachel confirmed as much with a quick wave.

“Captain Allen is in a meeting, ma’am.”

“Thats fine. Is his office open? Just dropping off dinner.”

She eyed the bag as if it was a saving grace. No doubt a prayer she’d made earlier in the day to try and aleve whatever symptoms were aggravating her boss’ nerves. 

If only it was so easy.

“I can get that for you.”

The panel in front of the door switches from red and blue, granting you access. You find yet another reason to send the young woman a nice gift basket. As if all the years of putting up with your husband didn’t earn her a vacation overseas.

Frankly, she might never look back.

“Thank you, Nancy.”

His office is as bleak and bland as the last time you’d entered it. Not even the wealth of his awards managing to permeate the walls. A few of the important credentials made the cut out of sheer necessity. You’d managed to break up the rest of the wall with two scenery photos. 

And that was it.

For someone who practically made his office his home, the lack of comfortably baffled you.

Placing the bags on the corner of his desk, you made yourself comfortable in his chair. Your job title aloe made snooping both enticing and forbidden. A thin lace of trust had been bestowed upon you given your connection to one of the largest media networks in the city. While your husband’s authority gave you more liberties than most it didn’t mean it couldnt be ripped away.

So against your journalist instinct, you kept your hands to yourself while you twiddled with a simple app on your phone. Fortunately, your husband didn’t keep you waiting long before you heard Nancy sharp cry of warning.

“Oh! Wait sir, your-”

You don’t know who is more surprised when you husband enters his office unaware. His shoulders stiffen briefly before he recognizes your silhouette by his desk, Nancy’s warning long forgotten. He looked like he was ready to chew out his next victim of the day and you could only snort in amusement. 

“Really, David.”

He’s wearing your favorite hoody of his- one you know come with a plethora of replacements but not a single is ever given to you despite your insistence. You’ve taken to wearing them briefly after laundry loads, while the house is to yourself. By the time he makes it home, its nestled comfortably in his drawer as if it was never touched. 

A secret compromise.

The door slides shut behind him as he approaches the desk. Affections pleasantly not forgotten as he leans down to peck at your cheek,“Its late, you didn't have to come by.”

“Well, I was hungry too. Figured you wouldn't want your food to get cold. Reheating meat will sometimes make it tough.”

David took the opportunity to peek into the paper bags, a hint of a smile triggering wider one for you when he recognized one of his favorites. You watched quietly as he unpacked the food, not missing how he arranged things carefully to keeps your safely confined while setting aside his own. 

It was an easier dismissal when you were expecting it. 

The hard edge of your neglected badge bit into your skin as you adjusted yourself against the desk, “Trying to get rid of me so soon, captain. I didn’t even get to opportunity to ask my questions yet.”

Unraveling the warmth of a freshly baked roll, your husband gave you an unamused grimace before taking a bite from the buttery loaf. 

“The SWAT team is not currently accepting any questions nor has any scheduled plans to council the press for ongoing operations.”

Your smile is as dangerous as your job implies, “So you guys are working on something top secret.”

“Would be home if it wasn’t.”

That was a lie and you both knew it. David would always find something to keep him occupied in his career. It had built him up and functioned as his stability. You were mere crutches on the sidelines waiting until you were needed.

As simple as it would be to challenge the claim, you thought better of it. Instead you continued to eat up time, relaxed comfortably in his chair while your husband was distracted with his meal. It seemed that his hunger had gotten to a point where he was reluctant to entertain anything that isn't satisfying his stomach. 

“Strip was sold out, so I hope skirt is okay?” 

Your husband wasn’t huge on grilling like some of the neighbors in your area but he did appreciate a good steak. Sometimes if you were lucky, he would even surprise you with a nice dinner in the kitchen on the rare occasions he actual beat you home or the scarcer days off. 

Using his teeth, David fought the crackle of the plastic wrapped utensil set,” Smells good, baby. Thank you.”

His obvious appreciation warmed you enough to coax a bit of boldness out of you. Walking your fingertips closer to the bag, you tugged it closer. “The renovators called back. They can fit us in next weekend to resurface the shower.”

Your house wasn’t old but there had been some changes you’d promised yourself when you’d first moved it. Earlier in your marriage, you had hoped to make a couples project out of it. But as the years passed, you began to understand that if you didn't  get someone else on the job it wasn't going to get done. 

Carefully pulling your own box free, you kept your voice even as your poked through your meal. “I’m having my mom come meet them that Thursday so they can do a final walkthrough for a quote. I’ll be home for the other days.”

“You’re not worried she won't change your plans?”

Twirling your pasta around your fork, you gave his question a thoughtful pause. It had crossed your mind. Your home wasn’t the first thing she had tried to intervene in. But you had made your own wishes noted in the initial meeting. Having your mother there was just supervision at this point.

“Nah, I'll be there for all the real work. I really just need her to keep Kaius calm.”

Retired from service but certainly not an impression on his age, the eight year old shepard still took his training seriously at home. It made it difficult to let anyone into the house without one of you there to assure him it was okay. The task was still difficult for you without David’s overwhelming presence to settle the canine. 

Resting his hip against the corner of the desk, your husband became visibly more relaxed into the conversation as he balanced the bottom of his togo box on his hand. “I don’t mind if he comes to work. He should be fine in my office for a day.”

You shrugged,”It's all worked out.”

At most, you were expecting one human to supervise a few androids. As impersonal as it made the job, it certainly didnt put a damper on efficiency. You expected nothing less than the projected project. 

He surprised you by leaning in then to press a quick kiss to your lips, a sneaky swipe of tongue catching the splash of sauce previously unknown to you. When you look up, he was watching you with that analytical look.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Caught, you could only smile sheepishly as you pointed the fork in his direction. “This is nice, don’t ruin it.”

Humming thoughtfully, your husband eventually returned to his own meal. 

David finished well before fullness crept in for you, his own haste favoring time over taste. But he was getting his nutrition so you found it hard to complain. 

A few tedious comments came to mind but none of them felt strong enough to tether him to a conversation. Accepting the time you got gratefully, you began putting away the leftovers to take home. 

“I’m off tomorrow so you don’t need to tip toe. I’ll leave the light on above the stove.”

Sometimes you found it funny how much your friends raves about the life you must have being married to a SWAT captain. Overwhelmed by their own fantasies of rugged encounters and frantic passion. 

It was true on occasion. There were times  that the stress of the job encouraged his hands to be a little more rough. Or time constraints found you bent over something convenient with your panties jerked to the side. 

As thrilling as it was, the novelty wore off quicker than it did in literature. 

There wasn’t a day you weren’t thankful of how well your husband aged, you just wanted more opportunities to appreciate it. 

You rise from your seat, expecting a final kiss of gratitude before you went on your way. 

You hasn’t realized your eyes had slid closed until they were opening in confusion at the touch of his thumb against your cheek. Against your better judgement, you leaned into the brief show of affection, lips parting to accept the pad of his finger. 

You know it won’t lead to much but the small stirrings it causes is worth the brevity. You crave his closeness whether he’s away like any wife would. But loving David Allen takes the punch of out love and jackhammers a new meaning into it. 

“”Thank you.”

The sincerity of it pressures your heart and your eyes close voluntarily this time, just wishing he would meet your expectation.

There is a pause, the silence tarnished by your audible sigh. Part of it is drawn back in a sharp gasp when his nose bumps against your own, then his lips find yours. 

The kiss is slow and measured, familiar even as you dare to run your palms down his front. His stomach curls under your touch, the lean muscle jumping slightly as your fingers challenge the hem of his pants. 

Swallowing, you taunt further with another tug. Venerability paints itself a lovely shade against your skin, coating you in a rosy blush. This wasn’t your arriving plan. But years have taught you that planning ahead rarely went well with David.

Carefully, you reach up and thumb the curve of his lower lip and draw him even closer. Even breaths waft over your face. Measured well, despite the proposition offered before him. 

In a mess of tongue and teeth, you whisper his name and teeter his resolve in the same breath. 

It has been a very long time since he’s humored an excursion like this and you’re patting yourself on the back for taking the chance. 

His mouth teases the skin at the nape of your neck and you wonder how far he plans to take this. His nose brushes against your ear next, nuzzling just under the curve where he knows you like it best. 

Your shirt rides up as he rolls his body against you, his hands quick to tend to your warm skin. His thumb teases the underside of your bra and it’s difficult not to let your mind wander.

Chest rising and falling in erratic intervals, you finally put a voice behind your desires. 

“Will fuck me here?”

David breathes in sharply then and for a moment you’re worried he’ll pull back to he senses. Your heart flutters nervously, awaiting a curt dismissal. But then a knee nudges firmly between your thighs and you find yourself biting your cheek to contain your grin. 

He continues to mouth at your neck while his hands answer your question, quickly and efficiently working at your belt. The hand not holding you in place slips under the hem of your pants with practiced ease. 

It will have to be quick but part of the thrill is inherit in the act itself. You know you’re already wet before his fingers reach their destination, his thumb flicking against your clit as his fingers curl into your sticky wetness. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, kitten? That’s why you came so late at night. Hoping to bride me into a quick fuck for your troubles?”

Part of you wished that had been your intention. You would have tried a hell of a lot harder if you’d known he’d be this willing. 

Sorry, Nancy.

There was always something sinfully dangerous about being taken in his office. To think the place where the city puts most of its trust will be defiled by your marital affairs will never fail to get you in the mood. 

David catches you before you can get careless, moving the food a safe distance away from your body before pressing you firmer against the desk. He doesn’t pay much attention to your breast but the stimulation from being pressed into the desktop makes up for it. Nothing else matters however when he’s dragging down his pants and your own with hast movements and lining himself up. 

