#god forbid I expect people to do their jobs thoroughly or with at least a singular thought..

[loumauve]

I snapped today at work, and by snapped I mean I politely commented on a help desk ticket by summing up an mess of an (type of) issue that's come up for at least the fourth time in the 2+ months I've been managing user accounts, and asked the person responsible to fix it (himself for once) because last time I fixed his mess-up it took me two whole days to work out the details with at least four other colleagues from different departments and I really don't want to do it again. there's other shit that needs doing, I've been working 10+ hour days for most of this week already, so I need to cut down not add on more.

(good thing tho - at least we managed to fix the issue where the dataset of a newer employee got mixed up with another one of the same name and therefore wasn't able to apply for any of the access/accounts she needed. technically not entirely my area but it does impact us not being allowed to create an account for her so I figured I might as well track that issue down. took three days and at least three other people, but hey - it should all work out now. yay for that)

[king-of-men]

My objection is that no such arrangement is particularly stable.

Ok, see, now you're introducing additional considerations, also known as moving the goalposts. Howsomeever: Have you considered that Sweden, famously left-oriented, has a much higher correlation between parents' and childrens' wealth than does that hellhole of hereditary oppression, the US? This critique that capitalism leads to runaway perpetual wealth is just not true. (Orwell said the same thing, and where are now the wealthy financiers of his day?) You get runaway perpetual wealth, actually, from systems in which networking is more important than money; as, for example, Soviet Russia and modern China. And Sweden.

Incidentally, if stability is what we want, what makes your famous "organisation" stable? Other than in which families get to be in the nomenklatura, that is? Even if "everyone owns the means of production" you'll still be making actual day-to-day decisions by some specific manager, or small circle of managers; it can't be done by mass democracy. Those managers then have real power which will be competed for and maintained in all the classic ways. How do you avoid this?

You will notice some of it goes back to Clinton

What I notice is that Wikipedia, an organisation immensely biased to the left, can't do any better than "Deregulation, excess regulation, and failed regulation by the federal government have all been blamed" - you may be sure that if excess regulation hadn't been thoroughly demonstrated to be the actual cause, it would only be listed as a "debunked accusation", if indeed the editors were allowed to mention it at all - and then gives examples of "deregulation" that are actually changes of emphasis in regulation, for example "refusal by regulators to prohibit rampant predatory lending" - yes indeed! That's exactly what the CRA called for! The regulation requiring loans for blacks contradicted the regulation of maximum interest rates; the second one lost out in the bureaucratic infighting, because absent gods forbid we should have the rule of laws and not of men; and the resulting enforcement of one set of regulations over another is called "deregulation". This is roughly what I expect from Wikipedia, but I had hoped for better from you.

Again: "[E]xpansion by Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac into the subprime mortgage market". This is given as an example of deregulation; it is of course the result of the FMs being told what to do - the thing to be explained is here given as a cause of the thing. You can't even call it circular reasoning, in that no reasoning is involved at all. Someone was padding their list with talking points, is all.

I don't think any of what I write here rises to the level of ideology

:rofl:

This is possibly the least self-aware sentence anyone has ever written on the Internet. Well done, that man; give him a prize.

Didn't you say earlier that building more houses is a universal remedy for housing scarcity? How would you go about incentivising it indirectly?

"Who is in charge of providing London with bread?" Just let people build, and there will be new housen; profit is a perfectly sufficient incentive. Perhaps you are not aware of the problem, but in the Anglosphere the main obstacle to construction is laws that forbid new housen from being built without going through literally years of environmental reviews, getting licenses stamped in triplicate by all the various bureaus, and of course inspections and reviews to make sure that you're conforming with zoning law. (It's not even an excuse for bribery! The bureaucrats, as far as I know, are quite scrupulously honest in enforcing the absolutely insane laws evenly for everyone, so not even wealthy and powerful people can build anything!) Germany may have different obstacles but where I live, the only thing needed for housen to spring up like toadstools, is for the government to get out of the way.

The free market has proven itself incapable or unwilling to do the job to provide adequate housing to everyone

The free market has not been allowed to operate in housing. You follow, of course, the example of every authoritarian thug ever in blaming the free market for not providing what the free market was forbidden to build, and claiming that the remedy must be more of what caused the problem.

Construction workers deserve to be compensated fairly, which would be easier without nominal owners of the construction firms skimming off profits for themselves. Many states recognize the human right to clean drinking water, and workers in water treatment plants still get paid.

Ugh, I keep forgetting how hard leftists work to ignore the violence hidden behind their spreadsheets. The utility workers are of course paid out of tax money, which at some point was earned by some specific person and then stolen from them with the threat of violence. All you're doing is moving the gun and the forced labour around.

If you don't conscript the construction workers, then you're instead conscripting someone else to provide the money that pays their wages. If you would be so kind as to ignore the spreadsheets for a moment and look at the actual movement of goods and services, you will notice that "wages paid by taxation" are exactly equivalent to government thugs going to the farms and taking some pigs and corn, and giving them to the construction workers; except for being more efficient since the workers do the shopping themselves.

So, which specific person has the duty to pay the workers who build my house? And again, how are you going to "incentivise" them to do it, if not with the threat of violence?

I will leave off here because this is the absolute central point which needs addressing: You (and every other leftist it has been my displeasure to discuss this with) seem to just not see the coercion, the violence, and the oppression, provided it's at a sufficient remove from the good thing you want to accomplish. But spreading the violence out to the whole population doesn't, actually, improve anything; it just makes it easier to overlook what you're doing. So I ask again: Who pays for the house I have a right to, and why do they do that?

Speaking Of Mortgages: I have long wondered if housing would be as expensive if loans were not as freely available - all that artificial liquidity has to be driving up the price, but I have no idea if it is by 1 percent or 100.

Right? We are obviously doing a lot to subsidise the demand as well as restricting the supply, but I think disentangling the two effects and measuring their size would be a whole PhD in econometrics.

[petrichoravellichor]

A/N: Here’s some Bela/Henriksen nobody asked for, cheers.

Arthur Ketch was an absolute bastard. Which is, Bela suspects as she furiously contemplates her second drink, actually the entire fucking point. 

Of course their boss had picked Ketch for promotion over her, because said boss was also a bastard. Not to mention a twat, not to mention a wanker, not to mention just about every other insult Bela’s thoroughly done with this rubbish mind can come up with as she sulks at the bar of the second-rate drinking establishment she somehow got roped into entering as part of the general office celebration of Arthur Ketch, new Vice President of Global Affairs at Shurley & Sons, Inc. Never mind that Bela has been with the company longer and knows the role better; apparently, she needs to ‘smile more’ and ‘work on her people skills’ and other misogynistic bullcrap she’s one hundred percent certain no manager has ever said to a man. 

God forbid a woman have ambition.

As she tips back her glass, Bela’s gaze catches Ketch high-fiving coworkers over by the jukebox as he cues up what will undoubtedly be another god-awful song partying it up in proper tool fashion. How’s about I ‘work on my people’ skills by smashing this glass over his stupid fucking head? she thinks, savoring the burn of liquor on her tongue. I’ll even smile…

“Damn,” comes an amused voice from her left, and Bela turns to see her coworker, Victor Henriksen, sliding onto the stool next to her. “Why do I feel like I’m about to witness first-degree murder?”

Bela scoffs. “Please,” she says, flashing him a conspiratorial smile. “If I were going to kill him, I’d do it when there were no witnesses. They’d never even find the body.”

Henriksen considers her, looking not so much horrified as impressed. “I believe it.” He raises a hand to get the bartender's attention. “Can I refill your drink?”

Bela gives him an indifferent shrug, barely holding back a cringe as LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem” starts playing to raucous cheers from the general jukebox vicinity. Fucking Ketch. “Why not.”

As a general rule, Bela isn’t what she would call fond of any of her coworkers, but Henriksen’s all right. He’s been with the company nearly as long as she has, and he’s clever and highly competent at his job. If Bela were in a less petty place at the moment, she might have even gone so far as to say that she wouldn’t have minded overly much if Henriksen had got the VP position, because at least he, unlike Ketch, is actually qualified. 

The bartender drops off their drinks (a dry martini for Henriksen, another gin and tonic for Bela), and Henriksen picks up his glass, raising it in Bela’s direction with a wry smile. “To plotting murder against thoroughly mediocre men. I won’t snitch if you won’t.”

Bela lets out a surprised laugh and clinks their glasses together. “Cheers.”

They drink, after which Henriksen leans back on his stool and gives her a knowing look. “Real talk, though: Shurley fucked up with the VP position. You, I could see, but Ketch?” He shakes his head. “Hell no. Guy probably won’t even last a quarter.”

Bela arches a brow. “Fifty dollars says he won’t last a single month.”

Henriksen raises a brow of his own. “You know something I don’t?”

“I know I’m sick of fighting fair against men who’ve never had to work for anything in their entire bloody lives. The kid gloves are coming off, darling.” She leans toward him, smiling serenely. “Come Monday, it’s all-out war.” 

She doesn’t expect Henriksen to disapprove, but it’s still a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, when he smiles back, shifting to mirror her position. “Sounds devious; I’m in. Assuming, that is, that you’re recruiting.”

Oh yes, Bela thinks as she surveys her new-found accomplice with growing approval, Henriksen was definitely all right.

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Her Majesty || 21

Vola con le proprie ali.

Anastasia.

The tour has been brilliant. Everyone has been polite and understanding, not to mention welcoming. I have never felt more at ease while on a Royal duty. This is the first Royal event that has gone effortlessly and smoothly. At least, so far.

When I haven't been around people or doing Royal visits, I have been texting Harry, checking on him and getting caught up to date with everything happening at the palace.. It has been strange not having him around. I have missed his excellent morning kisses and his company. Hotel rooms can be lonely late at night in new cities I have visited many times.

Today I opened up a new hospital and had the honour of cutting the ribbon before I was invited to a small vineyard for some wine tasting. It was beautiful and quite relaxing; I'd even say it made me feel normal for a few minutes.

The car door opens, and I carefully step out, adjusting my dress and thanking the gentleman. I turn and wait for Matthew as he slides out of the car. I have grown accustomed to waiting on Matthew to escort me into hotels or venues. "Go ahead, Anastasia," Matthew gestures. I frown for a moment, but I turn on my heel and look towards the hotel steps.

I take a double look, and my eyes grow wide with excitement, "Harry?" I smile, racing up the stairs as he stands at the top. Finally, I reach him, and he wraps his arm around me, holding me close.

"Hi, my love," Harry greets, kissing the top of my head.

I benevolently pull away and beam up at him, "I thought you couldn't fly?"

"I drove," Harry smiles, leaning down and kissing my lips kindly before drawing me in closer and kissing me deeper.

Oh, I have missed the kisses and sweet moments of heart flutters.

We pull away, beaming at each other as we stand on the steps. "Keep it PG, kids. There are paps," Matthew gestures towards the few cameramen that have been camping outside the last two days. I am not sure what their reasoning is. I don't think my photos of entering a hotel are interesting, but the media seem to enjoy my company. I have never really been around the press much. They have always been more interested in my mother and father. However, due to unforeseen circumstances, I have become their primary focus. I find it hard to understand how the public love photos of me doing mundane things.

"Missed you too, pal," Harry jokes, taking my hand before we wander into the hotel.

"I haven't missed you, Harry," Matthew responds, "You have two hours before your event. Please remember the walls are paper-thin, and I'm right next to your room," Matthew informs me, gesturing for Harry and me to step into the elevator.

Harry chuckles, "Don't worry, I'll be quiet, Matthew," Harry teases Matthew, and I mildly nudge him, "Oh, still sensitive," Harry playfully whines, adjusting his sling.

"So, you drove all those hours for me?"

Harry shakes his head, "No, baby, I drove it for Matthew, my true love, and the wine," Harry sarcastically responds, causing Matthew to shake his head and huff. Deep down, I am sure Matthew loves our company.

"You make me regret my decision of letting you come," Matthew mutters, "I'll put you on duty if you don't stop."

Harry chuckles, "Ah, I'm technically not allowed to be on her service," Harry grins, "Doctors orders." Harry continues as the elevator door opens. Harry has not been cleared yet to return to his job thoroughly. He has been on desk duties when expected work. I can only imagine he has been bored out of his brain while on desk duties.

The three of us step out into the hallway and lead down the long-drawn hall to our separate rooms. Harry shifts my hand away from the door, pushing down on the handle and opening the door, allowing me to step in first.

The door closes behind him, and I turn on my heel to face him, my arms snaking around his neck, "Hi," I breathe out with a smile, his hand resting in the small of my back.

"Hi, my darling," Harry whispers, leaning down and kissing me sweetly, his lips touching mine, reminding me how much I have missed this. I deepen the kiss and deliberately push my body up against his, causing a groan to escape his lips.

It has been long enough.

He breaks our kiss and draws away for a brief moment, reaching his hand to stretch his sling over his head and throw it to the floor. He takes me by surprise when he urges me against the wall, propelling his body against mine, resting his lips on the slender column of my neck. I tilt my head to the side, enabling the kisses to raise my fevered skin, the longing of anticipation seething within me as he bites down benevolently before letting go, making sure not to leave a visible mark.

God forbid the Queen has any mark on her. It would be scandalous if they knew I had sex in my spare time.

We dance around the room, eagerly working to feel each other and find our way to the bed, longing for anticipation settling between us.

I fall to the bed, his body between my legs as he kisses my exposed skin, gracing my neckline, collarbone and the parts of my boobs the dress doesn't cover,

Harry sighs as he draws away, "I'm sorry," he breathes, struggling to hold himself up as he hovers over me, his arm shaking.

I can recognise the discomfort in his eyes, as much as I want him to pleasure me in every way possible, and as much as I want his necklace to dangle across my fevered skin, I will not allow him to do all the work when he physically cannot. I shake my head, and I tenderly clasp my hand to his chest, "Swap," I command, pushing on his chest and moving my body. He frowns for a moment before listening.

Harry rests on the edge of the bed, and I caress my knees to either side of his hips, my hands clasped to his shoulders. I lean down and welcome him with an open-mouthed kiss, my hair tumbling over my shoulders as his hands squeeze to my hips to maintain my balance.

My hands travel to his shirt, and I begin to gradually unbutton the buttons, one by one revealing his tanned skin before tugging it from his pants and forcing it to fall down his shoulders and out of my way. "I intended to please you," Harry whispers, and I bring my hand to rest under his chin.

I cock my head to the side and gaze at him, "You are," I assure him, "Undo your pants," I instruct, taking bold possession of his mouth, enabling myself to taste the walls of his mouth.

He does as I have instructed, wasting no time with unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, leaning back slightly when I encompass my hands down his torso, exploring every dip and muscle the man has to offer. "Mmm, no," he takes my hands, lifting them from his body. "Not yet," he mumbles against my lips, shifting my hands to my side.

He glides his hand up my thigh, bunching my dress as he goes along, driving it further and further up my leg before settling at my underwear. Next, he glides his finger along the thin material that holds at my hip, following it along the waistband. I observe his fingers curl under the material at my stomach, and immediately I welcome my head, wanting to spin. "To come off or to push to the side?" He teases, influencing his fingers to the sides before spreading the length of his finger across me, causing a moan to befall from my lips.

There's a yearning sensation making itself known with every subtle stroke he makes against the material, causing my kisses to get deeper and my hands struggle to seize themselves from roaming his body. Then, finally, he decides to delicately slide the underwear down my thighs, requiring me to move my legs to slide them off and settle them to the floor entirely.

I reposition myself on him, and he glances at me with a grin, his eyes glowing with anticipation. He again shifts my dress up my thigh, his hand ever so nonchalantly gliding up my inner thigh. I feel my body twitch the higher he gets, the anticipation enthralling me by the second. I drag away from the kiss and tilt my head back the second I welcome him glide his finger against me before sliding it in, beginning to move in circular motions while his thumb presses against my nerves, slowly rubbing the area. His other hand slips under my dress and unhooks my bra, giving him easy access to squeezing my boob, tampering with my sanity more.

My breath gets heavier with each stroke, and I discover myself rolling my hips against his circular motions, my eyes wanting to close to half mask, but I stop them. My moans turn to gasps the faster he gets, his agile fingers working their magic in every damn way possible. I can feel my legs getting shaky and my body wanting to squirm against him.

I lean forward and begin to kiss him, my hands rubbing through his hair, his free hand gripping my hip to stop my squirms, "Hold on," he whispers as I move my hands to his shoulders, squeezing tightly, feeling the digging waves coming at me.

I whisper nonsense in his ear, squirming under his touch, "Right there," I breathe out, my toes curling as I lean back and arch my back, better accepting what he's offering. His strokes become deeper, and I swallow hard at his twisting fingers, getting me closer and closer to orgasm.

The sound of a knock on the door reverberates in my ears, and my mouth drops, my head falling in the same motion. "Please," I whisper, feeling the erotic and hypnotic power falling over me.

"Go away!" Harry calls out as I squirm against him, my fingers digging into his shoulders before he slides his fingers out, and I stare at him with a wide mouth.

"I was so close," I whisper, almost pitifully and painfully.

He gives me a wink before gesturing towards his lap with his eyes, his hands positioning on my hips as I thoroughly lower down onto his package, adjusting to his growth, my hips rolling in a slow motion, the two of us working together.

The climax comes at me with digging waves, and I fall into him, his arm keen to wrap around me as my thighs quiver from being clamped at his hips and the narcotic sensations. He spreads his fingers through my hair, my breathing levelling out as we both begin to come off the high.

A knock at the door sounds again, and I lift my head to look at Harry, "Go away," Harry again calls, but the knocking persists. "Fuckin' hell," he mutters as I gingerly pull out from him. He moves our positions and flips me onto the bed before standing to his feet and pulling his pants back up.

I adjust my dress so I am covered, and I lay on the bed, watching him stroll towards the door, irritated at the inconvenience— something we ought to be used to by now. "The Queen is busy. When someone says go away, it means to go away."…. "She is asleep. Please let her rest," I overhear part of the conversation before the door closes and he comes towards me. He crawls onto the bed and hovers over me for a minute, leaning down and kissing me benevolently before falling beside me, wrapping his arm around me and tugging me closer to him. Our legs tangle within each other's, and we fill the moment with sweet kisses before he's playing with my hair and smiling at me. "I love you," he whispers.

"I love you," I whisper, "Round two?" I question, admiring him in every single way possible.

"Eager for me, ay?"

I nod my head, "Been weeks."

"Been too long," Harry agrees, kissing me deeply….

♛ ♛ ♛

I clasp my hands against my body, smoothing out my gown, anxiously drawing at it in an attempt to focus on things other than my thoughts. Then, finally, I lift my head, glancing over at the man I fall in love with each day. He is calm and collected; he's like a gentle breeze on an autumn day, comfortable, peaceful, and assuring. For him, it's just another night draped in a suit where he has to stroll around and pretend to like the interaction of other humans. I know he doesn't desire to attend noble events, and I know he is doing it because he isn't permitted to participate as my security guard.

The monarchy, to my surprise, hasn't annihilated his spirits. I imagined the sovereignty and marrying me would divulge him. It hasn't. He stands tall, unphased by the shit that has succumbed. He is strong-willed, more potent than I most of the time. Harry indeed has been a breath of fresh air amongst the disorder, he retains me on my toes, and at moments he makes me enraged, but he holds me together at the end of the day.

The monarchy may never be peaceful as long as I rule, I may always have people fighting against me and a corrupt government as long as I reign, but I don't want that to be my downfall.

There is a part of me that never wants to have children. I don't want to bear children into the world of a royal. The monarchy destroyed me in many ways, ways that I don't wish on my worst enemy.

I found love, I got lucky, but I don't want the story to end here. The notion of baring an heir is scary for numerous reasons, but do I want to live a life without the vibration of children laughing through the palace and keeping Harry on his toes?

Do I want more?

I'm obliged to have an heir, but do I want to?

Does Harry want an heir?

Harry pours himself a drink from the drink decanter, swirling the liquor in his glass before taking a sip and exhaling a content sigh, "Mmm, perfect," Harry hums with delight. He has been looking forward to that drink since the moment he arrived here in Italy with me. He is here as a husband and has been told he is only the security guard for brief moments when Matthew is not beside me.

"You shouldn't be drinking that." I point to the drink.

"I shouldn't do a lot of things," Harry shrugs, not too concerned about the fact he shouldn't have alcohol so soon after his surgery. It has been two weeks, but I still believe he should be resting and taking it easy. But, then again, what we did earlier also shouldn't have been done either.

"I have a question." I softly speak.

"And I have an answer," Harry nods, swirling his drink in his hand.

I grow silent for a moment, my words becoming stuck in my throat. “Darling, what is it?” Harry asks, leaning against the small bar, admiring his drink before looking over at me with an endearing smile.

"Should we have a baby?" I softly ask.

Harry's eyes grow, and he chokes on his liquor, spitting half of it out. He places his glass down on the glass cart and grabs a napkin, dabbing his lips and pressing his shirt as he tries to catch back his breath.

"You're going to open your wound!" I scold, forcing him to stand up straight by pressing my hands to his chest as he winces in some pain.

Harry stops coughing from his liquor and clears his throat, "You're going to give me more wounds by asking such questions. No, Anna, we shouldn't," Harry breathes out.

I'm not entirely surprised by his response. I didn't expect him to choke on his drink, but I did expect him to say no.

I glance down, unsure of how to respond. I hadn't gotten this far when I thought about the approach.

Harry adjusts himself with a slight wince before composing himself and adjusts his sling, "Anastasia," Harry begins, but I shake my head.

"I get it; you don't want to have kids."

"No," Harry shakes his head, "That is not the case. Let me speak," Harry softens his eyes, "You have said yourself you don't want to bring kids into this monarchy, and I think it's perilous to do so right now and a bad idea."… "And I look like the asshole in this situation, fucking hell," Harry mutters. "Is this what you want? A baby?"… "I'll give you what you want."

I don’t want him to give me a baby because it’s what I want. So this isn’t something that can be based on me.

I lift my shoulders into a shrug, "We have been married for almost a year." I point out.

It hasn’t been an easy year or a conventional one. We didn’t get our honeymoon, our first dance or anything traditional. We haven’t had time to discuss our marriage or children. Do we want children?

"That doesn't define whether we have to have a kid right now or not. So I'm asking if it's what you want."

"I don't know. I don't know, Harry," I stutter, "I just— never mind." I shake my head, "Forget I said anything."

"Anna," Harry begins, but he stops as he notices someone walking into the tearoom. I look over my shoulder and see a man dressed in a suit. "Can we discuss this later? In private?" Harry offers, and I nod my head.

I don’t want anyone hearing our conversation; it’s nobody’s business what we do.

"The car is waiting, Her Majesty," the man announces, and Matthew walks in behind him.

I thank the man and look at Harry, unsure whether he still wants to attend this event with me, "I'll meet you in the car. I need to change my shirt," Harry informs me, eyeing Matthew for him to take his stance beside me. Matthew and Harry have an unspoken dialogue that only they can understand. One glare from either of them can mean so much.

I nod and proceed to walk with Matthew, doing my best not to adjust the tiara that feels as though it is pulling at my hair. However, I show no restraint and begin to adjust the tiara, huffing as it pulls my hair further before Matthew swats my hands away from my tiara. "Leave it alone."

"You sound like my father," I chuckle.

"If you keep playing with it, it'll fall off."

I heavily sigh and continue to walk, fighting every urge to adjust the damn thing. "Are you happy to have Harry around?"

"I am. I'm glad he has joined me for a few days."

It has been far too long without having him around. Phone calls and texts haven't been sufficient enough; however, it isn't his fault. Harry and I haven't travelled apart often since he joined the team. He has been with me ninety per cent of the time and has only missed a few occasions. He has attended every tour with me, and not having him on this one has been a bit strange. I haven't had anyone make fun of some of the ridiculousness we go through. I haven't had anyone nudge me in awkward situations or whisper things in my ear. I have been strictly doing things on my own, and it has been weird. I've missed the small comments and the hand gestures; I've missed the glances and the smiles. Most of all, I've missed his reassurance when I'm nervous or anxious. I've missed him nodding his head and mouthing, I love you right before I have to make a speech. I've missed him grabbing me when in private and giving me a quick kiss to congratulate me. I've missed it all. I never realised how much he showed he loved me with small gestures until now— now that I haven't had them.

Don't get me wrong, Matthew has kept me company, but it's different.