It’s a slow sink- deep as he allows you time to open up for him. 

The situation doesn’t allow for it to be drawn out much longer than that. The frivolous teasing prior had already eaten into your limited time of unsuspicion. Not to mention any concerning noises that might permeate the door.

David does the sound control for you, risking quiet grunts as he digs his grip into the curve of your hip. His pace is slow but firmly backed by his weight as he quite literally fucks the air right out of your lungs, thrust near hard enough to shake the desk. 

He lifts his hips slightly, just enough too prod for the right angle, hitting that same spot again and again as you grip desperately at his arms. You return the favor, stealing his groans as you kiss back as vehemently as his hips grind into you. It only takes one good strategic thrust to capsize you under your simmering climax.

You remember a time, fumbling in college when you had to remind him to be wary- to pull out. Even early in your marriage you’d been cautious. 

Now, it was welcomed. The fact of not trying to try bleeding into a kink to take off the edge of pending results. You’d decided mutually to accept a child if the possibility arose but you wouldn’t make an intentional effort. 

Nearing your forties now, it wasn’t a forgotten proposition but it hardly factored into your mindset. It’s no where near innocent as your ankles dig firmly into his lower back, drawing him closet and locking him in.

Your husband’s hips stuttered briefly as his fingers reassessed their grip before he resumed his pace with firmer thrusts. Each one bouncing off the round of your backside. The hand at the base of your spine keeps you anchored- not that you’d made any attempt to disagree with anything he was giving you. 

He seemed to reward you for that, a lazy thumb counting your vertebrae in its travels, eliciting a quivering pleasure.  

“Maybe this is the key, huh? You’re always so much more receptive when there is the potential for audience.” 

He knows and fuck, you miss that voice. The way it rumbles deep in his chest before tumbling out in timber. 

“Of course, I’d never let them see. But I’d be happy to show off the results, hmm?”

His hands slid to your flank before curling around to flatten against the plane of your belly. It stays there, stroking the pseudo curve implanted in his head. 

He encourages you to grind back into his quickening thrusts, the fingers at your hip dragging you back in assistance. Whining, you dip your chest and arch your back. Your actions echo your thoughts. Faster. More. Deeper. Please

“That's what you want, right? For me to fill you up, baby?”

God… you drool around the thought. Your words fumbling around gurgles as you attempt to collect yourself enough to stop moaning and properly respond. Blood rushed in your ears and floods down your body. Working yourself up from your toes, you flex them, pushing your weight to your feet and lifting. It offers you a better advantage to pushing back into each eager thrust. 

Rather than praise your efforts, your husband only returns your gesture by carding his fingers through your hair. Tightening. Shoving down. 

“Fuck, yes, Dav-“ You hiss when he knocks particularly hard against your cervix to which he mends with an apologetic kiss to the back of your head. His thrust slow marginally, just enough to regain control before he’s coaxing you again with a nip to the shell of your ear. 

“Tell me, kitten.”

You reach for something-not sure of what. Neither does he it seems, but his hand finds yours anyway to which you curl them both the fabric of your chest. 

“I want it all-please.”

He jerks you back-once...twice before suddenly you’re overwhelmed with the weight of him on top and the pressure of him inside. 

You lie there for a short time, uncomfortable, but too laced by exhaustion to do much else. The feeling of fatigue crept onto you both with out warning, using the disguise of passion to worm its way inside.

He’s not perfect. Neither yourself or this marriage. But where most had doomed you both to fail, mutual perseverance told the rest to go fuck themselves.

There wasn’t much else either of you could offer to the remaining hours of the night. With that resolve, your slow rhythmic strokes against your husband’s back came to a halt, slightly rousing him in the process.

“Mhmm, come home with me, yeah?”

He heaves a sigh but you know you have him. 

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”

[razaks-wheel]

Destruction

@nostalgic-breton-girl​ (I decided to post this on my writing blog because I don’t think things through when I reblog prompts apparently lol.)

Prompt: "Destruction"

Summary: Vivec and Ildari learn that Baar Dau has fallen.

Rating: T, but content warning for (brief) survivor's guilt that borders on suicidal ideation

Notes: I'm not going to get too deep into Dunmeris headcanons rn but I'm using "daeli" as a sort of title for "adult who isn't technically family/parent but might as well be."

Also I follow up on this sometime. We shall see.

Destruction

Ildari could hear the rumbling of an ash storm outside as she followed her daughter into the kitchen to make breakfast. Vivec was already there, sitting at the table with a faraway look in hir eyes. Immediately, Ildari knew something was off. Ze never sat in chairs; ze always levitated if ze could. She was about to say something, but Dreveni beat her to it.

"Daeli Vehk," the seven-year-old giggled, "that's my seat! You don't sit!"

Vehk's eyes snapped back to the present, and ze took on a bright, practiced smile. "Ah, my apologies, Sera Drevi! How incredibly silly of me," ze said.

Ze stood up and walked—feet on the floor—out of the room, ruffling Dreveni's hair as ze went. Ze caught Ildari's eye for a brief moment, but the look ze gave was enough to confirm that something was definitely wrong. Ildari made Dreveni her kwama eggs and slipped out into the next room to find Vivec.

She found hir sitting on the couch this time. Hir head turned to face her when she joined hir on the couch, but hir eyes were still locked far in the distance.

"It happened," ze said in a small voice.

She did not need to ask what "it" was. She knew ze was talking about Baar Dau—the Ministry of Truth. It had finally fallen from its place in the sky onto Vivec City. They knew it would happen sooner or later, of course, and they had done what they could to prepare. They had moved to a house-pod in Marog for the time being—not far from Tel Uvirith, but off of Vvardenfell—but not before they had warned others to evacuate as well. They could not do so directly, of course. The Indorils were intent on controlling the image of the Temple during this time of transition, and they had deemed it unwise for one of the gods to start warning people of the end of hir own power. Instead, they had disseminated whispers to a number of information hubs and let the webs do the rest. Before long, the population of southern Vvardenfell had begun to dwindle, and the mainland cities saw a population boom. The problem was that no one knew exactly when it was going to happen. Many people, sensing only the same impending danger as always, had opted to delay their departure until things became a little more dire. Ildari wondered whether any of them would make it to safety.

"How bad?"

"Very." Hir voice was barely audible. "I'm not that good at projection these days, but I can try to show you..."

She felt a nudge in her mind and reached out and accepted it. Though projection did not require direct contact, Vivec grasped her hand tightly as the images began to flow.

She was first faced with the view of a smoldering crater. She wondered what she was supposed to be looking at, or if Vivec had even targeted a location on Nirn, until she started to notice things she recognized. The head of a statue here, the corner of a canton there, all barely recognizable among the utter destruction.

The palace, Vivec spoke into her mind. The view panned to the rest of the city, which looked largely the same.

Is anyone...Did anyone...? Ildari stammered.

There's more.

The scene changed to an aerial view of Vvardenfell. The devastation was even wider-spread than they had anticipated. The island was covered in a layer of smoke and ash emanating from Red Mountain. The view shifted, and they saw through the smoke. Rivers of lava poured down the mountain and throughout the island, filling what foyadas existed and flowing freely where they did not. Cities burned where tephra from the initial blast had landed. Even those regions that would have been spared from the impact were susceptible to the aftermath.

"Why are you crying?" Dreveni asked as she climbed into her mother's lap.

It was only then that Ildari noticed the wetness on her face. She let go of the projection and Vehk's hand and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

"Something very bad happened on Vvardenfell," she said. She knew she would have to explain more very soon, after deciding what level of detail a seven-year-old child could handle, but this would have to suffice for the moment. "Daeli Vehk and I have to have a grownup conversation," she said. "Why don't you go play in your room, little scrib?"

Dreveni still looked concerned, but she kissed her mother on the cheek, hopped off her lap, and headed off to her room. Ildari cast a one-way sound barrier around herself and Vehk, so that they could hear outside noise, but Dreveni would not be able to hear them.

"How many people died?" she asked once it was safe. "How many people are still dying?"

"I...I don't know. I can't hear them anymore," ze said. "I thought I'd gotten used to the feeling—it's been years since you unbound the Heart—but now I feel the emptiness more than ever. I know the people despair. I know they're crying out to their gods, but I. Cannot. Hear. Them."

Ze broke into a sob. Ildari drew closer and pulled hir into a hug, and ze buried hir face in her shoulder.

"It's my fault," ze said after a while. Ze looked up at Ildari. "I need to go there."

"Go...where?"

"To my city."

"Vehk, your city is gone," she said gently.

"I need to..." Ze clenched hir fists and then released them with a sigh. "I should have been there."

"You'd have been killed."

Ze flung hir arms wide and made a face that said that that was the point.

"Vehk—"

"Why am I alive when my people are dead and dying?" ze said. "Their blood is on my hands. I've never had this much of my own people's blood on my hands before and I can't even feel their pain. I can't make it my own."

"If there's too much blood for you to act, then share it," Ildari said. "Share it with Sheogorath, who would be the sole cause of the destruction if you hadn't stopped it in the first place. Share it with Azura, who claims to love her favored people but did nothing to prevent this. Share it with Uriel Septim—Dagon take him—who sent me to effectively overthrow you, knowing that this would be the ultimate result. Share it with Voryn, whose hunger for power was what forced the prophecies to a boiling point." She took Vivec's hands again and said, "Share the blood with me."

"Iya, no. This isn't your fault—"

"I'm the one who cut off your connection to the Heart," she said. "I saw that rock floating overhead every time I was in Vivec City, and never once did I think to ask what your plans for it were."

"It wasn't your responsibility. You were practically a kid before you had your memories back. And, forgive me, but you were a pawn. You weren't supposed to have any real power."

Ildari shrugged. "That doesn't change what's happening. And it doesn't change our responsibility to help the survivors."

Vivec's expression was grim, but ze made no further attempt to disagree.

"All right. Where should we start?"

[blackfreethinkers]

Rethinking the History of Slavery, Race, and Abolition

Seventeenth‐century Quakers, I came to understand, were radical but not because they were abolitionists. Instead, Quakers like George Fox were radical because they suggested that Blacks and Whites should meet together for worship.

Quakers were not the only Christians persecuted for meeting with enslaved people. As I began to investigate this issue further, I looked beyond the Quaker records to the archives of Protestant denominations⁠: members of the Church of England (Anglicans) as well as other smaller denominations, like the Moravian Church. As I did so, I realized there were some intriguing similarities in their experiences.

In each case, English slave owners attacked Protestant missionaries and enslaved Christians for meeting together. On the island of Saint Thomas, for example, Moravian missionaries and Black converts were beaten and attacked by White colonists. Slave owners stole Bibles from enslaved Christians, and they burned Moravian books.

The above photo shows a letter either written—or more likely dictated—by a free Black Moravian woman named Marotta, who wrote to the Queen of Denmark to ask her to support Black Christians. In it, she asks the Queen to support the Black women “of Saint Thomas,” because the slave owners would not allow them to “serve the Lord Jesus.” The petition was first written in Marotta’s native West African language (on the left) and then translated into Dutch Creole (on the right). Marotta’s appeal was accompanied by another letter written in Dutch Creole and also signed by several other Black Moravians on Saint Thomas. This letter went into more detail about the problems facing enslaved Christians: The White planters “beat and injure us when [we learn] about the Savior,” they wrote. “[They] burn our books, call our baptism the baptism of dogs, and call the Brethren beasts.”

As I looked closer at these and other sources, I began to understand why English slave owners found the prospect of slave conversion so threatening:

When enslaved people became Christian, it challenged the justification for slavery, which was religious difference, i.e., it was considered legal to enslave “heathens” but not to enslave Christians. In some cases, missionaries taught enslaved people to read the Bible and to write. This was very unpopular among slave owners. When enslaved Christians met for worship, White colonists feared they were plotting slave rebellion. This helps to explain what happened in Barbados: When Quakers started to include enslaved people in their worship meetings, English slave owners reacted aggressively. When the Quaker William Edmundson visited Barbados in 1675, for example, he was attacked by the governor for “making the Negroes Christians, and [making] them rebel and cut their Throats.”

Protestant Supremacy

These documents reveal some misunderstood aspects of colonial slavery. English slave owners thought of Christianity⁠—and especially Protestantism⁠—as a religion for free people, and they worried that a baptized slave would demand freedom and possibly rebel. As a result, they excluded most enslaved people from Protestant churches.

I felt that this was an extremely important aspect of early colonial slavery and that it had not been fully recognized. So in my book, I gave it a name: Protestant supremacy. Protestant supremacy, I came to understand, was the forerunner of White supremacy. White supremacy uses racial designation to create inequality. But in the seventeenth century, the concept of race, as we know it, did not exist. And most significantly, the concept of “Whiteness” had not yet been created. So slave owners created the ideology of Protestant supremacy, which used religion to justify slavery.

I turned to the legal archives to understand this better. I read through all of the laws passed on the island of Barbados in the seventeenth and early‐eighteenth centuries. In the earliest slave laws, I found, colonists didn’t call themselves “White”; they called themselves “Christians.” Protestant slave owners constructed a caste system based on Christian status, in which “heathen” slaves were afforded no rights or privileges while Catholics, Jews, and nonconforming Protestants were viewed with suspicion and distrust but granted more protections.

This is why it was so controversial for Quakers and other missionaries to introduce enslaved people to Christianity: because it threatened to undermine Protestant supremacy. So the next question is, how did this change? How did Protestant supremacy become White supremacy?

From Protestant Supremacy to White Supremacy

We’ve already seen how Protestant supremacy was challenged. It was challenged by missionaries, including the Quakers, and by enslaved and free Blacks, who wanted to become Christian: people like Marotta.

But in each case, it was challenged differently. I’ll start with the missionaries. Quaker, Anglican, and Moravian missionaries responded to Protestant supremacy by trying to argue that Christianity and slavery were perfectly compatible. Protestant missionaries drew on biblical descriptions of slavery as well as the ideal of the “godly” household to encourage slave owners to allow enslaved people to convert. They noted that Christian slavery had a long and well‐established history in Europe and the Catholic American colonies. Missionaries also tried to defend slave conversion by arguing that enslaved Christians would be more docile and harder working than their “heathen” counterparts.

For an example of this, we can return to the Quaker William Edmundson, who is often thought of as one of the first “antislavery” Quakers. But when he was attacked by the Governor of Barbados for worshiping alongside enslaved people, he responded by saying: “[i]t was a good Work to bring them to the Knowledge of God and Christ Jesus, and … that would keep them from rebelling or cutting any Man’s Throat.” The implications here are clear: Conversion would make slavery safer; it would make enslaved people less rebellious.

Enslaved Christians fought Protestant supremacy in a different way. As we saw in Marotta’s letter, they tended to argue that they had a right to practice Christianity, to read the Bible, and to worship together. Over time, more and more enslaved and free people of color fought their way into Christian churches, influenced by theological, practical, and social motivations.

One of these individuals was named Charles Cuffee. Cuffee, who was probably born into slavery, was baptized on September 9, 1677, in an Anglican church in Barbados. The minister of the church noted that Cuffee had recently been “freed,” making him the first free Black man to be baptized on the island. In 1689, 12 years after his baptism, Cuffee brought two children to the baptismal font: Thomas, aged ten, and Mary, aged five. The minister noted that they were the “son & dau of Charles Cuffee free Christian negro.” By joining the Anglican Church, Cuffee was making a claim for himself: As a free Christian man, he had acquired most of the markings of a freeholder. According to Barbadian law at the time, he would be eligible to vote in elections and, at least hypothetically, run for office if he could acquire enough property.

It was in response to free Black Christians like Charles Cuffee that English slaveholders began to create White supremacy. Soon after Cuffee brought his children to the baptismal font, Barbadian lawmakers wrote a new law, redefining citizenship to include the word “white” as well as “Christian.” This was one of the first times that the word “white” was used in the legal records. The law declared that “every white Man professing the Christian Religion … who hath attained to the full Age of One and Twenty Year, and hath Ten Acres of Freehold … shall be deemed a Freeholder.”

Twelve years later, lawmakers refined their definition of Whiteness further. A 1709 law clarified that a “white” person could have “no extract” from “a Negro,” thereby establishing the “one‐drop rule” as the definition of Whiteness and laying a new foundation for slavery and social oppression that made race seem like a natural category⁠—something that was innate.

What we see here is the codification of Whiteness as a legal category that was specifically intended to exclude free Black Christians from the full rights of citizenship. We often take “Whiteness” as a given, but it has a very specific history. We assume that race is a biological reality when it is actually a political category. Slaveholding politicians actively created the category of “Whiteness” as part of a political strategy to protect slave ownership and restrict the voting rights of free Blacks.

With the creation of Whiteness, slave conversion became less threatening. Whiteness, rather than religious difference, became the new way to justify and enforce slavery.

Combating White Supremacy

As our society becomes increasingly aware of the lasting effects of White supremacy, it’s important to think about where Whiteness comes from. Most people think that race is biological, but this belief is very destructive. It naturalizes race and allows us to forget that Whiteness was created in order to legalize and justify inequality. In other words, we need to acknowledge that individuals made decisions that led to “Protestant supremacy” and to “White supremacy.” If we don’t recognize this history, we risk repeating the injustices of the past.

It’s also important to think about the many different meanings that religion had in slave societies. We see in Protestant supremacy that religion could be a source of oppression. But that’s certainly not what it meant to the enslaved men and women who fought hard to be baptized. Our histories need to keep those two facts in balance, and especially not allow the oppressive regime of Protestant supremacy to desensitize people to the experiences of enslaved and free Black Christians.

For those of us who identify with the Quaker tradition—as I do—this history invites us to think about what it really means to combat oppression. This also means confronting the uncomfortable aspects of Quaker history. When we relegate the blame for slavery and oppression to people “in the South,” for example, we are actively erasing Quaker complicity in, and support for, slavery not only in Barbados but also in Philadelphia and elsewhere in the North. This is an uncomfortable past, but it’s a past that needs to be brought into the light.

Looking carefully at this Quaker past can teach us a lesson about social justice. It shows us that it’s not enough to be radical; we also have to be vigilantly aware of history and the complexities of inequality. It’s not enough to have good intentions. We must be critically engaged with the past to understand the influence it continues to exert in the present.

Finally, history is never inevitable. Things could have developed differently. As we all know, Quakers⁠—as well as many evangelical Christians, both Black and White⁠—played a central role in the abolitionist movement, showing that Christianity, and Quakerism in particular, could be used to support emancipation. We can and should remember those abolitionist Quakers and learn from them. But we can’t whitewash our own history, or we risk repeating it.