I sit in the limo with a glass of wine— the wine that I swear is the best wine I have ever tasted. It goes down smooth and has a sweet taste to it. If I don't stop drinking, I'll end up wine drunk. The door opens, and Harry steps in, sitting down on the leather seat beside me. "Starting early," Harry smiles, kissing my cheek while Matthew closes the door and taps the top of the limo with his hand, signalling for the driver to start driving.

I hand Harry the glass, but he shakes his head, "Can't have any more alcohol, Matthew will kill me, and so will the Royal doctor who's up my ass," Harry informs me, politely handing me back the glass. "Tell me again, what are we attending?"

"It's a State Banquet in honour of me. So the Italian President insisted."

"Right," Harry nods, adjusting his sling, "And what's the point of this?" He doesn't sound too enthused.

"Well, as you know, the point of tours is the national importance the hosting government would like to draw attention to. So I'm strengthening the ties we have here and drawing attention to the organisation the President needs."

"So, you're being used?" He isn't impressed.

"Well," I begin, "There's mutual agreement. It helps the United Kingdom, too. The key moments are either directly or indirectly related to the Crown."

Harry nods his head and offers me a smile, "I'm proud of you, Anna."… "You have done such a wonderful job this tour."

"How do you know?" I ask, "I'm not trying to be rude by asking."

"Matthew fills me in, and the media has been boasting about you. So has the private secretaries, program and logistics coordinators. Everyone has said how well you have done."

I take a sip of my wine to conceal my smile. But, of course, I have done well. I am my father's daughter. "Thank you. It has been a bit weird without you around, though."

"The Palace has been very boring without you," Harry responds, "Oliver and I walk through the gardens just to try and pass the time. Walked every trail."

"Awe, you missed me," I gently nudge Harry.

Harry shakes his head with a chuckle escaping his lips, "I said no such thing." Harry grins just as the limo comes to a stop. "Baby," Harry whispers, turning his body to face me fully. He places his hand on my neck and gently pulls me closer, pressing his lips against mine and kissing me softly and sweetly. Then, Harry gently pulls away, and I smile at him, his eyes full of love. "I have missed you, and I love you."

"I love you," I respond, leaning forward and kissing him.

No matter how well I have done on this tour, no matter how many hearts I have captured and the public's support I have, it all means nothing to me. My world goes beyond the monarch's success; the monarchy is not my main concern. There is so much hatred and distrust, dissolution, broken battles and evil ties— and I don't want that to be a part of who I am as a Queen or as a woman in society. My role isn't discerned by how well I charm the public or how I address the nation with speeches, but by how I love, how I love myself and others. I don't want to rule with an iron fist; I want to lead with compassion, emotion, happiness and love.

***

I stroll around the event, speaking to everyone who wishes to come up to me, making sure to introduce them to Harry, my husband. I believe it is time he is presented as more than my security detail or boyfriend. I've waited long enough and think it's wonderful to confirm he is my husband. Of course, it is nobody's business how, when or why we got married in secret, but I don't wish to continue to keep him a secret. The public already knows we are together, and I believe other royals and government officials are fine to know he is my husband.

Harry isn't too imbued with the event, he stays by my side and endeavours to be polite with conversations, but he isn't much of a talker. On the other hand, I presume he appreciates being a security detail for the very purpose he doesn't have to speak to anyone unless he's telling them to leave me alone.

"You alright?" I challenge as I take another glass of wine from a waiter and gaze at Harry, who's adjusting his sling.

"Yes."

"Are you in pain? We can leave."

Harry shakes his head, "We are not leaving, but you can't get wine drunk until we get back to the hotel," Harry informs me, "I don't care, but I don't think it'll be a good look for the Queen to be drunk." Finally, Harry points out the fact I am on my third glass of wine.

The wine keeps me calm while I fly solo; wine is how I have survived the tour on my own.

"I'm not a lightweight."

"I've seen you drink," Harry laughs, "And the wine here isn't the shit we have at home; you're going to end up drunk."

I heavily sigh and deliver Harry my glass, "Fine, but I expect a glass when I get to the hotel."

"I'll make sure of it," Harry nods, "The prime minister or whatever he is, is gesturing for you," Harry flicks his head towards the President of Italy.

Harry and I both step closer, and Harry shakes his hand, "I believe I am to courtesy to you," the President shakes his head, respectfully curtsying to both of us. "And as much as I like you, His Majesty, I'd like to speak with Her Majesty, alone."

Harry gazes at me, waiting for my approval. I take a moment, my stomach inflating with butterflies. I'm not sure what he'd want to discuss with me alone, but I can only imagine it can't be good. My father never told me what to do when it came to such an invitation.

I nod my head, and Harry respects my response, "As you wish," Harry accepts, leaning closer to kiss my cheek before moving his lips to my ear, "I'll be watching, if you need me, you know what to do." Harry whispers, reassuring me that even though I'll be alone, he will follow until Matthew comes back to my service.

The President and I move outside into the crisp air, the gardens of his estate being beautiful and charming.

"As one sovereign to another, I advise you to be careful, Parliament may be strong, but you and your husband are stronger, don't be naive, Her Majesty. Not even I deal with your Parliament. Your Parliament is going to destroy you. Your father and I have discussed this many times." The man begins as we exercise across the grey pavement, the hosting building on my left and a stunning terrace on my right. "It is about time you are made aware of the fact other sovereigns don't care for your parliament."

"What do you know about parliament?" I question, unsure of how profoundly my father has spoken to other officials. "Was my father trying to make allies?"

"Do you think he'd have been where he was if he didn't form allies?"

"Considering where he is now, I think it's safe to say making allies didn't help him," I respond.

"Anastasia, if people pull away from the sovereign, you will be left with nothing; the Crown cannot stand on its own. You will lose power the longer you have your government." The President informs me of what I already apprehend. Without the backing of other countries, I will falter. The monarch stands on its own two feet, but the allies are what make us more substantial.

"How do I get rid of them? They have become dangerous. They hold their position through default and sinister ties."

"Dissolve Parliament."

"I have thought about that, Harry and I have discussed it."… "The last time a monarch dissolved Parliament was in 1830, and a decision to do so today would most likely be hugely unpopular with the citizenry." I bring to the attention that dissolving parliment has not happened recently. It is frowned upon these days.

“Dissolve it, Annastasia. And officially open Parliament to commence the Parliamentary year. Then work on your Prime Minister." The President instructs, "I say this because I know you have not been guided. Your father wouldn't want you dealing with this."

"There is a strong constitutional convention that the Queen should be kept out of politics. I cannot do much when it comes to Pippa."

"You are wrong," He shakes his head, "There are ways around it; dissolve your Parliament and reelect, then work on Pippa. Your father only kept Pippa around because of a contract."

"Is that contract void?" I softly ask, already knowing my answer.

He shakes his head, "No, but you will find a way to work around it. If you are smart, you will dissolve before it is too late."

I understand what I have to do, but I am not sure I have the endowment to do this on my own two feet. My father didn't equip me for these varieties of things. I preferred things when Harry had the Crown and was advancing the decisions behind closed doors. He executes a more competent ruler than I.

"Parliament killed my father, didn't they?" I softly request.

"I promised Harry I would not speak of your father's murder."

"You have spoken to Harry?" I immediately question, astonished to hear that Harry has spoken to the Italian officials about my father.

"There is a saying in this country, 'A buon intenditor, poche parole.'"… "Do you understand?"

I shrug my shoulders, "Few words to the wise."

He nods his head, "This saying indicates that when someone is smart and intuitive, they do not need many explanations to understand something."

I nod my head, realising what he is attempting to say, "A volte è Meglio stare con le mani in mano e non fare nulla?" I ask.

"Correct, sometimes it is best to sit on your hands and do nothing. So sit on your hands and let Harry do what he is doing."… "Our time is up. You need to go back to Matthew," He motions towards Matthew, who is standing, watching me intently, Harry right beside him. "You have some powerful leaders backing you if you dissolve, we can discuss once you are in London, now go," he commands, caressing a glass to his lips and wandering away from me, leaving me alone as I watch him fall off into a small crowd of minglers while he enters the building.

Harry makes his way to me, "You alright?" Harry immediately challenges, and I nod my head.

"I can't believe you left her alone," Matthew comments, not appearing satisfied with Harry.

Harry shrugs his shoulders, "Vola con le proprie all." Harry effortlessly speaks, causing me to smirk.

"Okay, that isn't fair. You know I am still learning Italian, you shithead," Matthew grumbles.

I chuckle, and Harry grins, "She flies with her own wings," Harry continues, "She was fine. I was watching. I'm not that much of a moron."

"That is still up for the jury to decide," Matthew laughs.

"Matthew, may I speak with Harry?" I softly challenge.

Matthew raises a brow but concedes, "Five minutes and then you better be inside, and no kissing, seen enough of it," Matthew warns with a slight grin to his lips.

Mathew leaves Harry and me alone, "What's wrong, Anna?"

I shake my head and grant him a smile, "I just want a minute to sit before going back to being a Royal." I inform him, advancing towards the concrete wall separating us from the garden and assembling on it. I breathe in the cooler air of the evening, adjusting the straps of my dress so they stay situated on my shoulders. "You know, this tour has been good to me. I've done so well even without you here."

"That's because you don't need me to govern, Anna. You're stalwart on your own. I wish you'd realise that."

I lift my shoulders into a shrug, "I like the notion of having someone to fall back on. You're my safety blanket."

"I know, but your safety blanket can't be around all the time," Harry returns, perching beside me and adjusting his tie. "You don't need anyone to rule. You don't require Pippa or me. You don't even need Louis, baby. You're the leader. You know what you're doing, have faith and confidence."

"Bit hard when I feel lost, the Italian President doesn't even like my government… That says a lot," I inform Harry, "Besides the point… I've done so well and yet here I am sitting here unsure whether I'm doing things right."

"Self-doubt kills a lot, don't let it kill you, Anna. You're not going to shut down or panic. You're going to walk back in there, speak to whoever the fuck you need to speak to, and you're going to finish this event strong."

"Are you giving me a pep talk?" I curiously request.

"Yes," Harry responds, "As much as I would love to tell you that we can go to the hotel and ignore your duties, we cannot. You don't get to back down. You've gotten this far. You can sit here for as long as you need, but you're not letting your self-doubt win."

"So, we aren't sneaking off?"

"Not a chance," Harry shakes his head, "But, this woman keeps hitting on me, and I have no clue who she is."

I raise a brow and cock my head to glance at him, "You'll have to show her to me," I instruct, sliding off the small ledge and beginning to walk towards the doors. I turn to gaze at Harry, "You coming or not?"

Harry steps away from the stone concrete and walls closer to me. He opens the door for me and enables me to enter first.

I take a breath, and as the door closes behind me, Harry's hand caresses to the small of my back, giving me the slight nudge to regain my confidence within me. I will hold the Crown high and carry myself with such grace.

I recognise a woman graze her hand against Harry's before she pauses and smiles at him, "I don't believe we've met," she bats her eyes, disregarding me as I step beside Harry.

"I believe you've met my wife," Harry gestures towards me, placing an arm around me. "It's a pleasure to meet you, but I need to keep moving," Harry respectfully dismisses the woman, taking her by surprise. I don't think as a princess, a commoner has ever rejected her.

I clear my throat and smile, "I believe we have met and that you should be curtsying to him," I nod my head, expecting the Princess to curtsy. The princess bows and acknowledges him as a royal before granting him yet another broad smile. "This is Mary-Anne, Princess of Spain; she likes to court the men that are taken," I introduce the two of them.

Mary-Anne chuckles, "All royal men need a mistress, right?"

"Not this one," Harry comments, leading away before I can blink twice.

Mary-Anne watches his long strides before she turns to me, "Do you want to gossip?"

"Does this have anything to do with my husband?" I ask, trying not to chuckle at the way she asks if I want gossip. I may be the Queen, but even the Queen likes to have some good tea.

Mary-Anne chuckles and shakes her head, "Oh, darling, no. As easy as he is on the eyes, he is not of my concern. You should know by now that I eye a man for a reason." ... "And I am not interested in your husband. It's fun to watch him squirm."

Mary-Anne has a point. As much as she and I banter quite a bit and have clashed heads a few times, she does come in handy. She watches and reads everybody in a room. I remember as kids, she and I would be forced to linger in the background and go unseen at functions. Mary-Anne would perpetually remain in the shadows and listen; she watched intently to the point she realised she could use it to her advantage as she got older. Mary-Anne could give me a rundown of every person in this room. She knows how to go unseen and get answers to things without much trouble.

"Your husband is being watched, I'm sure he knows it, but the man in the corner," Mary-Anne subtly tilts her head to the side, and I follow her gaze, "He is watching Harry and you. He's not speaking to any royals, only those who are working the event or have no title."

"What do you know about him?" I softly request.

"Nothing," Mary-Anne responds, "Nobody here knows him. Security is watching him, but there are no grounds to kick him out. He appears cunning."… "And the blond over there, she wants to get in your husband's pants." Mary-Anne gestures towards the Princess, who indeed is eyeing Harry.

"It sometimes worries me how well you read people," I sigh, viewing as Harry and Matthew speak to the blond woman.

"Don't worry; they're using her as an excuse to stay close to that man."

"You really ought to have gotten into investigating work."

Mary-Anne lifts her shoulders into a shrug, "Became a Royal instead," she laughs, "How's Madeleine?"

"She's well, staying with me since the fire."

"I heard about that. They're saying it was intentional."

I nod my head, "Us royals are not very liked at the moment," I respond.

I think I speak for all of us when I say that we are not admired very much. But, on the other hand, we are all being targeted in our own ways.

Mary-Anne hums, "How does it feel to have an event in your honour?"

"Not quite sure this event is for my honour," I respond, continuing to watch Harry.

"Ahh, and she is smart. The event is just a cover. It was the only way to get you here long enough for the President to speak to you off the grid."

"How many people noticed?" I ask.

It didn't dawn on me that this was an intelligent way for the President to speak to me off the grid.

Mary-Anne pauses for a moment, "Just myself. It was orchestrated well."

"Not well enough since you know."

"Darling, who do you think orchestrated it?" She responds with a cunning smile before sauntering off.

I am left speechless while Mary-Anne drifts off into the sea of royals and elites. The woman is inspiring and productive in her own way. She is not your everyday royal, she stays out of most things and keeps her mouth shut, but she knows when the right time to come out of the shadows is. Mary-Anne isn't captured in the media frequently. But, again, she knows how to blend into a crowd and go undiscovered. When Mary-Anne doesn't want to be noticed, she will go by her alias name, and it is on the occasions she greets me with her alias that I know my security team will be closer to me than usual. Matthew has possessed an entire security team near me at all times when she has welcomed me with her fake handle.

I once again find my way to Harry, interrupting his conversation with Matthew, the two of them going mute and glancing at me. “Well, that’s one way to make it obvious you don’t want me around to hear the topic of conversation,” I mutter, shaking my head and stepping away from them.

I feel fingers wrap ever so carefully around my wrist, their strength drawing me into Harry’s body. “Harry,” Matthew scolds, “You cannot grab the Queen like that in public.”

“She’s my wife. I can do as I please,” Harry responds, kissing the top of my head, his arm snaking around my lower back, “Always want you around, but some things are business,” Harry informs me.

“Mhm,” I hum, “I hope you two are discussing the man who’s watching us because I’m starting to feel uncomfortable,” I subtly gesture towards the same man who Mary-Anne pointed out was watching Harry intently. “Without you two making fun of me, my intuition is screaming at me that he isn’t here because he loves royal affairs.”

“I told you she noticed,” Matthew murmurs, “Would you feel more comfortable leaving?”

“Matthew, don’t give her an easy way out,” Harry shakes his head sternly, not appreciating the fact Matthew is offering for us to leave.

“Who’s in charge here?” … “Last time I checked, you’re still unable to be on her service.”

“Matthew—“ Harry pauses before he nods his head, “Do as you wish, I’ll shut up.” Mutters, knowing his limits with Matthew and having respect for him.

“Yes, shut up,” Matthew nods his head, “Your highness,” Matthew grins, purposely trying to get under Harry’s skin.

Harry clears his throat, “Matthew,” Harry narrows his eyes to Matthew, “You're a dick.”

I roll my eyes at the two of them and shake my head, “I’m going to use the bathroom. I’ll be back,” I inform the two of them, my hands reaching for the material of my gown and lifting it so I can walk freely.

I step outside the golden doors, my heels hitting the grey tiles, my dress dancing across the tiles as I make my way towards the lady’s room. I round the corner, and I gasp, a body tumbling into me at force, my hands abandoning my clutch from my hands. “I’m so sorry,” I immediately apologise, stepping back from the silhouette that had run into me.

My eyes meet a set of blue eyes in front of me, “I’m so sorry,” the man apologises, bending down and picking up my clutch bag, returning it to me graciously with a smile.

“It’s okay. Mistakes happen,” I assure him, a sudden hand caressing to my back startling me.

I gasp and turn around, meeting Harry’s green eyes, “Give me the clutch,” he’s stern as he speaks, his hand grasping for my clutch and taking it from my hands before I can begin to shake my head. “Keep it moving,” Harry glares towards the man who ran into me.

“Harry,” I benevolently scold, observing the man walk off without a word. “That was rude.”

Harry nods his head, “That wasn’t an accident, Anna. He calculated running into you,” Harry responds, “Help me take this jacket off, please,” Harry instructs, gesturing towards his suit jacket. I step closer and take his jacket off his shoulders, and he slides his good arm out of the sleeve. He takes the jacket from my hands and steps behind me, kindly placing it over my shoulders. I turn around to face him, my eyes creasing into a frown. Harry leans closer and kisses my cheek before his lips move closer to my ear, “My pistol is in the jacket pocket.”

“What about you?”

“I’m fine,” Harry responds, “We’re leaving soon. Matthew is following the guy you pointed out to me.”

“I don’t want to leave you unarmed.”

Harry shakes his head, “I’m armed,” Harry whispers, kissing my cheek again, “Don’t let anyone touch your clutch.”

“Harry, it was—“

Harry shakes his head, “it wasn’t an accident. Don’t let anyone touch your clutch.”

I nod my head, turning around and going back towards where the event is taking place. Perhaps I shouldn’t use the bathroom right now; Harry has me cautious and on high alert suddenly.

***

Harry lays down on the bed, letting out a heavy breath, his eyes closing as I launch my clutch to the bed, grateful to be at the hotel and away from people. Towards the end, people were getting drunk, and it was starting to get a bit out of hand for us royals that aren’t allowed to be rowdy and show that side of us while pictures can be taken. The event was calculated so that the President could find a way to speak to me one on one without drawing attention to us. It was well done, and something I needed. I know I can take down the political party that is destined to destroy me. I’m just not entirely sure how to implement the plans. Part of me is scared of the power I possess and the outcome.

If I could start over and clear the parliament members, I could gain control again in a safe manner. Unfortunately, the members in Parliament are the very ones who more than likely killed Victoria, Henry and my father. They may kill me next. I am unaware of what evil vendetta they have against my family and me. I have done nothing. Whatever my father has done should have ended the moment he died; sadly, the vendetta has continued. I can’t end the monarchy, so I shall play the monarchy at its own game; I will divide and conquer.

The car ride to the hotel was quiet, and Harry didn’t speak. Instead, he rested his head on the window and conceded my thoughts to race through my head, giving me time to conduct some sort of plan.

I could just kill them before they kill me? Right?

Kill or be killed.

What a story I would be in history books years to come: Queen Anastasia not only married a commoner in secret and had him rule the monarch for a few months, but she also beheaded her parliament months after becoming Queen.

I’m not sure that is how I want to be remembered in history books. I’d like to be recognised as the Queen who is dignified, honourable and powerful. I want to be compassionate and make a difference in the world. But for me to be the things I wish to be, I must make progress. The wrong move may kill me, or it may make me. There’s no in-between.

Although I'm convinced they’ll kill me next, part of me is profoundly concerned for Harry. He doesn’t seem to have a care in the world for his safety, but as he is King, I struggle with ignoring the fact he’s also a threat. It is not known to the world he is King. The people do not know the extent of our relationship or that he has the title, but the government does. If I’m a target, so is he. Harry rules with me; we are equal. Harry takes the crown if something happens to me, and he shall keep the crown until an heir is old enough to hold it.

I’m distracted from my thoughts as I hear Harry let out a moan. I peer over at him, pain in his eyes as he sits up, “Fuck me,” he murmurs.

I step towards the duffel bag he came here with, and I unzip it, my hand tunnelling through it before finding the small container of pain pills. I step towards the mini-fridge, and I take a cold water bottle between my fingers before I step to the bed. I hand Harry his pain meds and the bottle, “Thank you, Anna,” Harry half-smiles, opening the container and pouring two round pills into his hand.

While he settles his pain, I assemble on the edge of the bed, my hand stretching towards the strap of my shoes.

"I don't assume a puppy will fix your emptiness and desire to have a baby?" Harry questions, trying to break the ice as I slip off my heels, hurting my feet since I put them on for the event.

"Can we forget it?" I ask, feeling a sense of idiocy for asking him such a question. We haven't been married for too long, and he does have a point. I did express that I would never want to bring a baby into this monarch the way it is. I honestly never wanted to have a baby while in the monarchy, but it seems that I am not escaping.

I stand to my feet, ready to take the dress off of my body.

“Allow me,” Harry whispers, his hand pressing to the small of my back.

Harry moves my curls of cinnamon-brown hair to fall over my shoulder, and he unclips the diamonds from my neck, thoughtfully lifting them off my chest and placing them down ever so delicately. I go to step away from him, but he draws me into him. He wraps his arms around me and holds me close, my back resting against his chest. "Hey," Harry whispers, "I have a question."

"I have an answer," I respond, using the same smart ass comment he used on me earlier.

"Is a baby something you want, whether it be now or in the future?"

I nod my head, "Yes, but it's not logical right now."

The words slip from my mouth before I can honestly think about the question. I don’t want to be lonely and have a void in my heart from the lack of having a family. I want a family, and selfishly, I want to feel needed and wanted.

"I think you're right. But I think we need to be on the same page about something," Harry begins, "Whenever this happens," Harry moves his hands to rest on my stomach tenderly, "It'll happen whenever it's meant to, and it's something I want too, not right now, but whenever it's meant to be. I'm not opposed to having kids; I'm just not sure I trust the monarch right now."

"The monarch isn't going anywhere, Harry. Abolishing is more power than I can put forth."… "It may never be safe to have a baby."

"It will be safe soon enough."

"We can't guarantee that. We are working on taking control, but we are getting nowhere."

"Having a baby won't make any of this easier. On the contrary, it'll make it harder, Anna. Are you still trying to compensate for grieving still?"

I lift my shoulders into a shrug, "I don't know."

"I think maybe we should come back to this conversation when you have a clearer mind?" Harry suggests. "It's a lot to think about."

"You're right," I pull away from Harry, "Plus, it'll be hard to be pregnant when I'm struggling to fulfil all duties as Queen."

“There is a saying La gatta frettolosa fa I figli ciechi.”

"What is with everyone speaking Italian to me tonight? Non capisco," I throw my hands in the air, a little irritated. I don't know what cats have to do with this conversation. I may be able to speak Italian, but I do not understand the damn idioms.

"It translates to, the hurry cat makes blind children."

"I know, but I do not understand." I raise a brow, wholly lost with this conversation. "Are you saying my children will be blind?"

"No," Harry chuckles, "Sweetheart, this proverb is used to say that everything must be done in its own right time."

"Like having a baby?"

Harry nods his head. "Yes, because if you do this in a rush, you might have negative consequences."

"Mhm," I hum, "I see. I am going to change the subject for a minute," I pull Harry into the bathroom, and I run the water, unsure of who could be listening to our conversation, even if it is just Matthew, I still do not want him to know what I am about to say.

"Oh god, is this one of those moments like when you dragged me into the tunnels?" Harry sighs, and I roll my eyes.

"I know you spoke to the president."

"Anna," Harry instantly cuts me off, "Non qui, amore mio." Harry is stern as he tells me we cannot discuss this now. Harry leans closer, his lips pressing to my ear, "Not now, baby, this needs to be entirely private."

I heavily sigh and nod my head, "Well, if anyone is listening, they now know I want a baby," I mutter as I turn the water off and look at Harry.

"Better that than what you want to discuss, trust me," Harry responds, "How about a late-night getaway?" Harry endeavours, his question taking me by surprise.