[likemesomesalads]

Tagged by @prismaticaurene​ and @emotional-support-salad​

______

― your muse’s name: Thoernen (Main commander time)

―  a favorite picture/face claim of your muse:

My favorite ever picture of him is this art piece made by @ruderubicante​

― two headcanons you have for your muse:

After Maguuma he sort of disappears or at least is barely seen in the jungle, searching for survivors for the first year and just trying to keep himself distracted while also keeping a distance from the Pact and think things through in the other. Eventually deciding that he can’ and won’t give up on the Pact, yet.

After retiring he is the softest dad ever. boh to his adopted son and to Ghael as well.

― three things that your muse likes doing in their free time:

hunting ( basically the only thing he uses his prosthetic arm)

spending time with his family

eating

― seven people your muse loves/likes:

Loke

Dau

Ghaelahad

Aurene

The entire Dragon’s Watch guild

Zafirah

Laranthir

― a phobia your muse has:

He doesn’t really have any phobias, per se but he is afraid of losing everyone important to him.

Tagging anyone who wanna do it.

[queerwelsh]

Ym 1998, cafodd y gwleidydd Ron Davies ei syfrdanu mewn sgandal pan cafodd ei fygio ar ol cytunodd i gwrdd a dyn yng Nghomin Clapham. Wrth weld yr ymatebion homoffobig i’r digwyddiad yma yng nghyfryngau Cymraeg, ysgrifennodd yr hanesydd John Davies am hyn yn y cylchgrawn Barn yn Tachwedd, 1998. Fe wnaeth ei brofiadau fel Warden Pantycelyn am 18 o flynyddoedd, a’r ymatebion homoffobig yma, dylanwadu ar John Davies i dod mas. Dyma dyfyniad o hyn, o’r erthygl uchod:

In 1998, the politician Ron Davies was embroiled in a scandal when he was mugged at knifepoint after agreeing to meet another man at Clapham Junction. After seeing the homophobic responses to this in the Welsh media, the historian John Davies agreed to write about it in the Welsh journal Barn in November, 1998. His experiences as Warden of Pantycelyn, and these homophobic responses, influenced him to come out. The following is a quote of this from the above article (English below):

‘Arwr Gwlad a Thref’ “Ai anoddefgarwch y cymoedd diwydiannol arweiniodd yn y pen draw at gwymp Ron Davies? Mae John Davies yn bwrw golwg bersonol ar y mater.”

“Dydw i ddim am wneud odid un sylw ynglŷn â'i rywioldeb honedig, ond does dim amheuaeth fod y digwyddiadau hynny wedi peri i gyfunrhywiaeth fod yn destun trafod yng Nghymru. Ac er mawr foddhad i mi, mae'r ymateb wedi bod yn bur adeiladol. Mae hynny'n fater o gryn syndod hefyd, ohwerwydd roeddwn yn credu bod homoffobia wedi'i wreiddio'n ddwfn yng nghymdeithas draddodiadol macho y cymoedd glofaol ac yn ddyfnach eto yn y broydd gwledig Cymraeg.

Mi fûm am ddeunaw mlynedd yn warden ar sefydliad lle'r ymgartefai tua ti chant o wŷr a gwragedd ifainc ein cenedl. Cefais droeon y profiad o geisio cynnig cymorth a chyngor i wŷr ifanc a arswydai with iddynt ystyried beth fyddai eu tynged pe bai eu gogwydd rhywiol yn dod yn fater cyhoeddus. Mi gofiaf yn arbennig grwt yr oedd y gwewyr ar ei wyneb yn boenus synwyradwy wrth iddo sôn beth fyddai'n ei ddioddef pe bai sïon amdano yn cyrraedd ei gwm genedigol - a’m cwm genedigol innau hefyd. Yr oedd hyn ar adeg pan oedd Y Cymro a'r Faner yn cyhoeddi llythyron a honnai bod cyfynrhywiaeth yn gwbl absennol yng Nghymru; afiechyd ydoedd a berthynai i ddinasoedd megis Llundain, Amsterdam, Berlin a San Ffransisco, afiechyd yr oedd y Cymry, drwy ryw ryfedd ras, yn gwbl rydd ohono.

Nonsens, wrth gwrs, a'r hyn y dylaswn fod wedi'i ddweud wrth y crwt o'r Rhondda oedd: 'Rwy'n deall yn iawn, oherwydd dyna yn union fy nghyflwr innau hefyd.’ Ond ni ddywedais hynny. (Ar y pryd roeddwn yn cadw fy nghynddaredd ar gyfer ymosod ar siofinistiaeth Gymreig a oedd, ysywaeth, yn brigo yn achlysurol ymhlith rhai o drigolion Pantycelyn.) Tristwch i mi oedd gweld rhywun yn y papur diddorol ond byrhoedlog hwnnw, Y Ddraig Binc, yn disgrifio'r neuadd fel cadarnle homoffobia. Dichon bod sylwedd i'r sylw a mater o gywilydd i mi oedd fy methiant i wneud dim i herio'r homoffobia. Teimlaf na fedraf ymatal rhagor. Yr wyf fi yn ŵr hoyw. (Yr ydwyf hefyd yn hapus briod ac y mae cynnwys y llith hwn wedi ei drafod gyda fy ngwraig a’m dwy ferch a’m dau fab.) Taflaf hyn o wybodaeth i mewn i'r drafodaeth; a derbyn bod gan rhai barch i mi - a dymunol fyddai credu hyn - hoffwn iddynt wybod bod y parch hwnna yn barch tuag at berson sydd bron yn gyfangwbl gyfunrhywiol.

Y mae'r straeon yn y Sun ac ati yn awgrymu bod dynion cyfunrhywiol yn ymdrybaeddu mewn trythyllwch a hynny i raddau cwbl unigryw. A minnau o bryd i'w gilydd yn mynychu clybiau a bariau hoyw, nid dyna fy mhrofiad i. Caf y argraff fod mwyafrif y mynychwyr yn mynd i'r fath leoedd, fel yr af i, am yr yn rhesymau ag y mae Cymry Cymraeg brwd yn mynd i'r eisteddfod genedlaethol - hynny yw, i droi am ysbaid ymhlith pobl o gyffelyb chwaeth. Wedi'r cwbl, fel y mae'r Saesneg yn gwbl dra-arglwyddiaethol yn ein cymdeithas, felly hefyd ddelweddau gwahanrywiol; y mae dianc o bryd i'w gilydd o'r naill neu'r llall yn weithred gwbl amddiffynadwy. Mi gofiaf bod mewn clwb hoyw yma yng Nghaerdydd. Yr oedd dyn a dynes ifanc yn dawnsio yno; doedd neb yn gwrthwynebu hynny, ond ar wynebau rhai o'r gwylwyr yr oedd yna wep yr oeddwn wedi'i weld o'r blaen, a hynny ar wynebau rhai o drigolion Pantycelyn pan oedd rhywun wrth law a oedd yn arbennig o lafar ei Saesneg. Ystyr y wep oedd: a chymaint o leoedd lle y medrwch chi wneud y fath beth, pam yn y byd yr ydych chi'n wneud e fan hyn?” 

‘Town and Country Hero’ “Was it the intolerance of the industrial valleys that ultimately led to the fall of Ron Davies? John Davies takes a personal look at the matter.“

“I do not want to make any comment about his alleged sexuality, but there is no doubt that those events have caused homosexuality to be a subject of debate in Wales. And, to my great satisfaction, the response has been quite constructive. That is also a surprise, because I thought that homophobia was deeply rooted in the macho traditional coal mining society of the mining valleys and deeper in the Welsh-speaking countryside. I have been eighteen years a warden at an institution that houses about three hundred of our nation’s young men and women. I had a great deal of experience of trying to offer help and advice to young men who feared to think what their fate would be if their sexual orientation became a public issue. I especially remember the anguish on a young man’s face as he told me what he would suffer if rumours about him reached his home valley - my native valley as well. This was at a time when Y Cymro and Faner were issuing letters that claimed that homosexuality was completely absent in Wales; It was a disease belonging to cities such as London, Amsterdam, Berlin and San Francisco, a disease that the Welsh people, through some strange rash, were completely free of. Nonsense, of course, and what I should have told the young man from the Rhondda was: 'I understand perfectly, because that’s exactly my situation too.’ But I did not say that. (At that time, I was keeping my bravery for an attack on Welsh chauvinism which, sadly, occasionally sparked amongst some of the residents of Pantycelyn.) It was sad to see someone in the interesting but short-lived paper, Y Ddraig Binc, describe the hall as a homophobic stronghold. Perhaps there was substance to this comment and a matter of embarrassment to me was my failure to do anything to challenge the homophobia. I feel that I can not abstain further. I am a gay man. (I am also happily married and the contents of this article have been discussed with my wife and my two daughters and sons.) I will throw this information into the discussion; and accepting that some have respect for me - and it would be desirable to believe this - I would like them to know that that respect is respect towards a person who is almost completely homosexual.

The stories in the Sun and such suggest that homosexual men wallow in promiscuity, and that to a unique degree. As I occasionally attend gay clubs and bars, that’s not my experience. I get the impression that the majority of attendees go to such places, as I do, for the reasons why Welsh speakers (Cymry Cymraeg) go to the National Eisteddfod - that is, to turn for a while to people of similar tastes. After all, as English is totally dominant in our society, so are heterosexual images; from time to time departing from either is a completely defensible act. I remember being in a gay club here in Cardiff. A young man and woman were dancing there; no one was opposed to that, but there was a scowl on the faces of some of the spectators that I had seen before, on the faces of some of the residents of Pantycelyn when someone was on hand who was particularly verbal in English. The meaning of the scowl is: with so many places where you can do such a thing, why in the world are you doing it her?”