"Like, leave the hotel?" My eyes grow wide at the thought of leaving the hotel without the array of an entourage to follow. "Are we sneaking out?" I question the idea of being scandalous, brightening my eyes.

Harry rolls his eyes, "Leaving the hotel room with your husband is not sneaking out when he is part of your security." ... "Put on some comfortable clothes, and let’s go,” Harry instructs, tugging at his tie while I turn off the running water I was using to make sure nobody could hear us.

***

Harry and I sneak out of the hotel, and when I say sneak, I mean Harry has probably had this planned. But for spontaneous reasons, we snuck out. We both sit in the gondola, his arm wrapped around me and my head on his shoulder, nothing but utter quietness of a bit of town falling asleep sounding. It’s beautiful and peaceful. During the day, Italy is bustling, but it turns into a quiet village where only a few couples are out and romantic and blissful at night. It’s as though the city is known to bring out romance in couples and spread love.

“It’s strange to think how everything happens for a reason. If you’d never moved to London and taken the job, we wouldn’t be married,” I break the silence, thinking out loud without much thought.

I lived a life without Harry, and I never knew what I was missing until he walked into my life. Him walking into my life isn’t like one of those moments where he saved me from myself or my loneliness. He simply walked in and painted a golden sky full of the most flamboyant colours that held so much beauty and intensity. He walked in and brightened my sunsets, adding an extra dash of pinks and purples on the bad days I never knew affected me.

Harry rubs small circles on my hip, holding me closer as he kisses the top of my forehead, “I’d have found you.”

“Really?” I whisper.

“Really,” Harry nods, “Think we were meant to be. I’d have somehow found you in this life.”

“I’d have found you, too,” I whisper, nestling into him for his warmth.

I’d like to think that even if we hadn't met when we did, somewhere within this lifetime, we’d have found each other, whether it be by pure accident of running into each other at an obscure location or by some grace of God. Although my life has been up and down, there’s one thing that has been constant— him. Harry has had every opportunity to walk away and call it quits. He has held things together well and been the rock I've needed. After many emotional nights and ridiculous arguments, he hasn’t held it against me and decided the marriage was over. He wakes up every day and shows me his love and devotion. The man loved me so much he held the crown until I could take it over and selflessly gave it to me without thinking twice.

I hope Harry never goes through the pain I have gone through mentally and emotionally, but if there ever comes a time he does, I will be the rock he needs. I will hold him on the nights he needs a sense of security. But, instead, he, he and I’ll wipe away any tears that fall from his eyes. I’ll take away any pain that I can and replace it with positivity and love. I may not have the ability to take away any pain he may endure physically, but I can do my best to stand by him through it all and share the burdens of life with him.

“I don’t want to do life without you,” my voice is soft as my hand squeezes his thigh lightly, the sudden realisation that this won’t last forever hitting me.

The idea of doing life without him by my side is a scary thought— a thought I don’t want to have. Life is unpredictable. Anything can happen at a given moment. But at the end of each day, before I close my eyes, having him beside me is enough for one to be okay with life being so unpredictable. No matter what happens, I have his love and support, something I never knew I needed as much as I do until now. Having someone by your side is comforting and energetic.

“You don’t have to, darling,” Harry responds, his hand leaving my hip so he can use it to adjust his sling. He moves forward slightly and pulls his sling over his head, allowing it to fall and his arm to rest on his arm with a heavy sigh. “I don’t plan to go anywhere. And if anything ever happens, just know I love you.” He pulls me back into him, holding me tighter against his chest without his sling in the way, “You get on my nerves and test my patients, but I love you, Anna, even on the nights you take all the damn covers from me, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I respond, “Only you would tell me you love me and also tell me I’m a pain in your ass.”

“That’s the definition of love, sweetheart,” Harry chuckles.

“I don’t want to live without you,” I whisper, the words almost sinking into my throat.

The mere idea of living life without him is nothing I want to have to handle. I never thought that my world would revolve around a man, granted he isn’t just any man, but I never thought I would get to this point in my life. The man beside me drove hours to see me, even if it wasn't for too long. The man beside me reads books late at night to stay awake when I cannot sleep, he spends every spare minute making me laugh. The man in front of me is the reason for my smile, the reason for the constant love and support I feel, and most of all, he is the man that I fell in love with, a man that has made an impact on my life in ways I cannot explain. Through all the ups and downs, I want to spend this life with him without the idea of having to do life without him. I cannot imagine life without this man. It is no life at all if you ask me.

“You don’t have to, I promise,” Harry responds, and I feel him leave a kiss on the top of my head.

I hope he is right. I hope I don’t have to endure a life that doesn’t have him in it.

[smolbeandrabbles]

Good Goodbyes - Doug Peterson x Reader (Secret Men’s Business)

@mandy23b  @wltz-bby @happyskywhale​ #MendoTagSquad

GIF CREDIT: X

Author’s Note: Oh. Come on, that’s how they left it you knew I was gonna jump all over this! This was supposed to be a short prelude to the scenario I really wanted to write... As you can see... ‘short’ is NOT what happened.

Gosh, Doug Peterson really stole my heart 😅

This might be the only time that I suggest that you listen to a playlist while you read. Because Doug’s playlist is essentially THIS fic.

Disclaimer: Gif not mine / Lyrics not mine / Secret Men’s Business Characters/plot etc not mine I know I gave her an age - I just really wanted an Older!Reader dynamic, and also that’s around the age that dancers retire, so fits the canon of the story 😊

Premise: Doug Peterson is determined to start over. He knows he needs it, even deserves it, after what went on between his wife and best friend. Armed with his writing, his work and his dreams - Doug wants nothing more than to make this fresh start a good one.

Words: 10,018

Warnings: Swearing / Sexual Connotations / Insulin Warning 

__________ I thought goodbyes were never easy I should know by now, girl believe me I thought love would just leave me broke But I'm not, I can breathe, turns out you, set me free And I'm wishing, I'm wishing, I'm wishing you find all that you need And I'm hoping you find somebody who loves you more than me Yeah, it hurt me for like two weeks Don't expect tears when you see me, no This ain't a holding on as long as we Can 'cause this time there's no tears to dry This is a "Thank You, God" we got out of the mess we were in Baby just in time Who knew there was still light in my eyes? Who knew that you don't have to try And that you don't have to cry? Who knew there could be good goodbyes

I might miss you if you'd have been there or Given me proof that you actually cared but now There's no regrets, no turning back Already left you behind And I'm wishing, I'm wishing, I'm wishing you find somebody new And I won't have no trouble finding someone who loves me more than you Who knew there could be good goodbyes? Who knew there could be better times? Who knew I would feel so alive? Who knew there could be good goodbyes? ---

Yesterday I found out about you Even now just looking at you feels wrong You say that you'd take it all back, given one chance It was a moment of weakness and you said yes I should've been there, in the back of your mind I shouldn't be asking myself why You shouldn't be begging for forgiveness at my feet You should've said no, baby and you might still have me

I can't resist, before you go, tell me this Was it worth it Was he worth this

---

The car flew down the freeway towards Sydney. Sitting in the passenger seat was the box of writing that’d been there since he’d said goodbye to all his friends, and in the back his packed bags. The sun glinted on the high rises in the late afternoon – but the time didn’t bother him, he had a hotel room for tonight, and he knew a friend with an apartment he could rent until he got himself settled. Ali had tried to talk him out of leaving, but he wasn’t having it. How was he supposed to trust her ever again? And say he did, say he forgave her and attributed it to lonliness and a moment of weakness – what if she did it again? Cheat once and surely you could cheat again. And, he remined himself, it wasn’t a onetime occurrence. In fact, Michael and her cared about him so little that they were ready to have phone sex whilst he was in the goddamn house. What about the barbeque – wasn’t that openly flirtatious behaviour? He’d known then and done nothing… So he ignored her protests, and he packed up. He didn’t want to hear it, no excuse was ever going to excuse what she’d done to him; that his wife and his best friend had gone right ahead and broken his heart. He didn’t feel anything but empty now he was standing in front of her. And there was nothing more to say other than You’ll be hearing from a divorce lawyer shortly. She was devastated by that, but he wasn’t about to cry over her again. How much time had he wasted here? The one thing he did make sure to do was talk to his son. Dillon wasn’t quite old enough to understand exactly what was happening, and the main thing was making sure he knew it wasn’t his fault. Because he was going to fight for custody all the way. ‘Just let me get set up… and it’ll all be fine… it’ll all be fine.’ But for now he had to be out of that house, because God forbid he fell for her again – that he let her walk all over him. He wouldn’t let her and Michael treat him like that, nor laugh behind his back ever again. As he pulled into the city Doug Peterson allowed himself to smile, a genuine smile, for the first time in a long while. This was the start of something completely new; a place in the city, a new job, a new life… And he was determined to make it a good one. *** Several Months Later…

 Divorce proceedings seemed mercifully short. Doug wasn’t sure she’d have just signed away for him – although the custody battle was a little harder. Still, Ali was really a ‘the job comes first’ type and Doug made a good case. Apparently the better case, because that was agreed too, and in his favour. So now he got to be a single parent. And that wasn’t the only good thing happening for him; Doug had made decent money before, so moving into his own place came quickly. He had a home office, and therefore got to spend as much time with Dillon as humanly possible – finally able to love every second of his life. He made a bunch of new friends quickly, and at least phoned Andy every other week. Doug even occasionally checked in with Ian. He left Michael and Woz well alone for now; unsure he could really stomach those conversations yet. Andy always asked if he’d found anyone new yet; and Doug would always laugh nervously – could he ever date again? He thought it might take a long time to build that kind of trust up once more. For now, that scene was off limits and not for him. All he wanted to do was spend quality time with his son. But the business, that was important. He was well known in the advertisement industry; sure he’d never got the big break, but the people he did know were eager to fund him and get him off the ground. From this generosity DP Advertisements was born. Luckier still, Doug had managed to bring the majority of his client base with him. So when Dillion was at school, Doug threw himself into his work – and thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of it.

 Because the company was smaller it meant he got a lot of very interesting calls – the kind of jobs he’d never been able to do. Digital media and TV advertising wasn’t his only remit after all. Print, posters, billboards, website advertising – new for everybody – Doug got the opportunity to do a little of everything. He always liked meeting new prospective clients and finding out what they were looking to achieve before he said yes or no. He could just about afford to say no to anything he simply found too boring – but with his new attitude, Doug found everything pretty interesting. His newest prospect suggesting meeting in a restaurant – a lunch meeting, expensed. Suddenly he decided that it wouldn’t really matter what was pitched, because he was getting a meal for free – and at a well reputed restaurant no less. He was just a little nervous; they were well spoken, they’d seen some of his work around, liked the fact that he was a one person company (although Doug did mention his experience), and reached out to him through channels they knew at other agencies who would be able to say exactly whose work his was. Clearly they had done their research, and he had come well recommended. When the day came, Doug dressed in one of his best suits, and wore a tie, arrived early at the restaurant; maybe a little too early – but he was nervous enough to not want to be late. The restaurant was near empty; he supposed due to the exclusivity of it. Three girls sat at the bar with steaming cups – not day drinking then! - a business meeting was being conducted in a quiet corner, and two or three tables were having an early lunch. When Doug gave the name of the party he was meeting, eyes flew wide. He wasn’t sure what that meant and no words were spoken; they allowed him to sit at a table with a nice view. He set up, and recited to himself a pitch he knew off by heart – even if he didn’t exactly know what they wanted yet. But he found himself easily distracted, and before long Doug Peterson wasn’t looking at the view he should have been looking at; because he’d found one slightly better. He’d caught your eye too; it shouldn’t have surprised you, sitting with your two closest friends sipping tea, it wasn’t hard to miss the cutie dressed in a suit who’d just walked through the door. Even harder to miss when he kept stealing glances at you in the hope you wouldn’t notice; you were clearly slightly more skilled at being discreet. You could guess he was early 30s, maybe a little nervous about whatever he was here for. The folder seated next to him on the plush bench seats probably meant it was a business meeting. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it did mean – if you found yourself to be correct - he wasn’t meeting his girlfriend (or wife, but you hadn’t noticed a ring) for lunch before he went back to work. Eventually you let him catch you looking at him, after you’d pointed him out discreetly to your friends – who for once didn’t turn simultaneously to stare themselves – but did both give you the same look that amounted to Hot Damn. Devour Him. When his blue eyes met yours he froze – immediately looking like a little kid who’d done something wrong. But the smile you gave him was soft – and moments later you received a small smile in return that had you looking back to your drink. It’d been a while since you’d flirted with anyone. You’d had a series of bad breakups in your life and probably hadn’t really dated anyone for a long while. Flirting was easy and usually harmless, so across a quiet restaurant whilst you waited with friends, it kept things interesting. Even though he had to be younger than you were. He certainly looked younger than you; which didn’t bother you either, but you’d never been with someone younger… Still, it continued on through your waiting time, and as he got a little more confident, he suddenly looked a lot older. Darker glint in his eye, smile replaced by a smirk and the occasional lip bite that drove you a bit wild. Enough to make you turn away from him with a laugh to catch yourself for a moment; Damn. But you could flirt back just as intensely as he could, between running your tongue slowly over your lips, the occasional slow wink, skimming your fingertips around the rim of your cup, eyebrows raised with just the right tilt of your head. Doug wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, and why it felt so easy after he’d just spent so long telling his friends, and feeling, like he wasn’t ready for this yet. But it felt so natural, and you were responding in kind. Suddenly he was thinking that maybe he should get back into the game. If it was working on you - so much so it had pulled you away from your conversation with your friends - then maybe it’d work with anyone. You checked your watch, finished your cup and hugged and kissed your girls goodbye, picking up your bag from the floor you looked across to him again, with another smile you shook your head gently and crossed the restaurant. He was very nearly ashamed to say his heart leapt in his chest as you walked, your clothing was beautifully vintage, everything matched and even your walk was graceful – like you’d stepped right out of a daydream. He anticipated you to come to him – and yet Doug had never felt disappointment like when you didn’t, making your way to the door. Was that really it? You stopped at the greeting desk and there was politely animated conversation for a minute, before you turned and looked back across the restaurant at him again. “Excuse me, sorry, F/N L/N I’ve got a 12:30 booking for two people? You can just add the bar tab to the meal – that’s fine.” “Oh! Yes, of course Ms. L/N let me just check you in…” The maitre d’ turned back to her list for a moment, “OH! It appears the other half of your party is already here-!” “Huh? Oh, really?” She indicated across the room to the man you’d just spent the past half hour (at least!) furiously flirting with. You had to compose yourself before you turned back to him. No! Was it luck, or just your luck?! ‘My friends are gonna have a FIELD day!’ You thanked her, took a breath, allowed yourself to laugh and walked across to him. His lips parted as you approached his table, and Doug wasn’t sure that he liked that your face was unreadable. You unshouldered your bag and looped it around the back of the chair opposite him – before you beamed, “You’re Doug Peterson!” He immediately stood; “Y-Yeah! Oh, yo-you’re-!” “F/N L/N. Yes-! You’re not what I expected…” He held his hand out for you to shake, “I mean I-” He wasn’t sure exactly how to take that, so opted to simply shut up, but blush dusted his cheeks, and it made him look a lot cuter than he already was. “I think you already know that’s a compliment!” Your smile was polite, but you had no intention of taking your flirting any further. Not when what you’d called him about in the first place was so important. His laugh was nervous as you both seated yourselves and polite introductory conversation continued as you chose your meals, and it didn’t take much for you to persuade him into one glass of wine. Between courses Doug slid his portfolio from beside him and onto the table. “So I mean, I guess we’re both really here for this. As nice as it is to talk to you.” His grin was charming, and he knew precisely what he was doing, half of you wondered exactly why there was no ring on his finger. Who wouldn’t have taken up that opportunity as soon as it arose? And he didn’t seem like the headstrong business type who has married to his work. You couldn’t help but bite your lip through your smile as that, running the tip of your finger around your wine glass, “Yeah. I guess all I really said I wanted was advertising.” “Print. And a lot of it, by the sounds of things.” “Mhm. It suits the audience; posters, billboards and magazine print. These kids will be doing similar to what I used to, so-” You paused, “Right, yeah, I…” you laughed and Doug’s heart threatened to leap from his chest for just a second, “I should explain. I’m opening a dance company. Possibly a school, too, in time – I’ll be both director and choreographer. I need dancers for a company, or, prospective students!” His eyebrows raised, “You’re a dancer?” You smiled gently, “I didn’t think you knew a lot about ballet. That’s probably better for you.” “Ballet?” He shook his head, “I’m sorry. I- I wish I did. But, it’s artsy, I love the form and, pictures of ballerinas and dancers; that would be striking in any advert, let alone a ballet company. Which’d make sense. You still dance?” “Retired. Just…” You giggled gently, “Doug, I’m not just a dancer – to anyone in the circles I move in I’m the dancer. And now I’m at least semi-retired I want to give back to the profession.” You placed your hand over the portfolio; “I’ve seen your work, and it’s… incredible. Visually stunning and very well written. I know that my name is going to take this places… What I need is to partner with someone who doesn’t look at my name and have their eyes light up in dollar signs.” You pulled the folder off the counter and opened it, you were right, all his work was phenomenal, the way he used space, and colour – and he ran from comedic to serious; there wasn’t anything that Doug Peterson hadn’t covered. “You could have anyone.” “I don’t want anyone.” Your eyes met his again and for a moment the statement hung with more significance than you should have given it; “I want someone whose heart and soul comes alive on the page. Someone who is as passionate about what he writes, and what he visualises, as I am about the company and dancing.” You flipped the book around for him, “No corporation who would love to have my name on their client list would produce work like this, or care about it like you do. Which is exactly why I want you to do this, if you want to.” His nod was enthusiastic, “I mean, I might need a little help with the technicalities but, God, I’d love the challenge and the opportunity, Y/N.” First, he knew he’d have to look you up. He supposed everyone in the dancing community would know your name, and Doug would have to make it look like he did to. But research was always fun – and you’d give him all the support he needed. “Good, because I’d love to be the client of someone whose work is this amazing.” You passed the portfolio back, and held up your wine glass, “To our partnership, Doug Peterson.” “Yeah,” He clinked his to yours and smiled, “let’s make it a good one!”

You continued to talk, and Doug was almost disappointed that you acted so professionally. It was almost as if all the flirting was forgotten, although there was a sparkle in your eyes still, like it was hiding. However, he still admired that professionalism and, as you got to learn a little bit more about each other, he started to formulate ideas that he already couldn’t wait to mock up and show you. Doug still couldn’t help but flirt on occasion though; he liked the way you’d smile when he did it – he liked that you were actually interested in him, not just his work. Already he knew you’d be capable of great things together, and maybe not all of them would have to do with advertising. You both said goodbye far too soon, but you had each other’s cards and numbers. As he turned back at the door with a grin and said he already had a head of ideas, and he had to run before he forgot any of them, your heart actually skipped a beat. Doug couldn’t leave you without giving a wink, and took victory in the blush that crossed your cheeks before he strolled out of the restaurant. You gave it a few moments, watching him until he was out of sight before taking a deep breath and retreating back inside. Your friends were still sitting at the bar, by now finished with their own food, and both of them staring at you with raised eyebrows; “Tell me you knew!!” “I had NO idea I swear-!” You shook your head, “Was that mad-!? That was mad, right!? Does stuff like that really happen-!” “Typical of you though-!” “Thanks!” You blew out a breath and ran your hands through your hair; “…My god.” “You’re flushed!” “Thanks! I realised…!” You sat on the edge of one of the stools, “I haven’t felt like this since-” It wasn’t a thought you wanted, but an altogether incredible realisation. “So. He’s going to be your advertiser?” “Mhm!” You nodded, “He’s going home to mock up designs for me…” “Aw, c’mon, Y/N! Look atcha! What’s his name?!” You knew then as you turned to them and smiled, exactly what you were feeling; “Doug Peterson.” ***

You’d already got the studio set up, and a few other dancers - good friends of yours - were on your staff. Your current goal was the official opening, a couple of months away – hence the advertising project. It looked like a venture that’d been worked on long before you got Doug involved, the building largely refurbished and with a modern flare that offset your vintage look. He took photographs to get a good idea of what he was working with to meld with his mock ups – which you’d already seen and approved of. It didn’t take him very long to become more aware of you, and what Doug really wanted was you on the advertisement. “Is it cliché? I’d just like some classic ballet poses. Sure, I could just hire anyone – but it’d make more sense if it was you… even if it’s not your face.” Doug wasn’t so sure you wanted your face plastered on everything when your name already was. But you agreed to do it and he hired a photographer. He was well aware that he had feelings for you that maybe he shouldn’t. You were still his client at the end of the day and Doug wanted to keep it professional – but all he could think about was the way you’d been staring at him across the restaurant, and much as he tried he could never quite get it out of his head. All he wondered was if you had the same problem. Having you turn up to a photoshoot and watching the serene grace of classic ballet positions that Doug didn’t have a clue about until about a week previously – luckily, he’d hired a photographer who knew what they were talking about – was mesmerising; and he stood in flustered silence. By the time Doug was finished he assumed he was going to make a lot of people very happy at getting the opportunity to work with you. He walked you back to your car, explaining his admiration for your work and your strength, reeling off position names that made you quite proud. He liked that you were pleased that he’d studied you; at the cute way you giggled as he admitted just how much he’d researched. You started inviting him over to discuss ideas, and the first time Doug had pulled up in your driveway he’d been in awe of your house. Oddly humble for an ex-prima ballerina, and a little out in the country. It was also as modern as your studio had been, an upside-down house with stairs to the front door; “One day you’re going to have to explain why everything about you in modern aside from the way you dress!” Doug always did like that small mysterious smile you gave him, “Maybe I like that I’m hard to figure out…” You pondered it for a moment, before fixing him with the same significant look he was always giving you, “Having said that, maybe if you stick around for long enough you’ll answer your own question.” That was enough for him and in a more relaxed, and personal, setting as you got to know each other even better – professional was nearly thrown out the window. The entire campaign became a long string of endlessly flirty emails and texts, where often times one of you would have to throw in; ‘this is about the advert… right?’ The only response you ever gave to that was ‘Of course it is… or is it? 😉’ Which drove Doug crazy in every sense of the word. Yet his favourite place to be was with you, sitting up on your back veranda (which he also had to note overlooked a stunning valley) just throwing ideas around. Often you’d sit yourself on the wooden balustrade and ramble, with him lounging back in a chair with a sketch pad, and by the end of it he’d have filled up 5 or 6 pages with sketches or notes. But he was always back in time to collect Dillon from school, and didn’t overstay his welcome either. You’d keep him around if you could, but understood what was really important, even when all he told you was that he had to go and offered no further information. You knew private meant private and let him live that life. Before long he was showing you finalized drafts, and all that was left to do was pick which ones were going to print - on opening night flyers, or be seen all through the streets of Sydney. And that day made Doug dispirited – he didn’t want this to end so soon. “It’ll be weird not working with you on this…” “Oh?” You smiled, “What, you don’t think I’m going to call you every opportunity I get to have you do more advertising? I’ll need someone when we start doing shows and events.” He took his chance, with a confident deep breath; “Maybe you should just call me anyway?” You bit your lip gently, “Alright, maybe I will.” Although there was no maybe about it, you knew you would. You knew that was all you really wanted to do. You’d got closer and closer, and you felt comfortable around each other. Enough for you to finally be yourself; heck you’d even started dressing more relaxed around him. And one thing was for sure you couldn’t get the look he’d given you - and the way he’d swallowed hard - the first time you opened the door to him in shorts and a loose shirt, out of your head. Like you’d just stepped out of some kind of fantasy. A strange fantasy maybe, but then again you knew you were dressing down for him. You had both fallen pretty hard – even from that first restaurant conversation and you were certainly still falling for Doug now. For the first time in a while, you actually wanted to take a leap of faith with a guy. And it almost scared you how much you trusted him. *** Doug expected an invitation to opening night out of courtesy for the work he’d done. He could turn up and admire it for maybe an hour and then get back home. What he didn’t expect was a personal invitation from you, with a hand written note which left no doubt as to how much you needed him there and how much his hard work meant to you. In reality it was just a lot of words trying to express how much he meant to you. You weren’t so great at eloquence. You were trying to tell him that you couldn’t lose him, without sounding a little too desperate about it. As if you thought that was a possibility; like you didn’t recognise how much he swooned over you. Perhaps you still weren’t prepared to admit you knew he was interested – and Doug was just as hesitant. He didn’t want to rush into it, and yet he craved the intimacy of a relationship again. Even though he’d been divorced only months, it wasn’t like Ali and he had been close before it happened. He wanted someone to love him, but it wasn’t just a someone; he was still very iffy about the dating scene and he wasn’t about to go have a drunken one-night stand – he wanted that person to be you. Doug didn’t want to get hurt, yet, knew you’d be worth the risk. You looked stunning, and he had to physically stop to take you in for a moment. You always looked good, even when you were just sitting in shorts and a shirt with your hair pulled up – when, if the sun was on you for long enough, little freckles would start to appear across your face. Though that was an image he was probably privileged to see, Doug thought that was when you looked best. But your personality radiated warmth and light, and all he ever wanted was you closer. It went both ways – as you glanced across to him, dressed in a sharper suit than the one he’d been wearing when you first met and the smile that crossed his face as you caught his eye, Doug Peterson very nearly took your breath away. You excused yourself from the conversation you were having and crossed the room to him; knowing right then that you had to make this man yours – and you had to be his. Both of you blushed your way through the introductory conversation and you couldn’t help but turn to the room full of people admiring his work, because of course he’d put together designs and posters for some of your studio ideas too. And they were also on display, alongside photographs of the building’s transition; and some well-known images of your more famous roles. “Look at this-! It’s all you! And they all love it!” You couldn’t have looked happier, “I mean, I, I hope you’re proud of it.” “Yeah.” He agreed, feeding off your enthusiasm, “How many people can say they’ve had an opportunity like this? It’s…” Doug paused for a moment, “…Some of my best. Even I know that.” Then he turned back to you, “Thank you for the opportunity.” You shook your head, thinking it crazy that the designer should be thanking his client; “Thank you for making my crazy ideas a reality.” “Don’t mention it, it’s my job.” “Yeah but,” You turned back to the room, “you went above and beyond for me, I can never thank you enough.” He laughed, “At this rate, all you’re gonna do is thank me-!” “You’re right!” You joined his laugher, “But don’t expect me to stop on that account!” You spent your evening walking around the event with him, even when he thought excusing himself might give you time to breathe, to be the centrepiece you were meant to be. But you touched his arm gently to bring him back; “No, Doug, please… stay with me? I- I’d very much like it if you stayed with me tonight.” So he did, as you introduced him around, even when you were doing press you kept him near (except when he wandered to get drinks – and on a couple of occasions was accosted by those that wanted him to take on their advertising campaigns!), and made sure he got the credit whenever anyone gave you kudos for his work. How he’d simply take the compliment and give one to you in turn, and for a moment all you could do was look at each other and recognise the pink dusting your cheeks. Eventually Doug took a leap, even if it could have been of liquid confidence considering the champagne being served, and during one of these compliment sessions he reached out and took your hand. You didn’t pull away from him, you didn’t even flinch, instinctively lacing your fingers with his. That’s how you stayed for the rest of the night, with your smile even sweeter than it was before. And Doug got to stand beside you and watch his effect on you; hyperfixating on how it felt to have your fingers entwined with his – smiling so much his face hurt? You best believe it. After everything wound down, and Doug started to watch check (only because he thought the babysitters bill was going to be astronomical by now), you began to reflect on not just the evening, but the past few months. You got the feeling that you were going to be one of those couples that didn’t even have to say you were together – that you just would be, by mutual agreement. You collected your things and he held out his hand for yours again as you left, this time you held him tighter – desperate to savour every moment you got to be touched by him. “Some night, huh?” “Amazing. Now I guess the real work begins for me…” You chuckled, “I couldn’t have done it without the hard graft from you. I’m just glad it’s all been worth it.” “You can say that again.” Doug breathed it, eyes raised to the night sky and the stars glinting there, knowing that he hardly meant the campaign at all. You turned to him, to watch the way the stars reflected perfectly in his eyes and your heart swelled for a moment; how in the hell were you here? How did you just happen across this man? Nothing in your entire life had worked out this perfectly – so why him, and why now? And why in God’s name were you asking so many questions-!? He turned to you and the way you were looking at him, and slowed his walking pace; thinking it was about time he took that second leap. For some reason you were thinking too hard and didn’t even see it coming, as he leant in. You got so caught up that your question of what are you doing? also went unvoiced before his lips were on yours. And you wouldn’t deny him that either. Keeping your hand in his, you wrapped your other arm around his neck to practically beg him to keep kissing you. That gave Doug enough confidence to wind his arm around your waist to pull you closer. Neither of you wanted to stop, and yet it continued to get late and he knew that he really had to go. Breaking the kiss gently he kept close to you, and as your eyes met again you knew you were right. Together. No words necessary. *** It was late evening when your phone alerted you to a text message; ‘You home?’ You weren’t sure where else Doug expected you to be, so you told him you were. ‘Wanna come down to Js?’ J’s was a bar in downtown Sydney. Your eyes flicked to the time again, you could probably get down there in 30 minutes. ‘Sure, give me 30, are you okay?’ ‘I just don’t wanna drink alone.’ That was fair enough, but you could read him well enough to know there was something much more to it than that. When you arrived, Doug was clearly already a few glasses into a heavy night, and you just ordered whatever he was drinking – which turned out to be some pretty strong whisky. You waited for him to come to you with whatever it was, because you knew the real reason you were here wasn’t drinking. Doug took a deep breath; “Look I… I’ve just been thinking…” Thinking and drinking had never been a good combination, but right now it was your turn to listen to him, and only speak when your advice was wanted. You nodded in encouragement, and he took another sip. “I just- When we hang out we’re always out. You know, either in town like this, or at your place, or around where you live, but I…” he paused, “I think you probably deserve to know why, I just-” You lay your hand on his arm and rubbed affectionate circles, unsure why he’d think it mattered to you. Maybe he lived with friends, or he rented a one room place downtown, maybe he was embarrassed about such things – he knew how much you cared about him, right? Doug knew that you’d never judge a person on anything other than their own merit; or perhaps you just hadn’t made that clear. You were starting to want to kick yourself if that was ever the impression you’d given this sweet man. “Doug, whatever you tell me it’s going to be okay; I promise.” “Is it?” Though he seemed to be questioning himself more than you, “I mean you hear about things happening like this with single mums, but-” for a second you were caught a little off guard, because it seemed so out of left field for him to say. Suddenly you realised where he was going with this; Doug was in fact the single parent. “I mean, I live with my young son. So, I… I’m a single father just trying to figure this out. I- I mean I didn’t think I’d find someone as special as you so soon, and I-” He hesitated again. Stumbling over his words he threw back the glass, and you were glad the bar was dingy because you were positive that you were glowing as bright as a neon light now, “I just can’t bear the thought of losing you.” You shook your head slowly, “You can stop worrying about that right now.” You squeezed his arm gently, “I won’t leave over something like that, Doug, not ever. Sure, there’s a lot that comes with it but… God, I promise you. I’m sorry you ever had to come down here and worry about something like that!” He was staring at you almost in awe, like there was no way you could be saying this to him. And you wondered what that was, the alcohol? But something had driven him here to think it in the first place – and you found yourself with more questions you wished you could ask, but didn’t want to get too deep with: Who hurt you? Instead you opted for something to follow up what he’d already said; “Do you mind me asking what happened to her?” Doug had used the word single after all, and it was pretty recent you could pick up on that; “And, what’s his name?” “Dillon.” You smiled, that was a sweet name and you made sure to say that too, making Doug laugh. “As for Ali… Well… She cheated on me with my best friend. So, we got divorced.” You were stunned into silence for another moment, that Doug would just out and say it, but the look on his face and bluntness in his voice told you he wasn’t playing. Perhaps the whisky had a part in that; “…What… the… oh my god I’m so sorry-!” “I have sole custody of him and she’s got visitation rights, and that’s the way it goes.” You shook your head, finding yourself inexplicably mad – that explained that lack of ring you’d been curious about, though; “Okay this… this could be seriously crossing the line here – but what a freakin’ bitch! And oh my god, what an asshole – Doug, honey, you can do so much better…” you leant on the bar, wishing that you could find something better to say, “I mean you have me now. And thank god. Geez, babe, that sucks.” He stared at the bar for a second, and then propped his head up, hand on his brow – and suddenly Doug Peterson was pouring out months of history to you. How him and Ali didn’t even seem to be working anymore, but of course he wanted to hold on for his son, he wanted to believe there was still love there because he sure as hell still loved her at the time. And heck, maybe he should have known. But how he’d only ever been suspicious at the barbeque that one time and it all came to a head one weekend, when he caught them having phone sex, of all things. It was a hard thing to hear anyone say, let alone him. How he kept using the word ‘maybe’. Maybe I wasn’t around enough, maybe I was too focused on work, maybe I didn’t love her enough, maybe I didn’t try hard enough... You hated that it was so conditional and uncertain. “Baby,” You touched him reassuringly again, “if you have to use the word ‘maybe’ then she never told you, which means there wasn’t any communication. She didn’t even try to help you understand, she just went and did it. It is in no way your fault, or anything you ever did wrong. It was clearly more than once and he could have told her no! There’s no moment of weakness - it was continuous. Baby, you got out of there quick and I’m proud of you for having the strength to do that.” You found yourself not only hating two people you’d never met, but wanting to drive to wherever the hell they were and give them a piece of your mind. But there was so much else he was really telling you, and you had to stop him before he got to deep. In case he started saying things he’d end up regretting; before he was ready to say them. Instead you took him in your arms and pulled him closer; “Doug it doesn’t matter to me – who you are, or what’s going on, or why. Baby… I just know that I love you. For the first time in so long I actually… love someone.” You stoked a hand through his hair, kissing it, “And I promise, I’m going to love you better than she ever did.” You couldn’t help your small gasp, the joy in your heart as his arms wrapped around you, “I’m just so sorry this ever happened to you. Because no one deserves this.” “Maybe I do.” “Don’t you dare.” That only made you hold him tighter, “Whatever you’ve done does not warrant the betrayal of your wife and your best friend. You have your company now, and your life, and me, and more importantly than that, your son…” You continued to card your hand through his hair; “Which, really, warrants the only other question I have left.” “Which is?” He looked up at you curiously, and you grinned, “When do I get to meet Dillon?” *** He gave it a few weeks to settle; both the new information and for Doug to solicit with his son that he was seeing someone new. Of course, he’d told Dillon of your existence – especially seen as he liked to show his son what he was working on - but Doug wanted him to be alright with the idea of the two of you together before he brought you over. All it prompted from his son was questions, and Doug realised as he spoke about you, just how much he enjoyed talking about you – and the way even just thinking about you made him feel. Suddenly it wasn’t too early at all – it was all just perfect timing. He was meant to find something better, and he finally had. So when you did arrive on his doorstep right on time for dinner, dressed in pretty vintage as ever, all Doug Peterson did was fall in love all over again. “You look good.” “Aw!” You accepted his kiss, “Well, I could tell you I didn’t buy this outfit just to meet your son but… I’d probably be a liar…” You studied him for a minute, soft dark purple shirt and smart pants with his sleeves rolled up; Doug had brushed up nicely. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” “Ah! Well you know, good first impressions and all that.” He led the way through to the kitchen, “Right this way…” admittedly you were impressed with the house too, it was comfortable, and you instantly felt at home. “…Don’t trip over the child.” You were about to ask exactly what he meant; only lying in front of the oven was a 7 (though as he would say later “nearly eight!!”) year old kid. Doug raised an eyebrow at you, “Apparently it helps cookies bake faster, and who am I to argue with that logic.” “Cookies?” You were a little amused “Yeah. We, well, he wanted to make you cookies, so we made you cookies.” “Aw.” “Only we lost track of time trying to decide what dinner was gonna be, so they’re still baking. Hey, Dillon, I know you want them perfect but you should really meet the lady they’re for, huh?” At this Dillon leapt from the floor and turned to you, face immediately lighting up, “Y/N!” “Hey, Dillon!” You crouched slightly as he ran to you for a hug; “I’m sorry they aren’t done! Dad said we had time-” “Would be my fault.” Doug scoffed folding his arms. “-So we don’t have time to ice them.” “Oh, that’s okay.” You smiled, “It’s very sweet of you to make them for me – thank you!” You nodded back to the oven, “Go on, you go make sure they’re perfect.” He returned your smile sweetly, “Thank you!” and resumed his position on the kitchen floor. Doug shook his head, “Have you ever heard of putting icing on chocolate chip cookies, though?” You laughed, “First time for everything-!” “God help us. Now, wine?” “I would love a glass, thank you.” Whilst the cookies were left to cool, the three of you sat down to dinner – apparently the two of them were very into cooking. “It’s the new hobby – if we aren’t outside playing soccer, its in the kitchen cooking.” - which meant they’d made the meal together - “Well, I’m not irresponsible!” Doug explained, “He did the easy bits, you know.” That only made you laugh, as if you thought he would be an irresponsible parent at all. Also, Dillon seemed a little disgruntled at being discredited by his dad. But he liked telling you about all his favourite things, which only made Doug beam at how much interest you took; So who is your favourite team?... OH! Yeah, no, they’re doing pretty good this year!... What’s your favourite school subject?… Oh man, that sounds hard I don’t think I could do that… But Dillon was also interested in you; “Dad said you were a dancer.” “I retired, yeah. I mean I’ll probably still do a little here and there, but my prima-ballerina days are over.” “He showed me pictures; it looks very difficult.” “It takes a lot of practice, that’s for sure, a little like your soccer does. Same kinda strength involved but in a different way.” “But I thought retirement was for old people?” Doug gave him a look, “Dillon.” “No – It’s okay! 35 is ‘old’ for a dancer, you know? We do a lot of practicing and rehearsals, and then sometimes it’s two shows a day! Then there’s touring… It takes a lot out of your body.” Dillon’s eyes flicked between you and Doug; “So you’re the boss here.” “What-!?” Doug folded his arms and narrowed his eyes slightly at the logic (or lack there of). “She’s the oldest, that makes her the boss.” Seemed logical. You looked to Doug, and winked “HA! I’m the boss.” But this sweet family banter continued on through dinner, and dessert – although apparently the cookies were for an undisclosed time of later - and honestly you didn’t think you’d ever had such a good time on a date ever. Here you were getting two cuties for the price of one date, whether they knew that or not. They were so alike it was highly amusing for you to watch them joke with each other or bicker; all it left you realising was you’d lucked on an incredible thing. You weren’t sure you knew many people who had dated someone with kids. And although you’d never planned on ending up in such a situation yourself, you thought that those who never had were missing out. It got later and later, and to the point where you thought you should really be heading off; “No, no, it’s okay, you don’t have to go. We have a spare room – and I’m a little worried about how much you’ve drunk and I could never. Stay, it’s fine, you can stay over!” “Oh no, I should go home.” You’d been paying attention to your drink intake and you knew you’d be fine, although it was sweet of him to offer. But Doug took your hand, his eyes very nearly pleading with you; “Please stay, for us.” “We want you to stay, Y/N, pleeeeeeeeease?” You looked across the table to Dillon, surprised to hear his voice; killed instantly by the fact that they were both giving you the same look. “How… how am I supposed to deal with both of you-!?” That didn’t make things any easier, and you couldn’t help but break, with a smile; “Okay, okay… I’m going to stay.” “AH!” Doug turned and they high-fived each other; “We got her, bud!” And you meant it. You were going stay, and you were going to be his, and only his. You were never going to let either of them get hurt again – and that you were going to promise. *** “So, do you want to watch something. Cuz, I figure the cookies aren’t gonna wanna be eaten alone, you know we need a movie or something.” You laughed, leaning on your hand, “That sounds like a good suggestion, Mr.Peterson.” Doug’s smile was bashful, but he turned to Dillon, “You go and pick one, mate!” Immediately the little boy scrambled from his seat and ran off into another room. “We have a wall of movies; I think you’ll like it.” “Oh really?” You had to admit he’d piqued your interest. “Yeah. He’ll only pick the same one I’ve been forced to watch 300 times this week – don’t worry, I won’t give you spoilers…” He tipped back on his chair and, making sure that Dillon wasn’t coming back any time soon, Doug took your hand, running his thumb affectionately over the back of it, “Hey, you’re doing really well. I know he like’s asking a lot of questions but, thank you for interacting with him like this it… means a lot.” “Are you kidding?” You were beaming, “Dillon’s adorable!” You tilted your head, “A little like his dad.” “Oh, okay,” Doug chuckled, but you could already see the blush rising in his cheeks, “you stop!” You felt yourself smirk a little, “Maybe you should kiss me to make sure I do.” Doug’s blue eyes turned suddenly playful; “Heck, I’m just gonna kiss you anyway.” And so he leant across, brushing his lips to yours, and tasted just as sweet as he was. Your kiss was only slightly interrupted by the sound of Dillon running back into the room and you broke apart to turn to him; “THIS is my favourite!” He held it out for you to see, and the look on Doug’s face told you that this was indeed the movie he’d seen 300 times. “That’s cool with me!” “Awesome.” Doug pushed out his chair and stood, “Dillon go set it up, I’ll clear up.” “Don’t forget the cookies!” “I won’t forget your cookies…” Then he nodded to the couch, “Go on, you go relax.” “I want to help.” “Nuh uh, you’re the guest, sit down-!” “Alright…” You held up your hands, which only made him cackle and turn back to his son, “See! She’s the boss my ass-!” You couldn’t help shaking your head after him, and allowing your eyes to flick down his body as he walked away, folding your arms; “You better be careful with that cute ass-!” Doug halted almost immediately and spun back to you, a little blushy and his mouth open; it was clear that his protest was ‘there’s a child present!!!’ but that he also knew full well he had started it. And to his credit, you didn’t see him complaining with your flirt. Once he’d cleared away Doug joined you on the couch. Winding his arm around you as you cuddled into him, and placed the cookies on the coffee table before offering you one. “They’re Dillon’s special recipe, so, all compliments to the chef.” You bit into one and couldn’t help the groan of appreciation, the consistency was just right for your taste – and so, compliments did indeed go to the chef. Dillon beamed at your praise, before he took a couple for himself and lay down on the floor again – Doug rolled his eyes. “Well, I thought getting him to sit to the table properly for ya was too good to be true.” That only made you giggle, “Aw, let him be a kid!” “You won’t say that later when he’s climbing all over you, I can tell ya!” That wasn’t necessarily true, but eventually Dillon did get bored of lying on the floor and pulled himself up onto the couch to sit between the two of you, opting to shuffle his body into the perfect position so that you could still cuddle. You and Doug shared the same ‘Oh! Okay!’ look of significance, before Doug pulled him onto his lap properly, “C’mere!” and in that position you all stayed for the remainder of the film. But Dillon did reach for your hand, and for a moment your breath caught – if there was one thing you didn’t expect from tonight, it was for Doug’s kid to just love you. For a moment you welled up and Doug definitely caught that, pulling you closer before kissing your hair – the significance was just as great for him after all. Doug couldn’t have wished for a better start to his new life. As the credits rolled Doug tapped his son; “Alright you, it’s way past your bedtime!” “No!” “No?! I’ll show you no! Come on-! Bed, now. You’re lucky you’ve been allowed to stay up this long! Be good and say goodnight.” Doug slipped himself off the couch, allowing Dillon to hug you tight; “But dad, I’ll miss her---!” Doug placed his hands on his hips and tried his best not to look exasperated; “Mate, c’mon, you’ll see her again in the morning.” “Ohhh…” Dillon pouted before hugging you again, “Goodnight, Y/N…” “Goodnight Dillon, thank you for dinner, and the incredible cookies!” He beamed once more, “Thank you! You may have the rest, dad’s not allowed any.” Doug sighed, before picking him up, “She’s dating me mate, I’m sure I can wrangle at least one more out of her! Now come on-!” By this time Dillon was giggling, “See you in the morning, Y/N!” “I said that!” “Just making sure she heard ya!” Doug grinned, which only made you smile, and joke with him “Oh thank god, this one might last long enough for me to see him again!” “Shut up! Don’t you be cheeky! I get enough from him-!” But he laughed and leant down to kiss you once more. *** Once Dillon was tucked up in bed, Doug rejoined you on the couch for another few glasses of wine, cradling your body close to his as every so often he would kiss your face and your hair. He was happy and relieved that you and his son got along, as you were amazed that Dillon liked you as much as he did; overjoyed in fact. Really tonight couldn’t have gone much better; and as you sat together talking, late evening ticked into early morning and you both agreed that you should probably get some sleep before the sun rose. As he also warned you that Dillon would be dragging you out of bed for breakfast as soon as he was able. He handed you a bundle of towels and blankets and some toiletries; “Spare room is down there… it has an en suite so you should be fine. Is there anything else you need?” “uhm, if I could borrow a shirt, or…” A cocky smirk crossed his face; “I mean, I didn’t think I’d get to see you in my clothes this early in the relationship, but…” You smacked his arm, “Stop!” “I’ll get you one, go get ready.” “If you’re trying to prove that I’m not the boss…” You gave him an accusatory look He held his hands up, “Oh I wouldn’t dream of it, my ass has been threatened enough!” You nodded as you walked up the corridor, and called back – “At least you know what’s good for ya… damn, you do have a nice ass though!” He didn’t say anything, but the silence told you everything, and Doug Peterson was a nice shade of red as he watched you disappear into the room. When you’d finished getting ready you opened the door to a soft dark grey shirt left on the end of the bed, which you slipped into, folding all your clothes neatly and placing them on the chair you decided to go wandering in search of a goodnight kiss, and say thank you of course, they really didn’t have to ask you to stay. His bedroom door was open when you arrived at, and you knocked politely “Oh! Hey! You alright?” Your immediate answer was probably no, considering he was shirtless – and your body’s reaction to that made you feel like you were about 20 years younger. “Yeah, I was just going to come and say goodnight.” By now Doug’s eyes were tracing you; it was big on him so it didn’t exactly reveal much – but it was still you in his clothing, and just a shirt – so your legs were on show, and damn, as a dancer… He blew out an audible breath and quite forgot where his train of thought was leading. Probably to a goodnight, but it wasn’t anymore. You bit your lip, knowing you were both just staring at each other; he had a good physique, and clearly looked after himself – you already got the feeling he ate well and it wouldn’t surprise you if he worked out, especially if Dillon was into sports. But this man was looking at you, and you weren’t about to shy away from that, in fact right now that was the last thing on your mind. “What… what if I didn’t sleep in the spare room?” Doug swallowed hard and his eyes met yours. By the time that happened there was a confident smile on his face; “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you suggested it first.” You didn’t know if you were supposed to tell him how good it felt for his arms to be around you and his body to be this close to you; the way his fingertips brushed in patterns over your arms that very nearly soothed you to sleep. Doug wasn’t sure he was supposed to tell you how happy he was to get to hold you and not have to think of anything else, the shape of your body curved into his – his bed just not being empty. But you – he got to share it with you, and even now he hoped he’d not have to share it with anyone else. He turned to lay on his back for a moment, a little overcome with a whole lot of different emotions, some of which he’d rather not let you know about; but he kept one arm under you. That could well have been a fatal mistake, because you knew exactly why he’d do something like that; and you could hear the shallow breaths he was taking. Doug was tense even if he was trying to relax. Oh…Doug… Is that how you feel, baby? But it only made you smirk, because that feeling was mutual. And all you wanted to do was tell him that; tracing your fingers over his as he lay still, you shuffled slightly, to take his hand in yours. “I feel so small when you wrap your arms around me…” It was quiet, almost like a muse that you hadn’t meant to slip out, but of course you had. You rolled your body to free his arm, shirt riding up just enough, and you guided Doug’s hand over you, gazing your skin. You turned your head and although he was staring at the ceiling you made sure to look right at him, eyes and voice equally seductive. “I never thought I would meet someone that gets me so damn hot…” He stiffened and for a minute it was like he couldn’t breathe, but he was also struggling hard to keep the biggest smirk from creeping across his face, as you lowered your voice to a sultry whisper “I want your hands on me. I want your eyes on me. I want all of you…” Doug’s fingers were below your stomach now, and you were dangerously close to getting away with this, before he turned his head – his eyes were wide and alert - but his whole face read intrigued; “Holy shit! You’ve got a mouth on ya-!” You knew exactly why he was saying that, and why his hand was no longer going to move without his say so. Doug wanted to be in control of this; but also, God YES did he want you to talk dirty to him. It was so far removed from the sweet, polite, proper, almost innocent look and tone you usually used that it just turned him on. You smirked at him, biting your lip gently as you traced your eyes from his lips to his eyes and back again; “Oh, maybe you should blame yourself… And put it to good use.” Doug chuckled, “Well get over here then.” But you had no choice in that either, as he pulled you into him. Maybe you’d be fighting over this ‘boss’ thing for a while. He did let you initiate the kiss though, running your hands through his hair as he wound his arms around you. You guessed his clothes weren’t really going to be staying on you very long. His lips traced to your jaw line and your neck as his hands eased his shirt up your body; and Doug got his first sigh out of you, which only made him want to work for more of them. And you were alright with that, because all you wanted him to do was kiss your entire body. You craved his lips back on yours and pulled him back to you – if he wanted control you were going to make him work for it. Doug growled gently in response, knowing that, but also being more than up for the challenge, as his hands came to rest on your hips. You broke the kiss for a moment, forehead to his, but your eyes and your body was already telling him everything he needed to know. But you whispered it, like a prayer that would go unanswered if you didn’t; “I really need you right now…”

---

Thank you SO much for reading! 🙏🙊💜

[cassandra-tangled]

Cassandra Appreciation Week Day 2: Bravery

Hello!!! Here’s my one-shot for day 2: bravery! Once again, a little late (at once again, about 1 am) but here it is!