John Davies, ‘Arwr Gwlad a Thref,’ Barn, 430 (Tachwedd, 1998), p.4-5.

[deimagines]

Second Chance (A Steve Rogers‘s Sister Imagine)

Imagine that Steve Rogers A.K.A. Captain America. Actually has a baby sister who was only eight when Steve has to leave her in the care of their neighbor to go to war and was ten when she was told that her brother had disappeared and was soon entitled dead in action.

And then, almost seventy years later, Steve was told that his sister was still alive and had shockingly worked for SHIELD before going into retirement. Unfortunately, she has cancer and is about to die soon. And in her final moments, she asked him to do one final mission for her.

To raise her only granddaughter.

(This will also include a few ocs, and again I hope you enjoy!!)

(Play me)

~1942 (Brooklyn, New York)

“Okay Y/N,” Steve calls. “Time for bed.” 

Y/N Rogers. The eight-year-old sister of Steve Rogers was not only the biggest sweetheart in the world. But she was the only thing that Steve would ever consider the only family that he has other than Bucky, who he had considered as a brother since they were kids.

Y/N runs through her room that Steve made her clean before she took her bath and brushed her teeth. It was a normal routine that Steve had become used to ever since their mother passed away. Unfortunately, Y/N didn’t have a chance to get to know their mother very well. And it was hard to answer her questions about why they didn’t have a mother or a father when all the other kids like her have.

Steve didn’t have a choice but to answer truthfully in the most gentle way as possible. He told her that their mother had to be away. And that she was so sorry that she couldn’t be with them longer. Y/N soon then understand why they needed to visit the large stone that Steve took her once and every year on the birthday of their mother.

Once Y/N was in bed and Steve tucks her in and kisses her forehead. 

“Night Y/N.”

But before he could leave the room. She calls out to him in a soft tone.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Ginger wants a song.” She holds her handmade toy, that she made with their neighbor Miss Audry, and held it a bit high to show Steve. 

He smiled and came right back to her side bed. “Well, what does ‘Ginger’ want to hear?” He sat at the edge.

“The one you always sing,” Y/N answered. “Please.” She gave him the eyes that could possibly make all men hearts melt no doubt when she grows older.

Steve chuckles quietly and leans closer to her. “Alright, but then it’s off to sleep. Ok?”

Y/N nodded happily and lay back down and snuggled into the blankets. 

“At last my love has come along

My lonely days are over.

And life is like a song.”

Steve smiled as his sister began to drift off to sleep and she purposely holds his hand that was resting on her stomach while he sang and smiled lovingly as he continued.

“You smiled and then the spell was cast

And here we are in heaven.

For you are mine at last. . .”

He whispered the lyrics when he made sure that Y/N was finally asleep. He kissed her forehead again took his hand back carefully without waking her up. 

“Goodnight Y/N.” He whispered.

***

“Peggy. . . I’m gonna need a raincheck on that dance.”

Peggy sniffs. “Alright. . . A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club. That way you’ll have enough time to spend with Y/N.”

“You got it. Tell her I’ll read her her favorite when I come home.”

“Ok. . . Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late. Understood?”

“You know. . . I still don’t know how to dance.”

“I’ll show you how. Just be there.” 

“We’ll have the band play something slow. I’d hate to step on your------” Suddenly the radio went to complete static.

“Steve?” Peggy whimpered. “Steve?” She choked. And General Phillips only looks down in defeat. Loosing yet another soldier in battle.

“Steve?” Peggy tries again until she gave up and covers her face in sorrow being left alone in the control room when Phillips couldn’t bare the sight anymore. With only one thought remains in his head now. 

‘How am I going to break the news to the kid?”

~2012

In a home near Brooklyn New York. Y/N Rogers was lying peacefully in her bed with a book in hand. Multiple pictures were placed on her bedside drawer. Some of the pictures contain the day her wedding, the day of her only child’s birth. And her pride possession, her oldest brother. Taken before he was injected with the serum.

When Y/N found out about Steve. She was explained by a man in a suit and her guardian, Miss Audry, a kind old neighbor of the Rogers, that Steve died fighting for what’s right. He saved countless of lives that day when he sunk the Valkyrie down into the ocean, including himself.

Y/N wanted to hate her brother for as long as she can remember. She wanted to hate the visits that her brother’s friends made to keep her company. Making sure the memory of her brother still lives in their own point of views instead of the ones the public claimed.

She hated to admit that she enjoyed their visits. Especially the ones a certain British woman had come and made. 

Peggy was practically like a sister to Y/N whenever the older woman made the time to visit and chat on the things they did and the lives they were making. But most of all, they talked about Steve.

Y/N was doing the most of the talking though. She gave Peggy every detail about the life and childhood Steve have given to her along with the embarrassing stories she had of him. And she wouldn’t change anything about it. They bonded through the years sharing the pain that was stuck inside them like a tumor. But they often reminded each other that Steve wouldn’t want them to sulk up their lives mourning for him. He would want them to be happy.

But as Y/N began to grow up. She found that waiting on men at diners and sitting at home cooking and sewing for her entire life wasn’t the one she would proud of.

So she began to find the opportunities and worked her ass off long enough that it lead her from working at John’s as a waitress to Agent Martins of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.

But Y/N, along with the rest of her fellow comrades, mostly like to call it by its acronym. SHIELD.

Y/N  thought it was best to hide her true identity to avoid any enemies.

She devoted herself to the work that her brother had inspired to create with the help of Peggy and another friend of Steve, Howard Stark. Y/N finds him both silly and amusing to play with when she was a child.

And when Howard made a decision to make Y/N the godmother of his first and only son, Tony. She hesitated at first, fearing that their line of work was bad enough to have children. But she soon agreed to it when she found a love of her own after 10 years of working in SHIELD.

He was daring, practical, smart. But most of all, he was the only nephew of Colonel Chester Phillips. Micheal Aaron Phillips. But most people view him as ‘Mike’.

Mike was a few years older then Y/N was. Making her a bit timid by his appearance and skills. But the skill that Y/N was glad that Mike lack of was arrogance.

He was there when Agent ‘Martins’ was assigned to retrieve an artifact that was stolen from SHIELD. Her brother’s shield.

After their mission. Mike was intrigued by the girl that his Uncle Chester has told him so much about before he signed up into the organization.

Soon enough a spark ignited between them and little did they know that they found themselves in a small church getting married after many long years of dates, picnics, and the watchful eyes of her protectives Howling Commando uncles.

Boy, was that Mike afraid of their eyes.

After then, Y/N gave birth to a healthy baby girl, Dahlia. And 34 more years later, she was blessed with a granddaughter, named Sarah.

Dahlia’s husband heard the name once from Y/N and instantly had a liking to it so much that he practically begged Dahlia to name their daughter after Dahlia’s deceased grandmother. Dahlia found no argument to it and also agreed.

When Y/N retired, she lived a happy life in Brooklyn where she and Steve grew up in. She tells stories of her times to her only beloved grandchild and her daughter and son-in-law.

Until that one night, Y/N was contacted by an officer who gave her the horrific news.

News that would leave Sarah an orphan and a heartbreaking Y/N.

After taking in of what’s possibly the only blood relative she has. Y/N made sure to share the exact pain she had with her brother’s passing and emerge that pain with the loss of her daughter and son-in-law.

Y/N made sure that Sarah was constantly reminded that she was not alone and she would always be loved. It too broke her heart immensely that she could no longer see her daughter and son-in-law anymore. Angry that the universe took yet another piece of her heart. 

And Sarah, she soon began to understand why mommy and daddy aren't coming back.

But it was okay. She has her granny after all. Every day they would go through her granny’s special cookbook that was gifted to her by a very special friend of hers a long time ago.

On other days, they would go to their spot in Central Park to have picnics and play tea parties much to Sarah’s delight.

But she began to notice the tired eyes that her granny was showing every now and then.

She can remember the constant times when she would visit the hospital with her grandmother as the doctor and she talk about grown-up stuff. Sometimes she would eavesdrop on their conversation and began to pick up certain words that she hardly understands.

Plasma cells.

Multiple myelomas.

Cancer.

Sarah watched as the people in white clothes, doctors and nurses she soon found out, bringing the equipment into her grandmother’s room.

Lately, she’s been doing her regular routine in her grandmother’s side bed and was always asked to wait out in the hall when the doctor comes and checked in. 

In the real world. Y/N was always advised that she should take her final moments at the hospital. Where they could treat her well.

But every time she denies. Saying that she wanted to have her final moments with her granddaughter in their home where they had made so many wonderful years together after her daughter’s passing.

She wanted to die in a place where she can relax. Enough to forget that she was going away. Forever.

When the months pass, Sarah ‘s birthday was coming up soon. She’ll be turning eleven in two months time. She was beginning to grow a little taller too. She was just about above the high countertop where she and Y/N used to make their recipes together. 

She’s going to miss that. It wasn’t sugarcoated that Sarah knew she was going to lose her granny soon. Even though she barely remembers her parents. Granny was practically the one she would always love more than anyone else. And she wasn’t just her grandmother or the person she was raised by. She was her best friend.

Ring. Ring. Ring-

One day, the Rogers residence got a call. Sarah was hesitating to answer, but Granny was taking her rest and the only other adult in the house was still outside getting the groceries bags from the car outside.

So without any other options, she took the home phone and click the green button.

“Hello?” Sarah answered.

“. . .Hello, is this Helen Cho?”

Sarah was greeted by a man’s voice. Asking for Helen.

Helen Cho was the doctor that Y/N’s godson had assigned for her care. Insisting that she needed the best of the best. No charge.