Here’s the AO3 link

It’s a bit shorter than yesterday’s with the word count of 1,869. 

A brief summary is: Cassandra aides a distressed person on her travels.

There is some cursing, violence, and mention of a minor injury. Enjoy!

It was a miserable night.

Thick, cold fog blanketed the road Cassandra and Fidella were attempting to navigate their way along, and even earlier in daytime, the clouds had hung heavy, gray and low. Trees on either side of the path stood tall and foreboding, like stoic giants guarding a valuable treasure. Harsh winds blew to and fro, echoing like banshee screams, causing the branches of the trees to shiver and shaking Cassandra down to her core. She had to find somewhere to set up camp for the night and, if she could with the damp foliage around her, start a fire.

A shiver ran down Cassandra’s spine as a bat swooped across the path in front of her, too close for comfort to her face. “God, Fidella, it’s fucking creepy tonight, isn’t it? We need to find somewhere to camp out.”

Fidella knickered, seemingly in agreement. They made their way along the cold, muddy trail a bit further before the horse suddenly stopped in her tracks.

“What is it, girl?”

Fidella took two cautious steps back, and a shrill, ear-piercing scream cut through the air.

“Help! Somebody help me, please!”

The plea had come from not too far up the road--she could almost make out two shadowy figures, maybe fifty feet in the distance. A heavy pang hit Cassandra’s stomach, and she jumped off of her horse’s back. She took off the satchel with all of her valuables and tossed it around Fidella’s neck. Then, almost mindlessly, she unsheathed her sword from its scabbard on her back and brandished it.

“Stay here and stay safe,” she whispered to Fidella. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Silently, with all the stealth and courage she could muster, Cassandra crept up the trail. Even in the dark night, with every step Cassandra took, the figures became clearer. When she was about fifteen feet away, she could make the scene out completely--there was a woman, most likely a traveler like herself, and a menacing man had her pinned up to a tree. It was clear she had tried to defend herself--a dagger was tossed from the scene, now near Cassandra’s feet. The man had a knife to her throat, and with his free hand, was currently digging through what Cassandra could only assume were her belongings.

Cassandra’s heart jumped to her throat. What was she doing? This wasn’t her business. She should just turn around and hide in the brush with Fidella…

But she couldn’t.

Instead, Cassandra snuck up behind the man, put her sword to his neck, and kneed him in the groin, causing him to groan and drop the comparatively small knife he had brandished at the woman’s throat. Cassandra kicked it far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to get it, and quickly patted his sides to find any other weapons. She found one other dagger tucked in the waistband of his pants, and tossed it towards the other two knives.

“Move an inch without my permission and I slit your fucking throat.” Cassandra turned her attention to the doe-eyed woman against the tree. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. Now, remove your hand from her bag.”

The man obliged, but Cassandra noticed he kept something grasped in his hand. She pressed the sword harder against the man’s skin.

“All of it.”

“Christ, okay, okay. As long as you promise not to kill me.”

“We’re not there yet. Put it back.” She paused in expectation, and the man did what he was told. “Did he get anything off of you yet?”

“N-no, I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Back up.” With the sword still to the man’s gullet, Cass took six paces back, and took the man with her. By the sixth pace, they had crossed the width of the trail. “Hands up.”

“Are you gonna kill me, lady?”

“No. I’m not a criminal like you. Unless you try to harm me first, of course, in which case I will readily and easily end your miserable life. Now, put your fucking hands up.”

The man complied with her request.

“Okay. Now, I’m going to let you go, and you are going to run as fast as you can, and as far as you can, up the trail. If you try to mess with us again, it’s not going to be pretty.”

“Jeez, just let me go already! What about my weapons? It’s dangerous out here.”

“I’ll let you go, but you’re not getting your weapons back. The only reason it’s dangerous out here is because of people like you and, heavens forbid you get robbed, that sounds like comeuppance to me! Honestly, you’d ought to get a job. Then--get this--you can buy a knife! I’ve been living on the road a year and a half, and not once have I stolen anything. Seriously, it’s not that hard. Reflect on yourself.” Cassandra removed the sword from the man’s neck, shoved him away from her, and brandished it in front of her. “Bye bye.”

The man took one horrified glance at Cassandra, and sprinted into the distance.

“That...was...badass.” The woman whom Cassandra had aided stared at her, slack-jawed, from across the trail. “Thank you, seriously. Who knows what could’ve happened to me? Getting robbed was the least of my worries.”

“I know.” Cassandra paused. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh...not too bad.”

“Not too bad?”

“Um...yes. He got me in the arm with his knife, though. I don’t know if it was purposeful or not.”

Cassandra crossed the trail so she was close to the other woman, and reached out her hand. “Let me see.”

The woman obliged, stretching her arm forward. There was a deep, long gash in her upper forearm, and it was bleeding steadily--the blood dripped down to her wrist. Cassandra glanced up at the woman and raised an eyebrow.

“Not too bad, huh?”

“Oh.” The woman looked down sheepishly. “It wasn’t as bad when I looked at it earlier, before you, uh, scared him away. I’ll be fine, though.”

“What’s your name?”

“Um--Louise.”

“Louise. I’m Clara.” Cassandra never gave her real name while she was travelling. “Come with me, I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Oh, really, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Come with me.”

“Okay…”

After they had gathered the fallen knives, Louise followed Cassandra back to the segment of the trail where Fidella was waiting, in silence. “Louise, this is Fidella. Fidella, Louise.”

“Hi, Fidella. She’s beautiful.”

Cass cracked a wide grin. “She’s a good horse. I was going to look a little further to set up camp, but actually, I think this clearing by the road will do, and we have an injury to attend to. We’ll go sit on the ground over there.” Cassandra pointed to the sort of clearing in the forest beside her, a bare patch of ground just beyond the first few trees. “Come on, Fidella.”

When the three of them had made their way to the patch of empty land, Cassandra instructed Louise to sit down and began to rummage through Fidella’s sidebag. She pulled out a clean shirt, some bandages, and one of her canteens. Silently, she made her way over to Louise and plopped down next to her. Using her dagger, Cassandra began to cut the fabric of the shirt into neat strips.

“Oh, please--don’t do that.”

“It’s fine. I can buy another.”

When Cassandra had finished cutting the strips, Cassandra took one in her hand, and wet it thoroughly using the canteen. “Give me your arm. I’m sorry if this stings.”

Lousie reached her arm out, and Cassandra took it, gingerly beginning to wipe at the now semi dried blood.

“So, what’s your deal?”

“Hm?” Cassandra glanced up at the woman whose wound she was tending. “What’s my deal?”

“Yeah. Most people wouldn’t have stopped to help me. Why risk your life?”

“Oh.” Cassandra paused and contemplated an answer, not wanting to give up too much of her life. She began to clean the actual wound, and Louise winced. “I’m sorry. Well, I guess all I can say is I couldn’t leave you there, to be attacked.”

“But you could have died, too.”

Cassandra shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve cheated death before, and I trust my combat skills.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Cassandra had finished cleaning the wound, and began to wrap Louise’s arm in the shirt scraps. “What’s your deal?”

“Me? What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, you’re on a shady road late at night, alone, just like me. So, there’s obviously a reason.”

“Oh. I couldn’t stay home, and I really don’t want to say much more.”

“I get it, trust me. Me too, and that’s about as much as I’m comfortable saying.”

“Well,” Louise grinned, “we’re on the same page. That’s good to hear.”

Cassandra, finished with the shirts, began to wrap the bandage about Louise’s arm. “Yeah.”

“Hey. Thanks for saving me.”

“Don’t mention it.” Cassandra released the other woman’s arm. “I’m done.”

“So…”

“So?”

“Is this my cue?”

“Oh.” Cassandra paused. “Not necessarily. If you want to, by all means, leave. But you can stay if you please.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Just a nomad?”

“I guess you could say that.”

Cassandra glanced up at the other woman’s face, actually taking in her features for the first time. She was fair, slender-faced, and freckled, and her bright blonde hair fell about her shoulders in tight ringlets. Her eyes were a dark color, most likely brown, although the specific color was hard to make out with the absence of light.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“Hey, I’m just kidding. Lighten up.”

“Right.” Cassandra stood up. “I’m going to try to find some firewood.”

After fifteen minutes of searching, Cass was able to find a few leaves, twigs and branches that were dry enough to facilitate a fire. She found her way back to the make-shift camp, searched through her satchel for her flint and steel, and began to build.

“Well, if you’ll be staying the night, it’s probably safer if we take turns looking out. I’ll take the first watch, you get some rest.”

“It’s not necessary, really. Let me take the watch.”

“No, sleep. Really.” Cassandra perfected the fire structure--the large branches leaned up against each other, and beneath them was a pile of flammable leaves and other tinder.

“I mean...if you insist.”

Cassandra struck her flint and steel together, grinding them until the spark caught. She watched as the fire slowly grew, starting with one leaf before spreading to the others, and then the sticks, and then the larger branches.

“I do. You need to rest, with that arm. We’ll find a village for you to heal in tomorrow. By the way, are you travelling on foot? I didn’t notice a horse with you.”

“I had a horse, but…”

“Oh. No need to say any more.” Cassandra paused. “We can both ride Fidella until I find you somewhere safe, or you can ride, and I’ll walk.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“What?”

“About me. I’m still perplexed. Most people wouldn’t have saved me, let alone gone to the lengths you have to care for me. Why?”

Cassandra stared at the fire, and grit her teeth. “Let’s just say, I’m serving my penance.”

"Okay." Louise paused, and laid down on the ground, using her bag as a pillow. "Goodnight, Clara."

"Goodnight, Louise."

[venusofthehardsells]

Dreamgirl [part 2]

ReaderxBucky Barnes [Part 1] Summary: Bucky tries to adjust to his new life in the Avengers compound. One day he meets a girl who might be everything he needs in order to move on, but is his past really that far away? Warnings for this chapter: none, a bit of flirting (general series warnings include noncon, violence, mental illness, feels probably) A/N: Wow, I can’t believe the all the love chapter one of this story got! Thank you so much! ♥ I hope you will like this one as well. It’s the last “fluffy” chapter before things start to get chaotic dark, so you can all still jump ship if it’s not your thing. Extra special thanks to @cake-writes for beta-reading this for me! You’re the best ♥ Let me know what you think ~

Bucky can tell she recognises him from the way her face lights up in a perfectly glowing smile. "Hi," she beams at him. She is wearing makeup now, lips perfectly painted and eyes expertly defined with mascara and shadows. Her hair is no longer the unruly bedhead she had sported in the park earlier. In fact, she looks thoroughly put together, and pretty in an entirely different way. This type of beauty is right in his face, shining out harshly through her lipstick and wide, practised smile. "Hi," is all he manages to answer, but he quickly follows it up with a smile of his own. "Thank you for, you know, before," she says and he can practically feel the heat radiating off her face. Or is it his own? Shit. "Oh, it was... it's no problem," he answers, somehow sounding more casual and confident than he feels. "Well, it would have been if I'd lost them, so... thank you. Really." There is a change in her face that makes him want to heave for breath. She is still smiling, but it is as if the overly honeyed, slightly aggressive customer service mask vanishes. Bucky imagines that this smile is somehow more... her own.

"Anytime," he manages with a weak imitation of his confident pre-war smirk, but it seems to do the trick because she chuckles and looks down nervously. His superhuman hearing picks up on the fact that her heart is racing in her chest and it makes his own body an all too heated place to be all of a sudden. "So…" She bites her lip and he doesn't know if it's intentional, doesn't care, because all he can suddenly think about is if that mouth tastes as sweet as it looks. "What can I get you, Mr...?" Bucky has to swallow thickly before he can even think of anything to say that doesn't include all the inappropriate images that are now parading through his mind. "Bu-James," he quickly amends. It feels right to give her his old name. His legal name. It's not as heavy as the nickname he has borne all his life, the one loaded with guilt and horrors enough to make anyone lose sleep. "It's James. And I'll have a black coffee, please." She laughs again, as if that's exactly what she expected him to order. "To stay or to-go?" There is a hopeful edge lining her words and Bucky swears he hears her heart stop for just a second. A smile he has absolutely no control over falls onto his lips. "Haven't got any plans this morning, might as well sit down." It's a lie, but he is pretty sure Steve will forgive him for skipping their morning workout this once. He will have to. "All right James, black coffee to stay coming right up." “Hey, uhm… what’s your name?” He feels warm all over and he's sure it's not because of his sweatshirt. She tells him and he repeats the name, slowly, carefully, savouring the feel of it in his mouth. When he takes out his wallet to pay for the coffee, she shakes her head at him. "On the house." She winks before turning around to get the coffee maker going and Bucky can't help but be just a little bit relieved, seeing as all the blood in his body is divided between his face and his crotch. The way her work-trousers hug her ass doesn't help. He can't remember the last time another person made him feel this way. It's uncomfortable and disorientating and exhilarating all at the same time. A part of him, a huge part in fact, tells him to get out now and hope he never sees her again. The last seventy years of his life have taught him how precious control is, in any situation. It is what kept him alive through decades of firefights and infiltrations and other covert missions for HYDRA. And right now, looking at the cute barista, he doesn't feel very much in control at all. Bucky mentally kicks himself and gets his face back in order before she turns back around. He didn't have any control in the claws of HYDRA. He wasn't even human for all those years, just a weapon, a tool... an asset. A mindless thing created by a ruthless organisation, walking around in the shell of a dead man, whose own life was over in the blink of an eye. The Asset controlled him, but Bucky Barnes has probably never had as much control in his life as he currently has. And now that he's officially back from the dead, he just wants something that makes sense. Not unlike his time in Wakanda. Even though goat-farming with one arm had its disadvantages, it was still the closest thing to peace he remembers feeling post-enlistment. There are not a lot of goats in New York, but something else could surely make him feel the same way and he doesn’t mind. It's not as if he ever really got to try ‘normal’ back before it all went to hell. Steve might have left those kinds of wishes behind in the ice if he ever really had them in the first place (Bucky is beginning to think there is only ever gonna be the next fight or the next mission when it comes to his old friend), but Bucky can't give up the hope that now that he has been given this second chance, there might somehow be a life for him here. A life, a job, a home, happiness - and someone to share it all with. “Here you go, James.” Her voice shakes him out of his thoughts. “Thanks, doll.” He makes sure to softly brush his fingers against hers when he takes the cup she holds out to him, lets his touch linger for just a second longer than necessary. She swallows when the cup and its warmth is out of reach along with his hand and he realises that she has been holding her breath. He shoots her another crooked half-smile now that he’s sure he’s affecting her too and he has to fight back a moan, because the faintest trace of arousal finds its way to him in the mix of coffee and floral perfume. She’s wet for him. The knowledge makes his cock twitch and he’s infinitely grateful for the counter separating them. His loose sweatpants don’t hide much. God, he wants to lean over, bury his face in her neck, take a long, deep breath of her scent. It’s maddening. He takes a sip of the coffee and licks his lips a little, slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact with her. Her sweet smile is still in place, but he might as well have licked her cunt with the way her composure stiffens and he can tell she is rubbing her thighs together behind the safety of the counter. “Damn, you make a mean cup of coffee.” Bucky mostly says it to have a reason not to sit down, just to keep talking to her and she doesn’t seem to mind the least. “I suppose the last few months haven’t been a complete waste then,” she chuckles. Despite it being morning, peak time, they’re still the only two people in the coffee shop. Normally, it means Bucky doesn’t have to suffer through standing in line and waiting through another ten orders, and he likes that, but today it means he can linger by the till and play the part of the man he used to be so many years ago. Even if it isn’t really him anymore, just pretending not to have a care in the world feels good. “How come I haven’t seen you here before?,” he asks lightly, taking another sip of coffee. He likes to think he would have noticed her before or at least remember her now if she had served him coffee in the past. “Do you usually come in around this time?” He nods. “One of my colleagues had to go home rather urgently yesterday. Something about a family crisis; I don’t think he’s coming back. My manager asked me if I could take his shifts and I couldn’t really afford to turn down the extra hours. So here I am I suppose,” she says with a laugh. “Making coffee full time in a second-rate chain-café.” She sighs for dramatic effect. “What am I supposed to do during the weekend then? If I need a good morning coffee, that is,” Bucky adds with a chuckle and he can feel himself blush again, but he’s getting used to the sensation. And it’s worth it, he thinks smugly, when he hears her sharp intake of breath. Oh, how he’s missed this. “Well, I… I might find myself near the park sometime Saturday morning. And if I happened to be in the right mood, it’s possible that maybe I’d bring coffee enough for two…,” she trails off, biting her lip and he wants nothing more than to bite it for her, to suck on that perfectly shaped bottom lip of hers that she’s so infuriatingly flaunting in front of him. “It would be a lucky coincidence then, if I were to run through that very park on Saturday morning, too. Maybe around eight…” It’s later than his usual routine, but he figures it would be pushing his luck to ask her to meet him any earlier on her day off. “It certainly would. I really hope I can be persuaded to go.” “Oh, I can be very persuasive, doll…” There it is again, that scent of arousal gathering beneath her skirt and the sound of her heart beating a million miles a minute. “I’m counting on it.” Her own boldness seems to surprise her and he can tell she is about to blabber something about not usually being so forward or, god forbid it, maybe even an apology, but the bell above the door chimes just then and her gaze jerks towards the two newly arrived customers, a pair of women in workout clothes. “Persuasion will have to wait, it seems,” he smirks and leaves the counter to sit down with his cup of coffee while she takes the orders from the two women, one of whom Bucky actually recognises as the hot blonde who sometimes walks her dog around the area in the mornings. He studies her discreetly over the edge of the coffee cup. She is still undeniably attractive, but he quickly finds that her face eludes him the moment he closes his eyes. What remains to him though, are the sparkling eyes and contagious smile of the barista. The way she bit her lip, looking up at him through her mascara-coated lashes, has him completely forgetting the taste of the coffee. He is so distracted by the thought of her that he doesn’t notice his phone until the second ring. The device almost slips from his hand as he stubbornly fumbles it from the pocket of his sweatshirt with his flesh hand, never lifting his metal fingers from the safety of his pocket. “Hello?,” he asks quietly. “Hey Buck. I was just wondering where you were,” comes Steve’s voice, carefully adjusted to sound casual. Bucky almost groans at his friend’s tone. Steve is only trying to show that he cares, he knows that, but he can’t shake the feeling that America’s golden boy is turning into a helicopter parent when it comes to him. “Just getting coffee,” Bucky mumbles guiltily. He knows Stark has a tracker in both his phone and his arm, hell, Stark probably has trackers sewn into Bucky’s clothes just to be on the safe side, so it’s not like Steve doesn’t actually know where he is. “I… I needed more time today. Sorry.” “Oh. Bad night?” Bucky is half a breath away from kicking the table through a window. He only trusts Steve to wake him up when his nightmares get unbearable, no one else. He almost sent Wanda flying into the next hallway once when she heard him cry out in the night and came in to check on him. If it hadn’t been for her powers, his metal arm would have broken all of her ribs when he lunged at her still half asleep. He still feels bad about it whenever he sees her. With Steve, however, it is as if his sleeping mind can sense who enters his room. His is the only comforting face Bucky knows and he’s grateful to have someone around who takes all of his issues in stride. The only problem is Steve’s damn saviour complex, that he thinks everything is his fault and thus, his responsibility. “Could’ve been worse,” Bucky answers reluctantly. An outright lie is not the way to go about it. “Sorry I wasn’t there, pal. I didn’t hear you.” “’s fine.” He wants nothing more than to shrug it off and hang up. “I’m fine. But I, uhm… took longer than I thought. Think I’ll have to skip the morning routine.” “Bucky…” There is a pause on the line that Bucky doesn’t like; his hand curls into a fist in his pocket. “It’s almost noon. You’ve been gone all morning, Tony’s gonna freak if you miss the briefing and you know…” The rest of Steve’s words is a distant mutter that drifts further and further away as he slowly places the phone on the table not to drop it. His fingers are shaking. His entire arm, hell, his entire body is shaking. There is no way it could have been later than seven or eight when he came into the coffee shop. He risks a glance at the clock on the wall. 11.45. Where did all that time go?

[TRANSMISSION] ALHABOR: MADE CONTACT WITH THE ASSET. DOESN’T SUSPECT ME ORION: WHAT OF THE SEQUENCE? ALHABOR: SAFEWORDS SEEMINGLY INTACT. FURTHER TESTING NEEDED ORION: I WANT DAILY REPORTS ALHABOR: UNDERSTOOD ORION: HAIL HYDRA ALHABOR: HAIL HYDRA

Tags will be added in reblog

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Maiden of the Sea 3/5

AO3 link

Carrying the twins is actually easier than Arya ever expected.

Sure, she has to adjust to her size, but that was doable. Renly had owned a great many clothes that Arya can pick through to find ones that will accommodate her expanding gut, though most of them are awfully gaudy.

She’s trying on and tying a tunic of black silk embroidered with leaves and vines one morning. Most of these garments are just sitting around, gathering moths. She should really find someone who can take them apart and sew them into more serviceable garments. She cringes and tosses the silk tunic aside, trading it for a slightly less garish one of green wool edged in gold.  Gendry peeks up from the bed and tells her,

“You should just wear that as a dress.”

Arya stares at him bewildered. The tunic is quite long, nearly to her knees, and blessedly loose around her middle, but still.

“And just go around with my naked legs sticking out like a heron?”

“I like your legs, and I don’t get to see them enough.”

Arya rolls her eyes, and pulls out the hose that were hanging with the tunic. She cringes, realizing that they’re the two piece kind that are supposed to be held together with a codpiece.

“I didn’t know men still wore these.”

Gendry glances over at them.

“Can’t imagine they were ever popular up North, too cold. My uncle was apparently very much into keeping up with fashion though.”

Arya tosses them aside.

“Can’t do those, I’m not giving everyone at the training yard a free show.”

Afterwards, she finds a pair of lambskin breeches that slide on easily and tie very low on her waist. She’ll have to roll them up though, and she’s sure she looks ridiculous.

“You could just have something made for you, it would probably end up being much more comfortable” Gendry interjects.

Arya sits on the end of the bed to pull on her boots, which takes far longer than it used to.

“I know. I just hate the idea of all that work going into making things I’m only going to wear while I’m still enormous.”

In fact, Maester Elric had seemed mildly concerned about her size at first. And then, after interrogating her on her recent eating habits, told her he suspected that she was carrying twins.

Twins, as if the possibility of one child wasn’t daunting enough.

“It’s strange,” Arya had admitted once, “I love children, I always have. I rejected the idea of being someone’s broodmare, but I always thought I’d be the fun auntie for Jon and Sansa’s children. I thought Sansa’s especially would need it.”

She makes a face, thinking back to what she knew of other highborn children. Some she had met seemed to hardly spend any time with their parents at all. While Joffrey had cried to his mother over everything, she didn’t think she recalled King Robert spending any time at all with any of his children.

“I don’t want a wet nurse,” she tells Gendry when she’s seven moons along. “I don’t want to get used to the idea of foisting my children off on someone else, especially for something so...personal.”

Gendry glances up from his papers. They’re going through the ledgers together. They’ve taken to doing that with most of their duties. This was something that normally fell to the Lady of the keep. Arya accompanies him in petitions, and they both manage the servants. Helping each other out aside, it means that if Gendry retreats into his grouchy, sullen self at an offhand comment, or if Arya’s temper got the best of her when someone questions her ability, one could take the reins and let the other go hide and lick their wounds.

And on the rare occasion someone riled both of them up, they were a force to be reckoned with. Ours is the fury indeed.

“If you’re sure,” Gendry tells her, “I mean, I never heard of any woman in Flea Bottom having one, and they get on well enough.”

“Merope tells me there’s a girl in the kitchens, Mollie, whose due a moon before me. I’ll talk to her, just in case of emergency...but I think we can do this.”

It will be a challenge. Aside from the official duties of her title, Arya has taken on much of the role of the Master-at-arms.

The previous one had been killed during Stannis’s siege years ago, and much of the job had been taken on by the captain of the guard, who seemed more than glad for the occasional relief. A couple of the guards had objected to taking direction from a woman. A raised eyebrow and a question if they had heard of the exploits of Arya Stark, bringer of the dawn, had mostly pushed those down.

And for those who didn’t, a firm rap from her quarterstaff had changed plenty. She really doesn’t use the staff enough.

She keeps with the actual sparring as long as her body allows her to. And once she can’t, she still walks the training yard, observing, offering advice.

Even the physical symptoms don’t bother her as much as she thought. The heartburn’s pretty bad, but nothing like Merope had warned. Having to visit the privy constantly is a pain, but she’s in a proper castle now, where that’s never far away. And Maester Elric’s teas keep the worst of the intestinal symptoms at bay.

Sometimes she worries that she’s become numb to physical discomfort. That she’s become so used to it that she won’t recognize if she’s truly hurt.

Somehow, the one that bothers her most is the swelling of her feet, especially when she gets large enough she can’t do anything about it herself.

Gendry insists that he doesn’t mind rubbing her feet before bed.

“I’ve told you, I like making you feel good.”

Arya pouts.

“That’s the same excuse you used the other night when you let me hump your leg while you were still asleep because you were too tired to do anything else, and I can’t reach my own cunt anymore.”

Arya had been right that her pregnancy had made her libido go into overdrive. She hadn’t thought it was possible for her to want him anymore than she already did, but she had apparently been wrong. And while Gendry had enjoyed the change greatly, sometime this life they had built just took too much out of him.

Arya keens when Gendry digs his thumbs into her arches.

“I don’t like being dependent on other people,” she admits, “I spent too long not trusting anyone but myself, and now I’m going to have two tiny humans completely dependent on me. I don’t even know what to name them.”

Gendry blinks like it’s the first time the thought had occurred to him.

“Shit,” is his reaction, “And we have to pick two instead of one.”

He thinks for a few moments, and then wrinkles his nose.

“If either one’s a boy, we’re not naming him Robert.”

“Agreed,” Arya’s silent for a bit, before continuing. “I used to think I would name my firstborn after my father. I can’t. I don’t want to name them after any of my loved ones who have died. You see the way some of the older people here look at us…”

“Like we’re them reincarnated,” Gendry says bitterly. He hates being compared to Robert, just as Arya is uncomfortable being compared to an aunt she never met.

“I don’t want my children’s lives cast in the shadows of ghosts.”

They won’t be. Even names aside, the people of Storm’s End didn’t know them as children, they won’t build their children up on the expectations of the memories of parents.

Gendry drops her feet, and pulls her into his arms. He kisses her slowly but thoroughly, caressing her cheek with his thumb. His other hand finds the waistband of her breeches.

“Is this a bad time to admit I’m so hard I could cut diamonds?”

Arya laughs,

“At least you’re awake this time. “

He pats her on the arse.

“Roll over,” he tells her, voice deep and husky. She does as told.

She feels him pulls her breeches down as she unties and struggles to pull her tunic over her head. She expects to feel him enter her, instead her back goes cold and a few seconds his hand pushes her thigh up and his tongue probes at her from behind.

“Gotta make sure you’re wet,” he whispers lustily, before returning to his licks. Arya sighs and groans, and grasps at the sheets, pushing back against his face. He drives her closer, so close, before pulling his mouth away.

“You’re mean,” she says petulantly. His kisses one arsecheek in apology. He then returns to his previous position, wrapping one arm over hers and pushes in with one firm stroke.

This is pretty much the last position they can do this in. Arya’s sore breasts quickly made her not want to be on top anymore, the shaking making it worse. Then her abdomen began to hang loosely and it made her so uncomfortable that she no longer enjoyed being on her hands and knees. Eventually, Gendry wouldn’t even get on top of her for fear of hurting the babes. Fucking her husband had become nearly as difficult as finding a comfortable position to sleep in.

As she grinds back on his cock to match his every thrust, his hand groping for her nub blindly, she muses that at least it’s a good one to save for last.

She grunts and cries out when she comes. Gendry leans over and softly bites her shoulder as he thrusts hard and spills inside her.

“Can’t wait til I can see your face when you do that again.”

Arya’s still in a daze, but opens one eye.

“I could drag over the looking glass.”

She’s not got quite a moon left when Davos and Marya arrive for a visit.

Arya is delighted when Davos presents them with his gift to the babes, a carved wooden cradle.

The gifts have started coming slowly. Most of the houses were waiting until the actual birth to send their congratulations, fearing stillbirth or childbed fever. Arya understands, but hates the ideas that want to take root in her mind of what could happen.

Selwyn Tarth had sent a young foal, now in the castle stables. He had sent a note saying,

“If you’re child is anything like mine, this may be the only plaything they need for many years. And if, Gods forbid, the worst comes to pass, I’m sure the lady of the house could find it in her heart to make a place for the beast.”

One day out of the blue, Daron and Tim had presented her with a thing made out of fishnets, that they insisted was a baby carrier.

“Since they think you’re having two, there’s a spot to stick one on your back too,” Daron had insisted, lifting the net over her head and showing her.

She will definitely be testing that with melons before putting a child in it.

The cradle is beautiful, made of dark wood, and still rocks smoothly, though it’s clearly been used for many years.

“I’m no craftsman, my lady, but I’ve always been good with my hands, and this served our sons quite well.”

She barely has time to ask if it will fit two when Davos asks where Gendry’s ran off to instead of greeting guests.

“The forge most likely. That’s where he goes when he’s upset or someone pisses him off or he just needs to lose himself. He’s been in there a lot lately because he’s scared but doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t like being bothered when he does, but I don’t think he’ll mind if it’s you.”

Davos has barely left when Marya begins fussing over her,

“I can’t believe you’re still up and moving around as close as you are. With Dale I was in bed nearly an entire moon before.”

Arya flushes red. Maester Elric’s been giving her hell for not wanting to go on bed rest, but she doesn’t feel like she needs to stop. Slow down maybe, but not stop.

“Oh you know, another day. One day it’s achy joints, the next my tits are leaking.”

“If you want comfort, the first one is the hardest.”

“I can’t even think of any others right now.”

Marya holds onto her shoulders, fondly. Like a mother. Arya suddenly feels tears prick at her eyes and wonders what her own mother would think of what she has become.

“I brought you some blankets and baby clothes as well,” she studies Arya before continuing. “You tell me Gendry’s frightened. Are you?”

Frightened? Arya thinks. She knows fear, she’s stared it in the face. She knows fear, intimately.

“Not really. Nervous? Maybe, anxious? Without a doubt.”

She reaches down and runs her hands over her stomach so she can feel the kicks. It’s been a chore keeping other people’s hands away. These are for her alone.

“Mostly? I really want to meet them.”

Marya pulls her in to kiss her on the head.

“I think you’ll do just fine then. I’m glad Gendry has someone like you. Davos used to write to me that he was scared the boy would never adjust to his new status. He  would bristle at the tiniest of insults and sulk at the smallest mistake he made. He needs someone like you.”

Arya feels a smile quirk at the corners of her mouth.

“We’re good for each other,” she says, “We each want to beat up the other’s insecurities.”

Davos and Marya leave in a few days, saying they were called to King’s Landing before they could return home. After they bid their farewells, Arya tells Gendry,

“Bran wrote me a letter. He says he wants to give Dragonstone to House Seaworth. They both know the land, Davos has more than proved himself worthy and they already have multiple heirs.”

“I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more,” Gendry muses, “I’d have probably cocked this whole lord thing up if Davos hadn’t been here to help me.”

He’s helped them both, Arya thinks.

A few weeks later, she gathers a handful of Renly’s old clothes to take to Mollie. Her son, Tris, had been born three weeks before. The girl had nearly panicked when she’d gone into labor and realized that it would be some time until she could go back to the kitchen. Arya had promised to find work for her that she could do sitting down.

“I’ve tried to take a bunch of these seams out, so we can use the fabric to make children’s clothes in a bunch of different sizes. I don’t know if they’re boys or girls yet, so you can make dresses or trousers if you like. If they’re girls, I’ll let them pick whichever ones they like,” Arya tells her in a whisper.

She leans over the basket and gently taps Tris’s nose, softly. She knows better than to a wake a moon-old baby.

“You should make him some too, there’s some really nice leather among that all.”

“Milady,” Mollie says, touching the fabrics, “These are far too fine for a child of mine.”

She had realized quickly upon talking to the other woman, that Mollie had no one and her child would be a Storm. She could have told her that some of Arya’s favorite boys had been born bastards, and that the only part of them that should be cursed was the men who left them. But she knew it likely wouldn’t make a difference, and she hoped that this might prove to her that Mollie’s son would be treated no differently by the Lord and Lady of this house.

“They’re far too fine to be sitting in a wardrobe attracting moths too. Neither me nor Lord Baratheon are going to be wearing anything like this. I’m sure Renly wouldn’t want them to go to waste, and I’m too shit with a needle and thread. If I were in your position, my children would probably be running around naked until they could sew their own.”

She fingers the golden lace stitched onto the edges of a red velvet doublet.

“Feel free to tear off any of this frippery though. They’re going to be worn by children after all.”

Mollie finally accepts, and when Arya stands, she feels a cramp and stumbles a bit.

“You okay milady? Mollie asks, looking after her.”

“I’m fine,” she tells her. “If anyone asks, I’m heading to the Godswood.”

She’s been spending more and more time out here as of late, when she needed to get away and collect her thoughts. It was her place, the way Gendry’s was the castle forge. When her skin began to feel stretched and heavy, she would come out here, strip and go for a swim.

This is what she does today, pleased that even though it’s a bit cold, the sky is still only gray and not pouring, yet anyway. She feels another cramp, and winces, before feeling the water take her weight and lets herself relax and try to let it out.

The cramps keep coming and going, and Arya is annoyed;. They’re like the ones that came with her moons blood, but are much sharper. When she starts to go wrinkly, another one hits her.

She dresses and gets up to leave, and another hits, this one stronger, so much so that she stumbles.

Alright, maybe she SHOULD go see Maester Elric before supper.

The maester of Storm’s End is younger than any Arya’s met previously, his formerly golden hair only streaked with gray, worn tied back at his neck. He’s also a bit more sharp tongued than she’s used to, but she prefers that.

When she tells him about the cramps, he places a hand on her stomach, and asks.

“Is the pain constant? Any bleeding?”

“No,” Arya replies, “It comes and goes, but they’ve been happening more-”

Another one hits, and she grimaces and draws herself in. That was the worst one yet. She almost forgot she had legs for a minute.

Elric sighs and rubs his forehead.

“I would ask if you were paying attention to the dates I gave you, but you clearly haven’t.”

Arya sputters.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When was the last cramp before that?”

Arya thinks.

“Twenty minutes or so ago, after I left the Godswood?”

“My lady,” he tells her, measured. “You’re in labor.”

“Oh,” she says weakly, Elric takes her arm and begins to lead her out of his workshop and towards the Lord’s chambers, “That makes sense. Can someone please fetch my husband?”

Arya’s heard a lot about childbirth, from women of all stations, along with perfunctory lessons from her septa growing up. Part of her feels like she’s prepared, but also knows she’s completely not.

The contractions begun coming more frequently, by the time Gendry turns up. Arya hurts in ways that she’s not sure she even knew she could. Gendry holds her hand, even as she tells him some extremely unkind things.

She groans and pants and cries out, but won’t scream. She’s been stabbed, had run through the streets bleeding and jumped into a canal and tried to swim. She had pulled out stitches multiple times. This may be an entirely different kind of hurt, but it’s going to end in something beautiful, so it’s not worth screaming over. This harbour will not submit to the storm.

After a seeming lifetime, Elric announces that he can see a head, and a minute later, Arya hears a cry.

Elric cleans off the babe, wraps her in a blanket and hands her to Arya. She’s beaming and her heart sings, even as she hears Elric go “that’s one down.”

The second comes a few minutes later, with one strong push ending in a sharper pain. Elric cleans and hands Arya that one as well.

He’s clamping and cutting the cords when he feels the need to say,

“I’d watch out for that one, she tore you on the way out. It’s not bad though, barely a nick, it won’t even need a stitch.”

Arya’s cuddling the both of them, marveling at the tiny noses and ears and their little tufts of black hair, so she only vaguely notes Gendry going pale as a ghost and going “That can happen?” There’s so many things going on downstairs, she’s not sure she would even notice a big tear.

Then he says something about “afterbirth”, and Arya chooses not to think too much about what that means. She’s only got eyes for the girls in her arms, and ignores the odd, squishy feeling that follows, Elric’s hands massaging her abdomen, and whatever it is he’s throwing in the washbasin with the soiled towels and he’s talking about burying.

Gendry’s climbed onto the bed beside her, when Arya’s pulled down the neck of her tunic and Elric’s showing her how to get the babies to latch. It’s a bizarre feeling, but the two of them seem to know what to do, so it’s not bad. Elric nods, and tells them he’ll check in on them all again in a bit.

He pats Arya on the shoulder.

“For all the knowledge they guard at the Citadel, they cannot make life. Only women can do that. I think this is my favorite part of the job.”

And then he leaves them be.

Arya’s exhausted, so when the children stop suckling and yawn, she gives in to Gendry’s grabby hands and lets him take one.

“Have you thought anymore about names? Because I have nothing.”

Arya looks down at the little dark haired creature in her arms.

“My grandmother was Lyarra...how about Lyra?”

Gendry nods,

“That’s a good one. But we need one more.”

Arya bites her lip in thought.

“What about Lysa?” She pronounces it with a long ‘i’, “leesa’.

Gendry makes a face.

“Didn’t you have a mad aunt named Lysa?”

“I didn’t know her. I only have Sansa to go on that she was mad. And besides, her name was pronounced “Lie-sa”. I was thinking like Lys, the free city.”

Lyra’s already back asleep on Arya, but Lysa’s wiggling her little arms at her father above her. Arya’s reaches out to tap her nose.

“I always wanted to see Lys, I wanted to see all the free cities. I loved Braavos, loved the sea and the canals. Loved the smell and the fresh seafood and the boats and all the different people going about their lives in such a bustling place. It was like what King’s Landing could have been, if it didn’t stink so much.”

She pauses a bit, the darkness getting back into her eyes.

“Though I loved Braavos a lot more before I learned a blind girl could get beaten regularly in the streets and no one would do a single thing. I should have known better than to expect that people were better anywhere else.”

Gendry leans over to kiss her on the forehead, to help her chase the darkness away.

“Lyra and Lysa work for me.”

Arya eyes her still awake daughter. Her eyes aren’t quite as blue as her father’s, there are flecks of gray in them, like her own. Storm eyes, Arya thinks to herself.

“We could go see Lys someday,” Gendry tells her, “I’ve never seen any of Essos. Someday, we could go. All of us maybe even.”

Arya smiles as she feels her exhaustion threaten to take her. Maybe they would.

Gendry and Maester Elric both have to practically yell the next day when she wakes and tries to get out of bed immediately.

[thedyingmoon]

💚 See Me Now 💚

***

IX. Changes

***

What exactly do you mean by that, Section Commander?" Jean was scratching his temple in confusion at Hange's order.

"You love Ackerman, am I wrong?"

The color of Jean's face could suddenly be compared to the color of the tomato he was currently slicing, "W-what?! No! I just,... like her,..."

The thoughtful scientist knew that he was lying. "That's close enough. Anyway, I do trust that you could watch over her at all times, yes?"

"That's too much, Section Commander, I - "

"Come on, just say it already, Kirschtein!" Hange was losing her patience and was aware that she was harassing the boy for a reason he could never find out. "Will you do it, or will you not?"

"Okay! Okay! Sheesh,..." Jean sliced the juicy tomato in half and threw it on a bowl. He was getting quite used to kitchen duty by now. "I'll watch over her."

"At all times."

"At all times, yes."

"And tell you as soon as possible if something weird happens."

"Yes, that's it." Hange patted the boy's shoulder and smiled at him. "I know I could count on you."

"Thanks." Jean grabbed another tomato from the sack to assault with. "May I ask why you didn't pick Eren for the job?"

Because he easily gets swayed by his own emotions, he could possibly endanger Mikasa's life even further should the same thing occur to her, is what Hange wanted to say. But, she couldn't. "If I have to choose between you two in terms of being,... ah,... rational,... then I go with you, outright. You know how to properly assess different situations and make reasonable decisions, Kirschtein. At least, that's what I think."

Jean smiled. "You are actually one of the two people who said that to me."

"Really? Who is the other one?"

"Is? More like was,..."

Jean suddenly went silent as he continued chopping tomatoes. Hange noticed this and immediately realized what he was trying to say. She patted the boy on the shoulder once more and turned to leave. "I'm counting on you, Kirschtein."

******

A direct order from Commander Erwin Smith himself was issued that morning over lunch at the mess hall, forbidding ANY Cadet / Cadette ranks to go outside the Headquarters without written permission from the Chief, himself. It was implemented so that the Scouts could properly train for the upcoming Expedition, which was in roughly four weeks. The only people who are allowed to go out are the Scouting Legion helpers ( such as the cooks ) and the Squad Leaders, themselves. They would only be allowed to go out the day before the Expedition, to go to their families and such. Plus, no other person, Scout or officer alike, is allowed out of the premises after the hour of eight in the evening.

Of course, the youngsters were infuriated at this. It was like caging them, having their precious freedom taken away from them. But, the Commander insisted that it was so that they could be well - prepared for the Expedition. The recruits could not do anything but grumble and obey the order, for who could argue with the Commander, really?

The others may know that the reason for the sudden change is the Expedition. (F/N) thinks, otherwise. She's aware that the Commander just doesn't want any of his Soldiers to be involved with the Executioners. Her Squad Leader even made sure that her friend Mikasa, who's also an Ackerman, is to be guarded, at all times.

Guarded?

(F/N) slightly looked at her left side without actually turning her head and saw Levi eating his lunch just beside her. In the officer's table. She was well aware that the Squad Leaders were weirded out with her sudden intrusion to their private space. (F/N) groaned inwardly and glanced at the Scouts' table. She briefly saw her friends whispering to each other, and when they realized that she was looking at them, Armin nudged Eren with an elbow and gestured for them to stop and go back to their lunch. After that, she noticed that the girls from her Trainee Corps batch, who were seated six tables away from them, were looking very maliciously at her and whispering shamelessly to each other. Just like the old times,...

"Oi, you gonna start eating, or what?" Levi whispered to her.

"I'm sorry, Captain." (F/N) answered and grabbed her forgotten spoon on the table.

"Tch. Pathetic." the Captain mumbled. "You are my personal assistant now. Quit zoning out and focus on your goddamn self."

"Yes, Captain."

"Tch,..."

Hange was quietly observing them from her seat. She said once that these two would look nice together, and she was sincere on those words, actually. She just never thought that the relationship between these two would be the opposite. In a way, she knew that she was the one who caused this predicament on (F/N)'s quiet life. If she had not decided to raid the rooms that day and made her wear that freaking dress ( which she now despised as much as she like Petra ), then this would not occur. But, then, who could say that the Captain could even like her a bit? She had to admit that (F/N) looked quite plain, and most of the girls outshone her. She was aware that she could never stand a chance against them. And now, the midget not only hates her, he wants her out of the Legion, too.

She took a sip of her coffee and contemplated the situation. They could never reverse their mistake, but at least they could keep her alive within the Headquarters, Shadis' plans or no.

The rest,... is up to (F/N), herself.

Hange believes in her.

He will destroy her! Hange remembered Shadis' words once more and shook her head.

She is strong, and she could still be what the former Scouting Legion Commander intends for her to be.

Levi finished his meal, stood up from his chair and quietly left the mess hall. (F/N) looked up at him, waiting for his orders. He gave none. She desperately looked at Hange for help. The scientist smiled. She took out a piece of paper from her pocket and gave it to the girl.

"Go." Hange mouthed.

(F/N) quickly stood up and followed the Captain. When she finally caught up with him, he only made his steps faster.

"Tch. You're fucking slow, shithead." he said to her.

How I wished the serum drained his nasty mouth instead! "I'm sorry,..."

"Tch! You've said that like a hundred times. Stop being pathetic just for once, for crying out loud."

"Yes, Captain,..."

They turned around the corner and arrived at Levi's office a few minutes later. He opened the door, (F/N) barely making it inside as he began shutting it close. He almost slammed it shut and went to his desk. He collapsed ( collapsed, for the five minute walk to his office actually drained half of his energy )on his chair and regarded the girl with a very cold look.

The girl was still standing in the middle of the room when he began appraising her from head to foot. What is it, now?

"Since we're gonna stick together for four weeks, less, I hope,... we - no - I,... need to make some things clear between the two of us."

The girl waited for Levi nervously.

"First things first." he said. "You are now, and may I repeat, my personal assistant. I do hope that you do not consider it as something more. You are trash, a witch. You should know your place."

I must not cry, I must not cry,... "Yes, Captain."

"Stop acting pathetic around me. It's making me even more sick."

"Yes, sir,..."

"You must be here at exactly eight in the morning. Tardiness will be considered punishable. You won't like it when you go tardy on me." he threatened.

"I understand, Captain Levi - "

"And stop saying my name in front of me! God! I despise it when you say it. You shall refer to me only as Captain, or Sir. Are we clear?"

(F/N)'s throat suddenly became thicker. "Yes, sir,..."

Levi nodded. He slowly stood up and went to her. And when he was just a foot away from her, she could smell his strangely attractive scent. She tried not to be distracted and stayed focused. He sniffed her and his nose suddenly wrinkled in disgust.

The girl was deeply offended.

"Everything about you is filthy." he sneered. "I detest filth. Make sure to thoroughly clean yourself before going here in this room. Your smell might linger here."

I just took a shower. I don't smell bad,... "Yes, Captain."

(F/N) was sure she was going to faint from the Captain's bombardment of insults, but she had to stand firm. She promised herself that she would prove the man wrong about her. And she is damn well aware that she doesn't smell.

God, what is his problem with me?

And the insults were far from over. "You made a mess of yourself in training the other day. If you are to guard me, then you must be at least as strong as Nanaba. We're both pathetically weak, as it is. I don't want the two of us to be eating our own shit, don't forget that."

(F/N) couldn't trust her voice and just nodded.

"You also write like a stupid brat. I don't want you to do the same thing again on my documents, you hear that? I want precision. You are nowhere near close."

The girl nodded again.

"If I told you to fetch me something to drink, do it properly. I don't want that shit you served me yesterday."

(F/N) had no idea what beverage the Captain preferred, but she'll do her best to find it out for herself. "Yes, Captain."

"You will leave this room at exactly six. Erwin may have decided to have you move rooms next to mine, but I do not want you disrupting my privacy. That should be a given."

"Of course, sir."

"You will not speak unless I told you so. Keep your fucking mouth shut."

Nod.

"Your uniform must be perfect, at all times. I respect order and hygiene around here, I expect you to do the same."

Again with the hygiene,...

Nod.

"You will not touch me unless I give you permission to do so. You don't have to worry about me touching you, though, brat. I will never, ever, touch you. Not in a million years."

Nod.

"And, one last thing." Levi finally went back to his chair. "The moment I regain my strength, I expect you to keep your distance from me. Stay in the Legion, or not, that's up to you. Go within a mile from me, a mile, you hear, and I will personally escort you to the Titans as bait. I will not hesitate to orchestrate your accident."