“No.”

“Oh. . . well, in that case, would you mind handing the phone to Doctor Helen Cho?”

“Why? Are you a doctor too?”

“No my name Phillip J. Coulson. I’m a friend of Josie Rogers. Is there an adult that I can speak with sweetheart?”

This man- Phillip- asked and before Sarah could answer. Helen appeared through the front door with the groceries.

“Sarah, who are you speaking to?” She asked in a kind but also tired voice as she carried the heavy groceries haul into the kitchen and sets them on the counter table.

“There’s a guy on the phone.” Sarah says and Helen panics a bit but she hides it anyway so that she wouldn’t startle the little girl that she was growing to love during the past 6 months.

“He said his name is Phil-” Helen didn’t answer the child as she hurries and swiped the phone off of Sarah’s hands.

“Hello. Who is this?” 

“Helen. It’s Coulson.”  

Helen covers the phone with her other hand. “Sarah, can you take out the groceries, please?” 

Sarah shrugs, not caring about the man anymore. “Okay.” And runs off to the kitchen.

Helen places the phone back to her ear. “Agent, what a surprise.” She says quietly, not wanting the child at the other room to hear her. 

“Hey, Helen.” Coulson greeted. “How’s everything in the household?”

Helen looks behind her shoulder to see the girl in the house taking apples out from the paper bag. “Well enough. But only for so long. Listen, everything I’ve done. Everything I did won’t slow down her condition Coulson-” 

“Just give me the straight answer Helen.” Coulson interrupted her and she closed her eyes for a moment then said.

“Probably a month. But that’s me being hopeful. . . She’ll be gone in any week by now. She’s growing weaker by the day.”

Helen stopped herself to sigh and holds her emotion to spare Coulson. She knew how he favored his mentor all those years ago.

“But anyway. What else did you want to know?”

After a few words being answered to her question. Her eyes had suddenly grown slightly big and she was practically gapping in the spot on the hall.

“A-are you sure?” She asked. “. . . When?. . . Alright. I’ll let her know. Have a good day Coulson.”

She pressed the off button and placed the home phone back to its charge before placing a hand on the wall to hold herself up.

After a minute of silence, she straightens herself up and began to walk upstairs to where her elder was resting. When she got to the room, she knocked on the open door to present herself.

“Who is it?” Y/N was staring at the window with studied eyes as she watched the leaves blowing against the wind. How she loves the little things. Its what kept her sane ever since she was on house arrest. Or that’s what she likes to call it.

“It’s me. Helen.”

Y/N turns and smiled sweetly at the young woman. “Helen. I see you and Sarah are back from your trip to the supermarket.” 

But then, she noticed that expression on her nurse's faces and began to worry a bit. “What’s wrong dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If only Helen could correct her statement. But to tell her the news. Cho sits at the end of the bed by Y/N’s legs and calms herself enough to speak.

“They found him.”

Y/N frowns then said. “What? Helen who found who?”

Helen gulps and Y/N asked again. “Helen?”

The young woman let out a big breath and said. “He’s alive Y/N. Your brother. Captain America. He’s alive Y/N.”

Y/N’s breath hitched and she blindly searches something to hold with her hand and found the offering of Helen’s.  felt like she wasn’t going to breath. It was like she was in one of her dreams. Having someone to tell her that her brother was alive had been one of the biggest fantasy she’s ever had ever since the Valkyrie drowned into the sea.

She looks at Helen to see any tricks or hallucination that could be happening in her head right now. Wondering if this was another trick from her lack of energy. But Helen’s eyes answered it all.

He’s alive.

                                                          _*_*_                                                             

Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America. 

Steve Rogers.

After being found and wakened up. 

He was so studious about the many changes in New York.

Most of the woman that he’s seen were wearing pants.

Large television screens were placed all over Time-Square.

And as if it didn’t get any strange, it did when he saw a young woman with what looks like a pierced earing on the bottom of her lip when Fury and some other agents took him inside of the main headquarters of SHIELD.

It was a strange event for him to wake up so suddenly in a fake medical ward and was later being chased by armed men out of the building until they caught him in Time Square.

Seventy years. Almost anyway.

That’s how long he had been gone from Fury’s statement. He had been asleep for almost seventy years. But it felt like he had been asleep for only one night. It was surreal even. 

So surreal that he even considered that he was just dreaming and that he would wake up any moment now in one of those uncomfortable cots that he had just gotten used to after so many periods of sleep on rocks and hard pavement when he and the Howling Commandos were off doing missions on Hydra’s bases.

He imagined that Peggy would be at his side when he wakes. And miraculously, they would manage to bring his baby sister in and she would jump into his arms like she always does whenever he managed to visit her back in Brooklyn.

But he needed to remind himself that he was only daydreaming, hoping. And that he really did disappear for so long and was later found by SHIELD. 

He can never get that dance at the Stork Club that he promised his best gal.

Never got the chance to give away Y/N at the altar on the day of her wedding.

Not even a chance to meet his niece. Dahlia Phillips.

By the time when he was escorted to Fury’s office after being changed into some different clothing that was given to him when came to the headquarters.

He was carefully told that SHIELD was founded by Howard Stark. Chester Phillips, and Margaret Carter. Made it a successor to continue the old government that Steve once remembered, the S.S.R.

He was explained that after the war was won, many agents were sent to find, or retrieve Steve back starting from where the Valkyrie was last seen. 

Trails went cold. And some had even given up on the search until one by one, the agents dialed down to a single crew. 

To the public, Captain Rogers was 'presumed' dead. Even some of America’s top leaders suggested to give up the search on Rogers. Seeing that he is just what history claims him to be. History.

Until now.

Then all of the information hadn’t even matter when Steve asked about his sister.

He was only given the basics. That she graduated in one of the finest schools and college. Got married to an honorable man and had a kid and a grand-daughter soon enough.

And before she did the family dream with a picket fence. She was an agent.

Steve was shocked as Fury told him about the ‘success’ his sister made for SHIELD. How she was the first youngest agent to be initiated at the age of 22. And was once made the head director of SHIELD for about three decades until she retired and gave up the position to Fury.

To be honest. Steve was actually proud of Y/N. Even if he didn’t want her to live a life as an agent. Still, he was angry that she wanted to place herself in heavy situations that he’s probably going to have to give her one of his ‘big brother talk’ moments that he missed giving to her ever since he got into the war.

Which reminded him something. He asked about how Y/N is now. He didn’t even hide the hesitation when he asked. It was clear that no matter how long you have or how healthy you are. Death will always come so fast that you can’t even see coming. Especially working for the government.

Fury did his definition of sugarcoating and told Steve that his timing was so practical when Y/N only had a few weeks to live.

Suddenly, Steve found himself going through memory lane. Thinking about the times to every pain he felt in his life.

From the bully punches in the alleys and streets, Project Rebirth, and the deaths of Dr. Erskine and his long-time best friend, Bucky.

All of the physical and emotional pain was hitting him all at once in just that second. 

His little baby sister was dying.

Though he was glad that she lived this far. Building a family of her own as she works her way into SHIELD like it was nothing. It surprises him that she even got the time to have one. A family. Fury even gave him the name of the grand-daughter that Y/N loves to death.

Sarah. That’s the name of Steve’s great-niece. Named after his mother. And he couldn’t wait to meet her already. 

“When.” He asked. Not adding any more explanation after he said it. Knowing that Fury would easily understand about what he’s asking.

“Now.” Fury said. 

It was about time that Captain America is going to meet his baby sister again after almost 70 years.

                                                         _*_*_                                                            

A clean vehicle with very privacy glass to hide the back passengers that were being taken to Brooklyn. It didn’t go unnoticed when Steve saw the large changes in the city that he had grown up in. 

New buildings were built and the small apartments that he crossed so many times in his youth were replaced by shops. And the shops that he remembers, along with the Stork Club were replaced by different ones and numerous names were popping out everywhere the vehicle goes. Some were even repeating like McDonald’s and Taco Bell.

He’s going to have to ask someone about them later.

During the trip, Fury was kind of kind enough to give Captin with some grand updates that he had missed during his time in the ocean. One of them being the Civil Rights of Act 1964. 

Steve couldn’t help but smile at the fact. Y/N’s favorite neighbor, Miss Audry was a sweet old black woman that lives in the apartment that was just under their’s. She would always take care of Josie whenever he had to go out to work. Her wish came true.

It wasn’t until they crossed through Brooklyn Bridge that his nerves started to kick in and his knee was subconsciously beginning to bounce. His eyes looking out at every buildings and house they passed to take the time to calm himself a bit until they get to the address that Fury only knows. 

Suddenly the car slows down to a stop in front of a terraced house. “Here we are.” Fury said.

Steve couldn’t help but gulped quietly while the palms of his hands began to sweat his nerves out. Brushing them against the fabric of his pants to try to push off the weight that was holding him down to his seat.

“Ready to meet them?” Fury asked. 

At first, Steve thought that he must’ve misheard him but then remembers that there was another Rogers that lived in the terraced with his sister.

Fury opens his doors and Steve did the same with his side. Closing the door as he got out and looks up at the terraced more clearly.

It was a very nice light blue home with white-framed windows with white curtains hanging inside for privacy.

Steve followed Fury as they make their way past the small gates that was standing in front of the house and marched upon the small porch. Fury pressed the doorbell before turning back to Steve. 

“You’ll have a day with her. After that, I’ll send someone to pick you up in the evening. Good luck.” He patted his shoulder and left him standing alone on the porch. Speechless.

Steve looked a bit panic and was about to turn to call for Fury to come back but stops himself when the door opened.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice says and Steve was surprised when he turned to see a young Asian woman at the door. Questionable eyes looking at him and waiting for an answer.

“Hello, ma’am.” It was the only way that Steve could start with.”I’m here to see-” 

“Steve Rogers.” The woman suddenly said with a small gasp and eyes widened. And it was Steve’s turn to look at her in question when she said his name. Wondering how did she know him?

“Yes, uh. . . how did you-”

“You look a lot like in the pictures that Y/N showed me. Only, you’re a bit more. . . bigger.” She gave him an awkward smile. Feeling a bit intimidated that THE Captain America was standing by the doorstep. 

“I’m Doctor Helen Cho.” She greeted formally. “Y/N is currently under my care. Has been for about a year now.” 

She offers her hand and Steve takes to handshake as the words ‘doctor’ and ‘care’ came into mind. “So you’re the one who’s been treating my sister?”

“Yes.” Helen answers. “Why don’t you come in.” She opens the door wider and lets the captain. He said his thanks and went inside as Helen closed the door behind him. 

Steve took a small time to glance around the interior of the house and felt a homey feeling that radiated from the beige painted walls with family pictures hanging. Some were dated back to the 40′s and the now. 

“Follow me.” Helen said as she went and steps up to the stairs in the hall that leads up to the upstairs floor. Not blind to catch the old soldier’s nerves as he lets out a small sigh before following her behind. 

Every step he took felt like he was walking knee deep in water and when they got to the floor, Helen gestures him to a door a the end of the hall. “Right over here.”

It only took a few more steps until they reached to the front of the door. Steve held his breath as she knocks on the hardwood. 

“Come in.” A frail voice answered from the other side and Steve felt a small trail of goosebumps forming on his arms. 

Helen opens the door and pokes her head in. “Hey, look who’s here.” 

She opened the door fully and steps aside for the old woman to have a full image of Steve, who was still standing in the hall. He hesitated at first but went in either way. 

The first thing he noticed about the room was the floral wallpaper pattern on each wall. A wooden dressing table stands flat back on the wall with numerous medications on it along with some portrait pictures with a small jewelry box by them. 

The only decor in the room that was out of place was the noticeable medical monitor and the IV bag and pole standing beside the luscious bed. 

And on the bed, was the woman that holds a special in Steve’s heart the second he first held her in arms when she was just a newborn. 

“Hey, Stevey.”

Y/N Rogers’s eyes watered as she began to cry in relief when Steve entered the room. Happy that he was alive and well. 

As for Steve, he couldn't believe that this gray hair and fragile human was his baby sister. The only thing that didn’t change was the contagious smile that he oh so love very much. That seeing it made him teared up and he waste another second as he goes over to the side of her bed and sat on the chair that was placed there. Taking her hand when she outstretches it to him. 

He finally found the strength to smile back to his sister and pressed the palm of her hand against his cheek. And suddenly a pained look slowly formed on his face.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly in regret. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N’s eyes furrowed at him. “For what?”

Steve looks at her, confused. “For everything. . . For leaving you and everyone else-”.

But Y/N shakes her head to him. “No, you didn’t leave. . . You saved me.” She caressed the back of his hand to comfort him. “If you didn’t manage to stop the Valkyrie, everyone that we know in New York, including myself would’ve died from the impact.”

Steve still didn’t understand. “But-”

“But nothing!” Y/N said. “Whatever you’re thinking. Whatever thought that made you so regretful. I want you to know that I forgive you.”

Steve looks at her surprise. 

“I forgave you for a long time now. Knowing that holding on to the anger that I had for you would only cloud my judgment to the world. “Y/N held in her sobs and her grip on her brother’s hand tightens. But it wasn’t effective enough seeing as Steve wasn’t bothered by her touch but by her words.

It was his turn to smile in relief and then kissed her hand before saying. “I’m here now, Y/N. I’m here now.”

She hums happily and patted the back of his hand. It was then that she noticed a small figure hiding behind the frame of the door in the hall. 

Y/N let out a small chuckle and called out to the little one. “You can come in, Sarah.” 

It was the small gasp that took Steve’s attention away from his sister and turns to see what cause such a small noise. At the doorway, there stands a small girl staring at them with hands all fiddling. Curiosity was filled in the child’s eyes as she looks at the stranger that was sitting beside her granny and holding her hand. 

“Come in Sarah.” Y/N urges. “There’s someone I liked you to meet.”

The girl hesitated. Not taking her eyes off the man, she quickly went up to her granny at the other side of the bed and jumps on to it until she was fully seated by her grandmother.

Y/N moved to the side a bit to make room for Sarah. When she moves around a bit to find a comfy position, she turns to Sarah and said. “Sarah, this my brother. Steve. You're great-uncle.”

Steve would’ve laughed at the title if he wasn’t still so the shock of how Sarah looks so much like Y/N when she was at her age.

He distinctly remembered that the last time when he saw Y/N was when she had turned ten. Sarah looked about the same age as her grandmother when Steve left her to go and fight in the fields with the Howling Commandos. He also remembered the many letters that he wrote to her as well the teasing comments that he got from the fellas when they thought that he got a gal back at home.

They weren’t wrong.

“Hi.” Steve said to the little and she only smiled shyly and gave him a little wave.

“Hello.” She managed out and looks back at her grandmother to whisper her something by her ear.

“He’s your brother?”

Y/N smile. “Yes.”

“But why isn’t he old like you?” Sarah whispered again and Y/N only chuckles at her granddaughter’s question. And judging by Steve’s amused look. He definitely heard his grand-niece and wasn’t bothered by the question. 

“It’s a long story, Sarah.” Y/N said. “But for now, why don’t you go and see if Helen needs help in the kitchen.”

“Okay, Granny.” Sarah then jumps down from the bed and runs out of the room.

Y/N and Steve both smiled at the child’s behavior

“A lot like me isn’t she?” Y/N said. 

Steve held back a laugh. “Scary.” And they both laughed.

They both had a lot of time in the room. Catching up the times that Steve had missed. And occasionally he would tell him a bit of his time in the fields and stories about his war pals. Y/N even told him about the ridiculous behavior his Howling Commandos had whenever she would go on a date with a boy. Steve didn’t whether to laugh or be proud by the job that his commandoes filled in when he wasn't there to be the overprotective brother like should’ve been.

And what’s more touching is that Y/N had asked Steve to go to her bookshelf and take out a book. Before he could ask which one, his eyes landed on one peculiar one. ‘The Hobbit’. Her favorite bedtime story. He then vaguely remembers about what he said on the Valkyrie. ‘Tell her I’ll read her her favorite when I come home.’ which was the book he was holding now. He looks at her with tears and she just nodded. So Steve got comfortable beside her bed and began to read the first chapter.

He tried everything in his power to remember the smile as Y/N laughed and talked about how iconic the book had become and how Sarah was also an admirer of the novel. Not wanting to forget it until the time of her lifespan was suddenly gone. And when it did. He almost forgot it. After the Chitauri war in New York. Y/N’s heart just gave up, during the day before she could even take her afternoon nap. The funeral was lovely, and shockingly, Tony Stark appeared beside the family. As his title as the godson of one of SHIELD’s greatest agents in history.

Steve was still surprised that Howard made Y/N the godmother of Tony. When they met at the Hellcarrier, Tony did mention that Y/N, along with his mother, were the only ones that gave actually damn about him instead of his own father. Who would bragged to him about how ‘great’ Steve Rogers was.

But it didn’t matter. What only matters now, was to give a eulogy as Y/N written in her recent will.

The church was filled with old veterans, retired agents, as well as other people who had their hearts touched by Y/N. Peggy would’ve been there too if it weren’t for her alzheimer’s.

After Steve was done, the priest asked if there was anyone that would like to say a few words.

Surprisingly, Tony stood up and brought out a small folded paper from his pocket. When he got behind the podium. He cleared his throat.

“Hi, I’m Tony.” He started off. “I’m Y/N’s Godson-Well. . . was.” He faltered.

“Growing up, my father became the person he was ‘till he dying breath. A failure of a father.”

Steve grimaced at the words. He was certain that Howard would someday change but failed to acknowledge how good of a father Howard would become. Tony became that living result.

“Despite being a genius. I still have trouble coping with the world. My father was too busy to acknowledge the importance of teaching me how to catch, how to talk to girls, and most of all, how to be a human being. Y/N Rogers had the interest to fill in that role.”

Though no one could see, behind the podium Tony had his hand clutched tightly into a fist to maintain himself.

"She made me the person I am today. She is the quarter of why I shut down the weapons manufacturing division from my company. And she was. . . she was human. And I guess that's the only way that you can describe Y/N. She was human. And she was loved. I guess we can never stop loving someone who had left an incredible mark in someone else's life. And I know that she wouldn't want me to stop caring the world, otherwise, I know that she would kill me if I did."

A few chuckles were heard around the church. Even Steve managed to smile at the comment. But a few silent sobs were heard from the back of the room.

“Y/N, we’ll miss you. . . I’ll miss you.” Tony had a slightly lost look on his face for a second and then clears his throat. “Thank you.”

With that, Tony got off the stage and went back to his seat beside Sarah and Steve.

“Thank you.” Steve said solemnly and quietly to him.

“Thought I should get it over it,” Tony said. “I would’ve regretted it if I didn’t.”

“She would be proud of you.” Steve added.

“She is.” A small voice interrupted them and they both look down at the child sitting between them. “She told me so.”

Tony blinks at the girl then stares off back to the casket. “Thanks, kid.”