(F/N) felt the remaining ounces of her courage leave her body. She just bowed her head and stared at the floor, concentrating on it too hard to not let her tears fall.

Nod.

Levi didn't say anything else and grabbed his quill and paper. He looked up once more and said, "You smell like the stables. Go take a bath. Do not come back here until you are thoroughly clean."

The girl saluted her superior and went outside. She carefully closed the door and leaned on it. The tears were about to fall when she finally remembered the note that Hange gave her earlier. She opened it and read;

Levi is weaker than you are right now. Don't be afraid of him. If he harasses you once more, grab his broom and whack him in the head. That should teach him a lesson. If he goes berserk on you, I suggest you punch him in the face. If he calls you filthy or smelly, say that at least your mouth doesn't smell like his. If he spills tea on you again, grab the pot full of hot water from the kitchen and spill it to his dick. If he ever compares you to Petra,

(F/N) stopped reading for a while. She simply thought that the Captain had every right to compare her to Petra. She continued;

If he ever compares you to Petra, go back to her room, grab that torn dress, and shove it down to his throat. You are stronger than you think, (F/N). And much more beautiful than any other woman I know, and I'm referring to your heart. He is a bully and he doesn't deserve you. Do not let him destroy you.

Love,

Hange

P.S. You'll work with shorty now. God, I'll miss you so much! I'll be working on the antidote so that you could escape that midget. I won't be seeing you much, then. Good luck and don't hesitate to follow my advice.

H.

***

@levi4mikasa , @yepps , @clovemcpandas , @unhappysap , @shewolfofficial , and @shortbty14 . 💚

***

💚💚💚

***

[touchmycoat]

Kinktober: day 1

alskdjfhalsd you know how I can’t finish things really? I’ve decided I’ll just post daily bits of writing that fulfill the kink of the day. Literally all WIPS probably but I’m gonna finish them i swear ;;;

Day 1: Sensory Deprivation

It was one of those open sea nights that settled in soft. Dinner had been the usual raucous affair, with a number of Ace's favorites (heaps of carbs and meats on top, as Thatch very well knew), and a barrel of hearty mead had been cracked open and passed around. Marco was back on the ship after one of his patrol circuits, and he had greeted Ace, upon his arrival, with a long, loving, very sweet kiss. Everything aboard the Moby Dick was warm, and the perfect definition of family.

It all served to make Ace even more anxious, later that night, closing the door to Marco's room (well, their room at this point, pretty much) behind him.

“Tired?” Ace opened. Marco had stripped down to just his pants, and was toweling down the evening's mild sweat and dirt. His smile, when he looked back over his shoulder, was casual and unsuspecting.

“No more so than usual yoi,” was the reply, as Marco wrung the towel out one more time, hanging it out to dry on a rack. Ace, in an effort to disguise his foot-shuffling worry, had sat himself down on the bed. When his hands started twisting about themselves though, he had to sit on them too. “How about you?”

“Same. Dinner was nice, so was the drink. But I didn't have too much or anything!” Marco's amused quirk of an eyebrow was, Ace surmised, the appropriate reaction to such seemingly random defensiveness. He needed to recover, quick. “C'mere?”

“Always.”

And wasn't this just the loveliest thing about Marco. Before finding his way into this relationship, Ace had never given too much thought to sex—there had always been more relevant things, and Ace has always found libido easily dismissable (especially aboard ships filled with nosey crewmates who weren't afraid to make fun of you if they overheard anything). Which was why he didn't have much by way of expectations. Even if he did though, Ace thought he'd've still been pretty blown away by all the things Marco could, were willing, and wanted to do.

Like this kiss. Guiding, yet obliging. Powerful, yet articulate in its model of power, where the throne was always present to seat Ace. Marco, ever happy to go to his knees.

(There was something perversely thrilling in this, thinking of them not as just Ace and Marco—and Sabo, on his way, as promised by a den den mushi call just that morning—but as Ace, the wildcard rookie who wracked up a bounty like nobody's business and was offered a Shichibukai spot mere months into his debut, and as Marco the Phoenix. Second-in-Command to the Strongest Man in the World, a legend in his own right. Ace had nothing, nothing but love and respect for Pops, but in moments like this, he also quite deviously delighted in the thought that a man of Marco's caliber was here, on his knees, for Ace.)

...But Ace was on a mission tonight. No matter how much he was enjoying this, he knew this wasn't the kind of conversation they could have on uneven ground. So he (reluctantly) pulled away from the kiss, then pulled Marco up and onto the bed.

“Something on your mind, yoi?” Marco asked, a little bit of a furrow between his brow now, but still unsuspecting. Ace had pressed himself in close, and was tracing the outline of Marco's tattoo in a nervous gesture.

“There's something I need to tell you, but I don't think you're gonna like it,” he blurted. When he felt the telltale suspension of Marco's breath under his fingers, Ace hurried to add, “it's nothing bad! In fact, it's probably actually good. I think.”

“I'm more than happy to hear what you want to say yoi, you know that,” Marco said carefully, when it became clear Ace was waiting for a response. “But is this something you want to talk to Sabo about first, perhaps?”

“Honestly I wanted to tell you first because I think you'll take it harder than he will.”

“...Alright. Then not to rush you or anything yoi.” Every square inch of Marco has glaciated, and he was clearly trying not to jerk himself out from under Ace's hands. The worst part was, Ace really hadn't been able to think of a better way to do this. “But would you please tell me what's going on already?”

“Yes, sorry, I just—” Come on, Portgas, you practiced this. “Okay. So remember when you and Sabo asked if there's something I would like to try and explore? Like, he has his pain thing and you have your service thing. I was trying to figure out if there's anything I would like, in that, um, realm. And there kind of is.”

That was clearly not where Marco expected this conversation to go—his frown now was wholly confused. Knowing Marco, he had probably been anticipating a declaration about how Ace realized the only one he wanted was Sabo, and won't Marco please kindly remove himself from the equation already.

Realizing that, Ace tried to simultaneously kiss and shake some reassurance into Marco (resulting in an uncoordinated clash of teeth that nevertheless did the job, for it got a startled huff of laughter out of Marco).

“I love you, you know that right?” Ace declared in a rush. “So this isn't—There is something I'd like to try, but you need to know I'm really fucking happy with my life, okay? I couldn't be more grateful, to you and Sabo, to Pops, to everybody in the crew, and I swear on my life—okay well maybe not—I swear on my mother's grave that everything's really, really good. I have everything I think I can possibly want or need—”

“Ace,” Marco cut him off. His nose was slightly scrunched in focus, as a man used to wearing glasses did when scrutinizing a mess in comprehension. “I need you to explain again, okay yoi?” When the right configuration of words still eluded Ace, Marco offered, “it sounds like you're maybe concerned that whatever you want to try might imply you're unhappy?”

“That I'm ungrateful,” Ace tweaked. “And I'm not, I swear to you.”

“Ace,” Marco repeated, a strange expression on his face as he set a hand on Ace's thigh. “I know that yoi. What we want in the privacy of the bedroom doesn't need to have any bearing on what we want in daily life. I hardly think that every time Sabo asks to be hit in bed he wants us to beat him up during the day.”

“Right, I know that,” Ace said miserably, “but this is different.”

“How, yoi?”

Ace breathed. And breathed and breathed, and Marco just let him. Marco watched him from less than a foot away, with the steady patience of a dedicated listener, willing Ace to find the words to talk to him.

So Ace, having already chosen to embark down this road, summoned up all his stores of courage and faith, and croaked, “well I was reading that book, and I just thought, wouldn't it be nice to not exist?”

Marco's gaze went blank, but Ace gripped the hand still on his thigh hard, keeping things in place.

“They called it,” he said softly, meaning that book, the one Sabo tossed at him with a wink, “sensory deprivation. Said it feels, for some people, like you've simply stopped existing.”

“I just thought,” Ace continued, voice dissipating into something even less than a whisper. A confession, unforgiven. “It might be nice.”

The strength in his grip was disappearing just as quickly as his confidence, and Ace began to shift away. But really, what the hell had he been thinking? Surely Marco, who had gone through two lifetimes and an infinity of sparring with death just to convince Ace to stay alive, wouldn't react well to this casual talk of Ace throwing his life away. Again. It was a silly desire to begin with, something miasmic and imprecise in the depth of Ace's mind. At least Sabo had clear-cut needs—hit me until I feel branded by you, or let me hit you until I've tied you to me. Marco was even more straightforward, easily summarized in a single word: give. And here was Ace, making a mess of things again with his messy wants. He should never have said anything, because he was perfectly happy wasn't he? Selfish, to be demanding more, especially something that he knew, he knew would hurt—

“Ace.” A flash of emotional blue—the hand that came to cup Ace's cheek though, was entirely flesh. “Ace.”

The kiss that cut off Ace's immediate attempt to apologize was—nothing like Ace expected. Nothing apologetic, nothing horrified, nothing (god forbid) pitying. It was actually... hot. Not the most devouring of gestures, but one still thoroughly suffused with want. It was so confusing that Ace had to break away.

“I thought,” he stuttered, “I thought you'd be upset.”

“You said this is a good thing,” Marco pointed out. “Did you mean that?”

“I—Yes. It's not bad, I'm not sad or anything—”

“Then great, yoi. We're on the same page.”

“Really?” Ace couldn't help but squawk. He was probably being dreadfully rude but he couldn't care less at this point. “You're turned on by this?”

“Shouldn't I be?” Despite his confident words, Marco still gave away a bit of self-consciousness by scratching the back of his neck, eyes flickering off to the side. “And well, I got quite the rush of endorphins yoi, when I realized you weren't actually breaking up with me.”

“And why the fuck would I break up with you?” Ace growled, not really meaning it as a question at all. Marco, taking the hint, gestured the question away with a slight tilt of his head. His eyes, Ace noticed, were still mostly pupil.

“I'm the predictable one in this equation yoi, you know that. So tell me—” The other great thing about Marco was, when he promised like that, with his whole body, he's never ever failed to give Ace all that was asked for. “—how would you like this done?”

continued

[wolf-in-a-suit]

PHD in Matchmaking

A/N: This is my entry to @cleolemonfanfiction‘s writing challenge. Featuring a really pissed off Loki and you dear reader, victim to the fact that you’re Tony Stark’s stubborn friend:

Due to working on a project with Tony you are forced to share a room with none other than sunshine personified: Loki. Both of you find Stark’s hospitality to be thoroughly lacking, will you survive?

My prompt was: A Marvel character and the reader become roommates; they aren’t exactly easy to live with until they reveal their feelings to one another.

Pairing: Reader x Loki

Warnings: Language (nothing major), Loki being an a**

Word Count: 2.399

There was something fishy about Tony Stark’s proposal.

When he told you, one of his best friends way back from university, that he would love to work with you again, you should have been skeptical. His story started reeking when he proclaimed you should just live in the Avenger Tower, for the duration of your stay. Every living being with an intact survival instinct would have been more than careful - thus you accepted it.

After all it was Tony, and you were talking about THE Avenger Tower! As in: high gear equipment for research and a bunch of superhuman trotting around- so no big deal at all!

"Tony you can't be serious..." The billionaire just huffed and said: "Look I'm really sorry but due to construction work we simply don't have enough room, so this will have to do."

"Not enough room? We're talking about a fifty-six floored skyscraper!"

He just clapped your back and ignored all complains - as usual. "Just pretend we're back at the university and you've got a new roomie."

You simply hoped this wasn't one of his disastrous tries to play matchmaker. In your last year at MIT the genius suddenly came to the conclusion that he was the 'Date Doctor' – you should have never encouraged these delusions by watching the film with him- and his first victim (patient) had been your mutual friend. At the end of the month his crush had invoked a restraining order against all three of you.

Becoming infamous on campus had always been a dream, but something about being 'that-girl-with-the-restraining-order' just wasn't all it was cracked up to be-and it certainly didn’t help on the dating market.

"So... who is my roommate?" At this moment a fair skinned, black haired man, stepped into the room a bored expression residing on his face.

You just shook your head. "NO, way! Do you think I lived under a rock these past years? You're expecting me to share a room with the nut job who tried to destroy New York?"

Said nut jobs face changed at lightning speed to a murderous glare.

"How dare you, a mere mortal, an insect in the face of a god, disgrace the-" "Hush,-" you interrupted him right then and there "-the Grownups are having a conversation here."

Loki just stood... still, his brain still trying to process the sheer audacity of this mortal. Tony on the other hand was impressed: "This isn't a sight you see all days: Took us a Hulk to get him to shut up."

At the intensity of your glare the Tony Stark, billionaire, inventor and Superhero started fidgeting nervously. 'Time for a strategic retreat!'

"Yeah, the two of you will be just fine. See you at work." With that he was gone, leaving you to face down the self-proclaimed and pissed off 'god' on your own- high time to reevaluate your choice of friends.

Outside, the turn tail almost smacked into a mountain of muscle. "Wow, Goldy-Locks we've got to put a bell on you." Thor starred at the door concern swimming in his blue irises: "And you deem this to be a good idea? You do realize that my brother is mighty compared with your mortal standards, even with his powers bound by your machine?"

"Relax, big guy! ___ managed to hold me in check for years. How much worse can he be?"

This was followed by a loud crash. Both heroes exchanged glances and after a silent agreement was struck, simply dispersed as if no screaming echoed out of the room in question.

"How dare you low life lay a hand on my belongings?"

"What am I supposed to do just sleep on the floor? This is a bed not a bookshelf!"

"At last you seem to grasp your place!"

The bright blue sky had already given way to the red streaks of dusk.

"Do you think we should interfere?" Bruce Benner startled when a new wave of hollering pierced the air.

"At this rate someone is either going to die, or they are going to hook up." Black Widow retorted offering the assembled Team a bag of chips.

"Natasha I have the feeling you're enjoying this a bit too much. Can we really guarantee ___ safety?" Steve declined the snack appalled.

"As usual Cap you're boring! Just think about it: If she manages to get the wannabe emo to at least shut his mouth for a moment: I’d say it’s a full success." Salty crumbs escaped the heir of the Stark legacy’s mouth.

"100 bugs she won't last two days!" "I take you up on that arrow head!"

Half a dozen heads snapped to the door at the second loud crash disrupted the air.

Days passed and the annoyance started settling in his chambers. She had an absolute disregard for any form of human decency: Grabbing his books and stacking them up somewhere else, obscuring the marked pages in the process, reading late at night and keeping him awake in the process. Even sitting with her filthy human body on his cape and wrinkling it! His plan to dominate earth had never seemed so justified before: These creatures really needed someone to teach them manners! Or better yet-he found another wrinkle in the fine green wool- obliterate them from existence!

The mortal stumbled into his rooms late that night throwing, or trying to throw her lab coat over a chair where it fell to the floor in a heap.

“Do we also add filthiness to our many virtues now, hmm?” The scientist simply huffed, concerning well-adjusted to the jabs by now. “Good evening to you too!” Her bed moaned at the mass crashing onto it. For a few moments only the rustling of him turning delicate pages filled the room. When he felt the weight of stare settle on his shoulders, his eyes wandered to the second bed where he found her prone form watching him with some interest.

The mortal took his raised eyebrow as a cue: “So you’re reading Stephen King now? When did that happen?” The god of mischief’s lungs were filled with a suffering breath. “Obviously nothing of your planets dimwitted literature is capable of entertaining me for too long: So as you took the liberty of grabbing my books and shoving them around I took some of yours.”  

He waited for the inescapable fallout… but only got a huff and a: “Well than by all means: Enjoy our ‘dimwitted’ literature.” Soon the room was filled by the rhythmic fall and rise of her lungs, testament to the false security she thought herself in. Not concerned with the personified wrath, shackled as he might be –he regarded the collar, rendering his ability’s useless- inhabiting the same space as her.

The rays of the morning sun danced through the room, illuminating it in a golden glow. You stirred and opened a lazy eye. ‘You got to be kidding me!’ “Are you already reading again or have you never stopped?” Green eyes broke away from words and met yours. “Degraded as it may be, I must admit there is some merit to be found in your forms of fiction- however underdeveloped it may be.”

‘Aaaand good morning to you too, headache!’ Even when the man complimented something, he dragged it through the mud first. “For ‘underdeveloped’ literature you took quite a shine to it I’d say.” You eyed the tower of books piling beside his cot. A collection of Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and many others were stacked in a hazard manner forming a tribute to the leaning tower of Pisa. One could say much of the insufferable man, but he sure was a fast reader, but god forbid he would hear you complimenting anything about him. That would just feed his ego, inflating it to the eighth world wonder.

Thus the days passed, you worked with Tony and at night crashed in your room. At times, even having civil conversations with the black haired Asgardian. Well, scratch the argument the two of you had regarding his reading candles. How could such an advanced society still use freaking candles for light? Though, you suspected that was just Loki being in his no-one-could-ever-understand-me-cause-I’m-so-deep rebellious phase.

Your project regarding advanced bionic arms for amputees was taking bigger strides each day and would soon be finished.Than you would be out of here and free of the mood swings of his majesty. Tinkering with the sensor of the prototype a sudden sadness welled up inside you. These feelings were quickly brushed away however. Who had the chance to work in the Avenger Tower? It was only natural to be sad to leave it behind!

“Someone is in a disgusting good mood today. And stop that hideous noise, are you trying to sing?” You came to a sudden halt next to him sitting on the windowsill.

“What, are you a leading expert on music now too? It’s called humming!” Unimpressed he resumed turning to the next page. “There is no need to immerse myself in, what you humans might call music, to know that it will lack any originality, or that your ‘humming’ is an insult to every hearing thing that has the ill fortune to meet you.” Your chuckle drove green eyes to flash from the page to your face. “Your insults are becoming a little bit clunky, you should work on that. Although I must admit I walked right into that one.” When your expression started clouding he couldn’t help but inquire:

“Now that you have managed to annoy me yet again, one should think it would lift your spirits even more?” “Ahh, it’s just...” at the impatient ruck of his head you continued: “Tomorrow there will be a press conference about our new project and I can already tell that Tony is going to hog all the glory.” Your hands were raised in surrender, justifying yourself to air. “Not that he ever did it on purpose, but he’s just so charming and outspoken… people always tend to forget me when he’s around. It’s been like this ever since university.”

Loki pondered on this for a long moment. At last he seemed to come to a decision. You looked at him hopefully.

Perhaps this was the turning point, the two of you had a real conversation:

He wasn’t that bad honestly.

“Do you plan on murdering me with boredom? Because that insignificant tale, almost finished what my brother and his idiotic friends started.”

Clash! A Jane Eyre book hit him square in the royal visage. “HOW DARE YOU LITTLE MORTAL-“ His screams died in his throat when salty water leaked onto your cheeks.

“You’re honestly the WORST person imaginable! I thought we had finally found some common ground!” You hated this, you hated that you cried in front of him! You hated this bastard! Why did all that sass leave you when you needed it the most?

The god of mischief scoffed. “Common ground!? You relate more to an insect than to me…” an almost immeasurable pause “Why do you even care about that?”

A primal roar tore through the air. “Because, I care about you!”

Silence.

‘Shit! Shit, shit, shitshitshit!’ If you hadn’t just revealed your greatest weakness to the one person bend on destroying your whole planet, his expression would have been hilarious.

Still, like a statue he stood, with a finger still raised in the air. His eyes wide and expression matching the vacancy, that settled in his mind at your admission. You waited, bracing yourself for the mental pain –probably accompanied by being bitch slapped into next century- that was about to come.

Half a minute ,an eternity stretched by and you couldn’t bare it any more. So you hurried out of the room, leaving shame and misery behind you.

“Where the hell is it?” Tony already rummaged through the whole lab leaving discarded files, books and old takeaway containers in his wake. Searching through the living room for the last control sensor of your prototype he became more and more nervous. “Damn!” his hands dragged through his hair and left it disheveled. “The press is arriving in an hour!” You on the other hand couldn’t really pretend to be to bothered. Between Tony probably being the only one to interact with the press… and the incident yesterday you were already at rock bottom: so pretty comfy with the thought of your work just being dragged through the mud by the press.

Not even the mighty Avengers, vanquishers of foes beyond human comprehension, crawling around on the floor like a band of children playing hide and seek could lighten your mood. Thor started bench pressing the whole couch, because Natasha couldn’t get a good look under it.

Than he entered: Loki strode into the room annoyingly regal and composed as always. Your eyes tried to focus on anything that wasn’t the immaculate form of the Asgardian, but then you realized he strode directly to you. Oh, you had spent the rest of last night- sleeping -on the now airborne couch- about what insults you would cast at him. Anything to fight the rising shame in your gut about your display of weakness yesterday. You squared your shoulders, got into a fighting stance and raised your eyes to meet his with a glare.

But all words failed you when Loki fell in one fluent motion onto his knee and took your hand, raising it to his lips. You felt the peck and something else meet your hand. When he raised his head your stares intertwined, his contained an uncharacteristic warmth.

CRASH! The spell was broken by the thundering clash of the couch almost crushing Black Widow. Thor didn’t even register that the weight had left his hands, he just stared at the scene mouth agape. His brother, not able to contain the fast flash of a grin on his face, took this at his cue to leave. In another elegant motion he stood and left the room as if nothing had transpired between the two of you.

While everyone’s attention was still trained on Loki your turned your hand.

Inside it you found the sensor, a small slip of paper was attached to it: ‘Leave him to fidget some more!’ When the search party started shuffling awkwardly around you again, sending you deeply disturbed glances you slipped your hand into your pocket and felt a blush flame onto your cheeks.      

[kristie-rp]

[2016][AU - Gang] Trust Issues

Prompt:  Gang AU is basically what this ended up being. Also this one alone is over 10,000 words so…oops? Hope it’s good.

“Grab my hand.”

Leo stares at her. Time ticks away as whoever survived the grenade blast screams their suffering to the world. If this were anyone else, he thinks he knows what he’d expect – either a boot to the hand, which admittedly he does still think Tera will offer, a nudge to his death however many feet below (thirty six, actually, twelve for each storey and the space between, but he determinedly doesn’t think about that) – or a lifeline. If he is thinking that she is about to force him to his demise, he’d normally grab an ankle or a wrist, whatever’s on offer and within reach – but there’s the pain to consider, and the fact that she’s still not as strong as him, and the fact that he still thinks she’s going to kill him after all of this.

Then again, this is Tera. He’s never known what to expect from her.

“Grab my hand, boss man,” she repeats, reaching that little bit further. As if she expects it to encourage him to grab on.

He doesn’t grab on -

– He hesitates.

So here’s the thing.

They’re a gang and they’re criminals and obviously none of them could be considered the most trustworthy of people. Leo’s in charge of the assholes, technically, and even he’s only in on the whole mess because it’s not like his idiotic brothers can run a gang to save their lives, and he’s technically the one who was supposed to be their mothers’ protégé (before Rita proved to be better, before he wasn’t good enough, before he pissed off Veronica enough to get himself and his own siblings kicked out of the family business despite having nowhere else to turn) so he’s the most qualified to do the job. Besides, the alternative is for Syrus to be the leader, but Rachael and Vain would sooner stab their second-oldest brother than follow him, or god forbid they could have no leader – except that’d just make it extremely easy for Rita’s gang, the one that Leo would’ve probably been in charge of if he hadn’t told his mother to piss off and let him go at it alone, to tear the Constantine’s to pieces.

Leo’s in charge of the assholes, none of whom are trustworthy, and yet, for him, the single most untrustworthy? It’s not one of his brothers, not even Syrus, who has spent literal years being envious of Leo being the heir. No, for Leo, the most untrustworthy is the goddamn assassin, Tera.

It starts with Syrus showing up with her one day, just – out of nowhere. Leo’s not sure how it happens. He remembers mentioning that he wants to hire an assassin who wasn’t going to turn tail and sell them out at the first opportunity, just a one-off to take out some weapons dealer who has been screwing them over for weeks at that point, the smug bastard figuring he can get away with it. Syrus barely looked away from his book as he called, “Oh, I know someone, I’ll give her a call and see if she’s interested.” Naively, stupidly, Leo just throws a wad of cash at him and tells him that’s the max he’ll pay her – just take care of it. Syrus wakes Leo up from where he’s dozed off at his desk in the early morning the next day, just to get him to give the hire the details.