“Your welcome Uncle Tony.”

Tony would’ve normally told Sarah to not to call him ‘Uncle Tony’. But just for today, he let it slide.

Once the service was done. Everyone stood up and waited for Steve and the other veterans who were picked to be the pallbearers carried the casket out of the church and the crowd followed behind them in a slow marching pace. All the way to the large burial ground behind the church.

When they set the casket inside the large hole, white roses were passed to everyone. And one by one, they dropped it on top of the casket while whispering their final goodbyes.

The last to place their rose was Steve. And when he let go of the rose into the hole. Everyone was beginning to leave. And as the time passed, the only ones who were left standing by the now finished grave, was Steve, Sarah, Tony, and Helen.

Helen was only there mostly for Sarah’s benefit. She had grown very close to the young child that she didn’t have the heart to leave her alone with Steve.

Beside her, Helen decides to break the ice and started whispering a certain situation with Tony.

“You know, lawfully speaking since you are Sarah’s godfather. There’s a possibility that she could be wind up being in under your care.”

It was true. Since Tony and Dahlia had known each other from Y/N. Dahlia made Tony the godfather of her only child. Knowing that even before he was Iron Man and his conscience had finally kicked in. She trusted Tony enough to be the godfather. Much to her husband’s dismay.

Not paying attention to the whispers behind him. Steve suddenly felt a small human hand enclosing itself with his own. He looks down and sees Sarah looking up at him. Sending him a small smile, trying to comfort him in the best way she can.

“We should probably go. Granny doesn’t like it if anyone stays in the cold too much. You could get sick.”

It had begun to get cold. The clouds in the sky indicated that it was going to rain soon and the winds brushing against them was getting colder by the minute they stood there.

So with an exhaled breath, Steve nods at his niece’s small proclaim before clearing his throat. “Okay, let’s go.” He gave her a somewhat convincing smile and gently firmed his grip on to her hand. Carefully not to hurt it and they began to walk away from the gravestone. Mentioning Helen to follow them since she was their ride.

Tony watches as Steve helps Sarah into Helen’s car. Helen’s words were repeating in his head.

Under your care.

“No,” Tony thoughts. “They need each other. . . it’s what she would’ve wanted it.”

And it was indeed.

=============================================================

Hey! So I hope you like the story. And just to let you know, I’m thinking of making it into a Wattpad fanfic book. So let me know on the comments below. And I will try my best to upload it as soon as possible. And of course, there will be a pairing but it’s going to be a very slow-burn pairing between Sarah and a certain hero in blue spandex.

Thank you for taking your time to read my imagine and my message. 

Mahal kita!!!!!

[georgiapeach30513]

Me @ the face claims

plz

Let’s finish where we stopped

Fauna

Audriana

Drysdale’s

Foxley

Quill

Adler’s

Birdie Mae is Blake Lively

Arlo

Briar

Barnes’ Joshua/Emy

Jameson

Bibiana

Aulora

[colonel-killa-bee]

What do you think about the claims that Ulfric is racist? I've heard some defenses about how Elves are treated in Windhelm, but what about the Argonians?

I think it’s tied to the Dunmer, personally. 

First, this is TES so it’s not like it’s out of the realm of possibility that Ulfric just really hates lizards, but thus far, if someone hates somebody, there will either be a reason given, or the person in question will just say “I hate X” so there’s no question about it.

Here, they don’t do this, hell a lot of things about Ulfric in general are left for the player to figure out themselves.

So the first thing I noticed since my first playthrough originally was in support of the Legion, was that Brunwulf Free-Winter still actually keeps the Argonians segregated. I think there’s one exception possibly where the Argonian who is scripted to have a conversation in the New Gnisis Corner Club actually moves in with some Dunmer, but the rest have to stay. 

Brunwulf blames Ulfric of course and says its his attitude that infected the rest of the Nords, but what they don’t ever talk about is what got the Argonians and Dunmer over in Windhelm in the first place, which is the war they had just across the border. The war and Red Mountain erupting after Baar Dau fell.

And with the Dunmer already taking up what’s considered to be run down and cramped living space because it was intended for short term housing for refugees years ago before Ulfric’s rule but is now permanent residency, and the civil war going on as well, and a murderer running around killing females specifically, I would assume this segregation of Argonians was to avoid even more civil unrest when the city barely has enough manpower to keep control of what’s going on now.

That’s my opinion of it. It just wouldn’t make much sense, in my opinion for Ulfric to let Dunmer stay in his city once he became Jarl, even run farms with Nord workers, and let the Altmer stay in his city and be the only horse vender we see, and have the most successful businesses like the potion shop which is actually a big ass house in the market district… especially after his run in with the Thalmor and Elenwen…

But out of left field hate lizards for no reason at all XD 

But again, it’s possible. And to be honest it wouldn’t effect what I think about him anyway even if he were, as like I said, it’s TES.

If people can completely ignore Tullius’ words about Skyrim and barbarism to justify their presence there, which mirrors White Man’s Burden, I don’t see why Ulfric’s supposed racism in relation to Argonians would be any more damning.

I guess because it’s much more in your face than the topic of Imperialism, and with the Empire you’d have to actually read up their history and see their actions in the land and how it effects everything and everyone. Vs just hearing what the Argonians think is going on and taking it at face value.

[talldarkandroguesome]

20th of Second Seed, Morndas

I had been relaxing in the morning. I awoke, as usual, just before dawn, had a glass of wine while I checked if I had any letters, then felt bad enough about the situation with Qau-dar and how Sildras stayed behind, that I went back to sleep. I could use the sleep anyhow.

I was awoken, not even an hour later, by Tel at the door. I threw back the covers and answered the door, inviting Tel in.

Tel was apparently worried when they awoke in the morning to realize I had not spent the night at the barracks. I told them I had seen things winding down and getting more one-on-one personal, so, I had retired to give them space. After all, it is not as though I had been given permission to stay with the Armigers.

So Tel told me how they had searched the barracks, worried I might have gotten lost. I was struck by how ridiculous Tel was. I had left more than 5 hours earlier and Tel thought I would be lost that long? How foolish.

Tel asked if I wanted to take a run with them and their fellows. I asked if I would need clothes, to which Tel said I would. So I uncorked the wine and had a healthy drink before I put on my clothes.

When Tel asked if I was drinking water, I told them sure, why not. They accepted that without question. I dressed in the lightest clothing I have, plus the flask of wine to the run.

I finished the flask before we were even halfway through the run. Still, it felt like being back in my apprenticeship. Only this time, I did not have to make a time. I let myself fall behind and then teleport ahead when I needed to. Why not?

I know Tel would accuse me of cheating, but they have only their own expectations to blame. I am a civilian. And besides, what does it matter?

We went to the baths afterwards and I was able to admire just how well sculpted the Armigers truly are. Mer of every body type, all going for the express pleasure of cleaning and socializing.

Afterwards, I told Tel that I should like to do some shopping. They seemed interested in joining me. I changed into some casual but nicely made clothing. Then asked Tel if they could promise me a favor.

Tel said they would. I asked that for whatever happened as we were shopping, they just went with the flow, no questions or interference until later.

I knew there was a high chance that my last cover would still be going. The bard, Ralen. The one with the sick mother, who studied at the bard school in the city and went abroad to earn coin for her treatment.

So many recalled me and my mother’s plight, asking after her and offering discounts. I played humble, thanking them profusely and saying it was not necessary, but sorely appreciated. I even told them I had just come briefly to visit mother and check on her condition and how the treatment fared before taking back off again.

The whole time I could see Tel, trying not to go blue in the face laughing. Is it so strange to hear me speak with the Vvardenfell accent and be called Ralen?

On the way back from the market, Tel asked me what all of it was about, laughing far too much about the situation. I told them it was from one of my most prevalent covers and that, given how the House is taking me back into their confidence, I should not like to throw all those years of establishment away.

Tel and I went to my room to wait. I packed up all the goods I had and drank a little over conversation. We discussed our plans in Vvardenfell and I mentioned my urgent need to return back to Mournhold. Tel seemed under the impression that we should be going together, so I simply asked that they prepare to leave before nightfall.

We went to speak before Vivec.

An utter waste!!

Once again, mostly pageantry and falsehoods.  Although, at least with Almalexia, there was something to be gained.

Vivec gave a whole lot of unhelpful advice and obvious facts, just stated in the most contrived way. All as expected, of course. How Tel can be so infatuated with such a mer, I will never understand! Traitor and imposter, no matter how much power they wield, still remains firmly that. Baar Dau is a perfect embodiment of everything wrong with Vivec. They only ever make use of their powers when it is to press upon the general populous the skill and might of his godhood. It has nothing to do with being a good person, ruler, or example in any way.

It is only made worse for want of mantling Lord Mephala, while simultaneously claiming that the true power is his and his alone, turning his back on the one who taught him and led him to be who he is. The teaching is all stolen from the worship of the True Tribunal.

And for what?!

No, I shall waste no further time on the traitor.

Tel needed to say farewell and pack before leaving, so I told them that I only wanted to pray before I left and that they should meet me in the Temple to go home. Tel took the necessary time to do what they wished. I prayed in my room before heading to the Temple. 

The familiar, terrible feeling of teleportation left me exhausted. I briefly was able to let Qau-dar know that I would be ready to leave after meeting with the Council to solidify the final details of the negotiations.

Qau-dar was still keeping their distance and holding Khes back, so I left the gifts to be delivered to the room in my stead and went back to my room and collapsed into Avon’s lap. Sildras came later to sleep with us and I was happy to be in the familiar, warm setting of home.