Turns out, his someone is definitely interested. Bombshell blonde. Black Widow. Mantis. All names given to the most infamous, and most successful, assassin active across the world. She tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder when Syrus introduces her to Leo, lifts her designer shades and scans him with bright teal eyes, narrowed as if against some bright light – except the sun is rising behind her and can’t possibly be in her eyes. She’s judging him, and he knows it. He thinks, desperately, that when he said someone who won’t sell us out he didn’t mean someone who’ll kill us all at the first opportunity. “Tera Michiligan,” she introduces herself, and that’s as far as it goes.

Or at least, it should be. Leo resents her from the start, after all, and he’s in charge, but he tells himself it’s just a one-off and he needs to stop being so controlling; he has to accept that he won’t always like everyone in the business (even though he still seeks out Rita when he knows she’s not too busy, eager for her company – she’s an exception, not the rule, and he needs to get that through his head). Then it becomes a two-time deal, when Syrus hires her to take out an Inferno who’s giving them trouble and their second choice is out on maternity leave (never to return because her child deserves better, apparently, and her thief husband is good enough to sustain them, like the money Leo pays them isn’t good enough – he knows that’s not a fair thing to think and ends up giving Mora a generous donation towards the kids trust fund anyway). Three times, when Vain asks her to play bodyguard for his ‘friend’. Within three months, a meeting is held to discuss her being hired, as always subject to vote – if anyone other than Leo, who counts the votes instead of giving his own, disagrees, then she’ll be out and hired on a one-by-one contract-only basis. He counts on Rachael to object.

Except Rachael and Tera actually get along, for some ungodly reason. The entire crew votes in favour of having her on as a permanent addition.

Leo ends up being the one who gives her the offer, begrudging as possible without making Syrus do it instead – and through it all he doesn’t trust her. At all.

 First there’s her reputation. She’s foreign and doesn’t bother to hide it, so she’s got the whole ‘stealing jobs from real Americans’ thing going against her. And that’s just the bit she can’t help. Rumours say she’s a Black Widow and a traitor, tears gangs apart from the inside, leaving her the last one left, with everyone else dead or worse, not imprisoned but certainly not in any state to come after her, ever, not without a miracle. And there are no miracles in their business.

(He overhears Vain ask, once, him and his girlfriend who he still isn’t sure is actually on his payroll or not, not with her and her little streaked head of hair appearing and disappearing as unpredictably as the fucking breeze (though he does think she probably deals drugs in clubs around the city) – Vain and his girlfriend, Jean or Jen or something equally generic, they ask where Tera came from, how she ended up in the states instead of back home. Tera smirks and looks down at the gun she’s cleaning, methodically of course, always a method to her madness. “The Heron, they called themselves,” she says, “a vicious group outta L.A.”

“Yeah,” presses the girl and Vain, in sync. They share a glance before he goes on, “But what happened?”

Leo thinks he should probably not be eavesdropping, except he’s running through papers and maps and plans at the dining room table, and they’re only in the living room – hell, Tera’s actually sitting on a dining chair, she’s just dragged it over to the entertainment set up and completely ignored his glare (it’s not that hard to lift it off the hardwood floors, damn it). But then he figures that he’s got as much right to know as they do, after all, he’s in charge, not Vain. He actually looks up to watch as the assassin laughs, this quiet little thing that doesn’t sound nearly menacing enough to match the things everyone says about her.

“One of them was under the impression that I was more poorly trained than she. Tried to sneak up on me, pistol in hand, silencer attached. Really, if it was one of you lot then I expect she’d have succeeded and gotten away with it,” If I’d said that the assholes’d be offended as hell, Leo thinks, “except I’ve been trained more thoroughly than most MI6 operatives, never mind some mercenary who’s jealous her boss actually likes me. I sleep with one eye open,” and she fucking winks. Damn it. “The woman was dead before she could click off the safety. I figured if they were lax enough in their security to allow that, then they didn’t deserve to rise up any higher. Besides, they trafficked in kids, disgusting business. So they had to die.”

Leo tries not to listen as Vain’s girlfriend asks what happened to the kids.

“Oh, I got them where they needed to be.”

Leo thinks maybe she shot them to put them out of their misery, or maybe took over the business herself.)

Then there’s her goddamn name. Tera. It’s so on the nose that he wonders for a long time if it’s fake, even goes to their intel people, his sister Rachael and her hacker friend, Virus, to get a straight answer.

(“Tera Michiligan,” Virus says at the time. He’s this slightly overweight kid with spindly arms, a complete dork that you’d overlook if you didn’t know him. Internally, he’s probably the best hacker in the city – maybe in the country. Leo likes to tell himself that Virus sticks around because he’s loyal, but really, the hacker just wants a paycheck.

Even as he’s answering Leo’s questions, he’s screwing around with a controller, trying to beat someone at some game on an Xbox. Rachael’s certainly not his gaming partner – though she occasionally throws nuts at him from where she’s set up with the blueprints for the bank Syrus and Vain want to heist, either to distract him or feed him, Leo isn’t sure, but mostly it seems to end with Virus chewing on whatever gets thrown his way. He’s not even sure if their casual affection is just affection, or something more, uh, intimate. Virus glances at his laptop, then back at the TV screen in time to shoot someone. “30. Blonde, assassin, wanted in four states, six countries, and two republics. Looks like she had a sister who got killed by some gang – and MI6 was interested in her at some point. And the CIA. FBI is a bit behind and doesn’t have the same intel – guess they’re keeping their search private, not telling the big boys they’re fishing.” He snickers, launches a grenade at a weird alien on screen. “Don’t believe me, boss-man? I can getcha verification.”

“B?” Rachael asks, already sorting through papers for contact numbers. She’s given Leo a file with everything they could find on Tera, including a birth certificate. Leo’s not sure this is legit, surely an assassin as infamous as her isn’t so easy to track (Virus is offended that Leo thinks his job is easy, and threatens to quit. Again. It’s a joke he makes a lot).

‘B’ turns out to be a tiny red-haired woman who refuses to meet him except for over a video call rerouted through so many servers that Virus complains she’s overdoing it, and “don’t you trust me?”. B points out that she’s still pretty sure Virus is most of the reason that her fucking robot has to be rebuilt, again (Leo’s tired just thinking about all the tech he’s not up to date on), after being obliterated by a fucking knife of all things when an assassin took out her psychopath brother. And apparently she knows that he took the harddrive. (Leo idly recalls that Syrus ordered Tera to kill a psychopathic Inferno and she inexplicably had a gift for the hacker afterwards. He had assumed it was a heart or something equally as grotesque, something to assuage the hacker from digging into her past. Apparently, this is not the case. Huh.).

After being forced back on track by Leo and his habit of being infinitely less interested in their bickering than he is in the answers to his questions, B looks at what seems to be another screen. “Yeah, Tera Michiligan. British national. They do not want her back, oh wow, there’s just a warrant for her arrest. Huh, wow, I didn’t even know Britain did denaturalisation.”

Virus at least has the good grace to wait until the connection is severed before he tries to explain that denaturalisation basically involves a country telling former citizens to fuck off and not come back – Rachael would have just started explaining without waiting, never mind whether it makes her boss look stupid. Leo snarks that he knows what that means, and he also isn’t dumb, he can figure that ‘B’ is an Inferno. And then he demands that someone make Vain set up a meeting with Intellect.

Intellect’s this woman who, in another life, Leo can see himself being attracted to – hell, he’s kind of attracted to her now. She’s got dark skin and magenta hair and wears glasses that look cheap but are rumoured to actually be the most high-tech things available, with a dozen different visual settings, different magnification options, and god knows what else. What’s special about her? Unlike everyone else, all her information is entirely offline. Vain goes with Leo to meet her, only because (a) the meeting point is near wherever his girlfriend (Leo’s gotten her name straight, finally, it’s Jenna, she deals drugs for her sister out of nightclubs around the city since apparently the sisters identity is a Big Secret™) is working, and (b) appearances are an Important Thing in their business and Leo can’t look like he’s working alone, and finally (c) though Intellect isn’t stupid enough to attack him, other people are, and backup is always a nice thing to have.

Leo gestures for Vain to stay near the entrance to the club they’re around the side of, down an alley jammed between a nightclub and a 9-11 because that makes sense as a layout, and approaches Intellect and her two guards alone. When he’s close enough, he even offers a smile, because formalities get tiring and for all he insists on using her alias with his crew, he’s known Intella for four years now, after the two wound up neck-deep in a conspiracy consisting of more corrupt cops than the city can handle (he didn’t trust Syrus, Vain, or even Rachael to take care of the undercover work, and this is before his name gets tied to his face by his enemies. Well, except Rita, but she doesn’t count). He greets her warmly, and even after so many meetings, her two bodyguards are standing unnecessarily close, looming over them despite Leo being just as tall as the shorter of them. Intella lifts a hand to dissuade them, murmurs something in the ear of the taller after making him lean down to her level – Leo catches her saying “Axel, please prevent Jonathan from attacking him,” as though he can’t look after himself – and turns to greet him. “Sorry, they still haven’t forgiven you for that one kiss.”

There are rumours everywhere that Intellect, Intella, whatever, that she’s got her bodyguards wrapped around her little finger. It’s true. Very few people are privy to the information that this is more than professional obligation, rather, it’s the three of them being in a very committed, very strange relationship. Jonathan started out jealous of his older brother despite being the first to make a move on their employer, this Leo knows – and anyone else who does so is dead by now, or in no state to speak. Perks of having personally invested guards. The only reason Leo is still alive after ‘that one kiss’ is that Intella keeps interfering whenever one or both of the brothers attempt to kill him. “Tell me about Tera Michiligan?”

“What do you want to know?” Intella asks, eyes dancing with something like amusement.

“That can’t be a real name. It’s an alias.”

Intella scoffs. “No. Tera is as much her name as Leonard is yours. The fact that it is so relevant to her job is a coincidence. Her parents expected a male, and chose the name Terrence. Tera was the most appealing feminine variant of the name.”

He kind of resents Intella for offering such a reasonable explanation. It makes his conviction that much easier to poke holes in.)

It’s a problem, too, that she’s smart. Because he’s worked with smart people before – he’s one of them, he’s proud of that fact. Rachael’s a borderline genius. He’d wager Intella was a childhood prodigy. But Tera’s smarts – it’s different. She’s smart in a dangerous way.

(There’s one moment, when the group of them – all seven, Tera and Leo included – are preparing to heist a formal event being held at the botanical gardens. The plan is to get in, get everyone down, then rob them of their fancy fucking jewellery – they’ll sell it to the Spider, Mora’s husband, who in turn will pawn it off to Disraiel, an apparent genius at getting rid of this stuff. The plan is that the Spider keeps twenty five percent and they keep the rest, because he has some kind of deal with Disraiel that means he gets paid a hundred twenty five per cent of the value (like so many people in this city, Leo thinks it’s the result of an affair but he’s not about to ask Mora, not when the assassin has served them so well before she quit to raise their kid, and certainly when he doesn’t want to accidentally accuse the Spider of being gay – what the thief does on his own time is his business, after all).

Leo looks around to find Tera leaning over Virus’ shoulder. Virus doesn’t go in, he never does, though he can shoot in a pinch – instead, the hacker will be maintaining communication, monitoring cameras, and diverting security while preventing police from responding quickly, so it’s not totally bizarre to find him eying up plans for the building. Closer examination shows that Tera’s pointing at his screen as he reads over a list of – those are fucking plant names, okay, Leo knows that from when he made his fortune just stealing scientific intel. Leo’s pissed; this is the first heist Tera’s been on, and she wants to stop to smell the fucking roses. “What the hell are you doing,” he asks, except it’s not a question, more a demand. Tera doesn’t even glance at him before answering, “I’m gonna make a pit stop, get some of these _.”

“That’s a flower,” he points out, obviously irritated.

“It contains ricin – it’s a deadly poison. Reckon I can get anyone out of a pinch if that proves to be a problem.”

Or, the other moment, third heist they do together. They’re robbing a bank and Rachael’s been out, her and Valentina out of the city for ‘sister bonding time’. Tera snickers every time she repeats the excuse, mostly because it’s ridiculous, while the sisters love each other they don’t exactly spend a lot of quality time together. Leo’s annoyed with the reaction because it’s their cover and if they can’t take it seriously than how can they expect others to, plus Valentina’s job – a hit on some Hispanic criminal genius – needing constant intel puts them short not one member, which he could deal with, but two. It’s only because they need the cash to pay for the next fucking heist prep, the big one, that he hasn’t called the whole thing off.

But it’s so stressful that Leo hasn’t slept in forty eight hours and he knows he’s getting sloppy, okay, and when Tera comes in with two cups of tea and sits one before him, he’s personally offended. He knows she works with poisons, okay, she practically fucking bragged about it on that first heist when she was on about that ricin thing, just because he’s a little off the rails right now doesn’t mean he’s going to fall for it – and she seems to sense this, rolls her eyes and makes a show of taking a sip of his tea, swallowing it down, and he’s acutely aware of the fact that no one sees her like this and lives, dressed down in sleep shorts and an oversized sweater, no makeup on her fact. Though he’s convinced that it’s not poisoned, sort of, he still doesn’t touch it, hunched over the blueprints of the bank they want to hit.

Across the table, Tera is going through his notes, the plan laid out step by step. She’s reading it aloud, quiet, either because that’s how she is sometimes or because it’s the dead of the night and all sane people are asleep right now. “Virus will be at the base,” she murmurs, pointing somewhere on the city map, “doing his thing. That leaves the four of us on foot. Syrus and I here, watching hostages. You and Vain here,” she points elsewhere on the map, “corralling the manager. Shoot the counter worker to show we mean business.” She hums in thought. “We have no getaway vehicle.”

Leo fucking knows that, of course he does, that’s what he’s been stressing over. It’s driving him nuts as it is not having Rachael to lurk on the street outside, a sort of backup in case they need an extra gun, he doesn’t need the reminder that Valentina – his secret weapon, yes, but typically she’s their getaway driver and gets stuck listening to the police scanner for instances like these. Tera hums once, twice more, then picks up a pen, “I have a friend who can play a hostage.”

He looks at her tiredly, because he has no time for hypothetical people and maybe solutions, for if they lived in a television show or a bad cartoon. But Tera’s not looking at him, her gaze eager on the papers. She’s even set her tea down to gesture. “Ange’ll do anything for a bit of cash for her marijuana habit. I can give her some clothes, dress her up a bit, she can play the panicked business bank-visitor easily enough – sit her right here, right beside where you and Vain’ll be, and you can use her to manipulate the others.”

“I’m not traumatising a civilian.”

“She’ll forget about it in exchange for cash and some weed. Plus, she can drive like a maniac – swear she’d be a professional if she was less into the drugs. So that makes your job easier, and gives us a way out,” Tera insists. Leo doesn’t want to agree, but when she runs over the details, he can’t deny it’ll work. Tera’s a fucking tactical genius. Leo hates her a little bit more.)

 And on top of that there’s the fact that everyone seems to inexplicably trust her. First it’s Syrus, who, okay, it’s him who invites her to join – of course he trusts her beforehand. Leo doesn’t actually find out why, not until much later (here’s a hint: it involves Tera being hired to kill the second son of the Constantine family, before taking pity on his pathetic arse (something Syrus will protest vehemently) and helping him take out the family of the sonofabitch that took the hit out on him in the first place over the first few weeks they know each other. There’s also lots of sex, though Leo doesn’t want to hear about that. Vain is less easy to convince to stop asking.)(In retrospect, it’s probably obvious that that’s how an assassin would earn the trust of Syrus), and it annoys him for a long while.

He thinks Vain won’t trust her, well, no more than he trusts anyone – see, Vain has this rule, that you can fuck with him but the second you so much as glance at his girlfriend, you’re dead. Tera somehow surpasses this rule, and Leo never finds out how. But for the first time ever, when Vain’s out of town trying to secure a new source of weapons, it’s Tera he asks to watch over Jenna. There must be some way the assassin manages to prove herself, but Leo never learns what it is. It’s kept strictly between Vain, Jenna, and Tera – and the three of them are notorious for being completely unable to give straight answers.

And of course Virus won’t trust her, he’s a hacker, one of the best – he’s in on all her dirty little secrets from the first moment. Except apparently Virus is better with women than Leo is aware, or maybe Tera is better with geeks, because at one point he walks in on the assassin and hacker, side by side on the couch, absolutely mashing buttons. She gives this ridiculous keening yell and actually flings her arms up when she wins, cries, “I finally got you, you cheat!”.  She breaks the controller by flinging it at the ceiling, pieces of plastic raining down on the odd couple. Leo is 99 per cent certain whatever hunk of plastic she brought for the hacker after that second mission is responsible for her not being shot for breaking his toys.

Leo doesn’t delude himself for a second that Valentina won’t like her. Valentina likes everybody, so much so that it’s a problem. She’s their secret weapon and their getaway driver, this quiet, unassuming woman, delicate in every way and apparently protected by both Vain and Syrus flanking her whenever they go anywhere as a crew. Fact is, they’re protecting everyone else more than they are her – because Valentina can kick serious ass, so much so that if it comes down to it, she’s the one that’ll have a chance at taking down Tera. Except she likes the British woman, no questions asked. The two have nights, when Valentina’s actually around instead of at her little cottage on the city outskirts with her husband who doesn’t know what she does for a living or who her family are, during which they honestly just get together and do girly things, like braid hair and paint nails. To Valentina, Tera’s the sister Rachael could’ve been if she were less bookish, even before she’s doing that second job for Syrus.

Rachael’s Leo’s last, desperate hope that his crew, his family, somehow won’t welcome this – this death wish into their home and lives. And he thinks, until they actually vote and Rachael votes yes, Tera can stay (traitor, he thinks, bitterly), that she doesn’t want to keep her around. See, Rachael’s smart, that’s why she does all the organisation crap that he can’t quite handle alone, that’s why despite Syrus carrying the title second-in-command, it’s her that Leo defers to when she has a point to make. And yet it’s Rachael, quietly observant Rachael, never afraid to speak her mind – it’s Rachael who says aye when asked to vote in favour of Tera sticking around.

Leo doesn’t even get a fucking vote and it’s him who has to tell Tera the ‘good news’. He seriously regrets maintaining the democratic kingpin thing, instead of creating a dictatorship to rival his mothers’ over in Lyndon.

Valentina and Rachael have been back for three months when Inferno encroaches on their territory. Leo fights back, because whatever bullshit Paimon thinks he’s got a right to, this is his part of the city. He’s earned it, clawing it out from the perfectly manicured claws of his mother and from Rita. It takes another month and lot of money and a lot of ammunition and more mercs that he doesn’t bother learning the names of, them being cannon fodder, than he’d like, but eventually he’s got them on the run.

Or he thinks they do. Turns out – not so much. The group have split up, back to their various residences and hang outs, when Inferno corner them, determined to take them out, figuring they have a chance now that they’re on their own. And they fucking do, though Leo’s loathe to admit it. It’s just that they’re so fucking underprepared. Leo has three guns, six knives, and enough ammunition for roughly seventy shots. He’s not a good enough shot to make every one count – he’s not like Syrus or Valentina, nowhere near being a natural marksman. He’s always been in on this for the planning – there’s a reason he went off on his own first, ran from being Veronica’s heir apparent.

Veronica’s probably turning in her fucking grave, laughter racking her skeleton right about now. She told Leo he was too fucking soft. “You were right, mom,” he spits, dodging into an alley between an apartment building and something else, maybe a block of stores – maybe there’s a chance he can hide here, for a little while, “fucking good on you.”

That happens to be exactly where he runs into Tera, who has her gun instantly trained on his head.

“I fucking knew it!” Leo claims instantly, snapping his own gun up. Tera snorts, fires a shot, then looks at him strangely. And –

And –

            And –

And nothing. There’s no pain in him, no agony, no suffering. She didn’t even graze him. Fucking Christ. “I thought you were meant to be a good shot,” he spits, because at this point his sense of self-preservation has taken its fucking leave, gone right out the window without so much as a by-your-leave, and antagonising the woman he’s been convinced is plotting the murder of him and everyone he cares about for eleven fucking months suddenly seems like a better idea than facing whoever’s after him right this second.

Speaking of – there’s a thump behind him and he whips around, his own gun still in hand, and finds a bleach blond man crumpling to the ground, the telltale sign of an Inferno. All of them have bleach blond hair, for some reason, except for the kingpin and the hacker, both artificial redheads, hair red as blood.

“No need to thank me,” Tera tells him, examining her gun as if to check for damage before turning to survey the area they have both decided to take refuge.

Leo is inexplicably furious with this. “I’m not going to fucking thank you – all of this was fine until you showed up!”

Tera raises an eyebrow at him. She’s wearing those fucking sunglasses from day one again, the ones she took off to squint at him, even though it’s roughly eleven at night and there’s zero reason for her to have them on. Clearly she thinks he can’t handle himself. He bristles more.

“I don’t know what your game is, Mantis, but over my dead body will you catch me off guard! I’m not letting you take down my crew – not from the inside – not like you did Heron and Morph and Briggs and fucking RT. You might have everyone else fooled, but not me.”

He can’t see her eyes clearly, but her smirk doesn’t even waver. “Whatever you say, boss man. Now – you can stay here alone if you want. But Inferno’s after me as well as you lot, and they say there’s safety in numbers. And the higher ground.” She climbs onto a dumpster and uses it to boost herself onto a fire escape. “So I’m headed up. Come if you want.”

He very seriously considers lighting a flare in the dumpster – the resulting fire would mean she can’t get back up. Except he doesn’t have any flares and she’s unfortunately right on both counts, numbers and the higher ground, and he’s still a shitty shot. He can’t come up with a logical reason for her to betray him at this point, tonight. He’d think she’s playing him, selling him out to Inferno, except she just shot the guy looming behind him. Wouldn’t be the first time she shot someone who didn’t need to be shot, the saner, more cynical part of him points out. He snorts slightly, then checks his gun. He might be a rubbish shot, but even he’s enough of a threat to keep her and her traitorous knives the hell away from him – and if it comes down to close combat, he’s stronger than her; he has the upper hand.

So he goes after her.

They don’t work smoothly together – well, that’s not the complete truth. When the Inferno’s inevitably find them where they’re hidden, they’re forewarned – Leo’s spotted them and pointed them out to Tera. Tera’s the better shot, hell, she’s good enough to make Syrus look like an amateur, so it’s her that takes the shots at their pursuers as they scale the fire escape. Except Leo’s so paranoid about turning his back on her that he doesn’t, and as a result? Well, it doesn’t actually surprise him when someone ends up behind them, and in a burst of silence between Tera’s shots, he hears the click of safety. “Fuck,” he declares, ever eloquent. Tera turns to look, behind the sunglasses – at fucking night, he can’t get over that detail – he imagines her eyes flash. She raises the gun, as if she’s actually considering.

“Don’t you even consider it,” the potential shooter orders, pressing the muzzle of the gun against his head. Leo’s inclined to agree, because the math isn’t too difficult and he doesn’t doubt that the speed of the bullet in the barrel closer to him will reach him faster than she can shoot the dick behind her. Tera scoffs, shifts her aim, and –

      – And takes out the light over the door to Leo’s right, the one that leads down into the building proper.  The rooftop is abruptly dark, and in the time it takes the Inferno to adapt to the sudden change, she’s there – Leo can’t see because his eyes haven’t adjusted either, but the pressure disappears from the back of his head, and while he tenses when a gun goes off a moment later, it doesn’t hit him. His eyes adjust, finally, and when he turns he finds out that Tera has shot the sonofabitch between the eyes, leaving zero chance of survival with all his mental faculties in check. She’s also removed her sunglasses, they’re perched on top of her head, but she returns them within a second. Yet again she’s showing that she’s dangerously smart – the shades darken the world enough that she can still see somewhat, despite having had the light as a guide beforehand. Leo’s grudgingly impressed, but he’s saved from having to acknowledge the fact that she’s saved him by another gunshot, metal against metal, and she just spares him a “Run” before taking off. He doesn’t get time to ask where the hell they’re supposed to run, not when he can hear footsteps coming from the stairwell and they’re scaling the fire escape, before Tera vaults over the gap between the buildings. She seems to realize he’s not following her and shoots him a look over her shoulder, mouths “move it, boss man”, and then continues on the ridiculous dash.

He’s thinking he’s not suicidal as he eyes the jump, but then a bullet very nearly hits his foot – sparks fly as it hits the concrete – and he makes the decision to go out on his own terms. Possibly by hitting the ground from five storeys above street level. Regardless – it’ll be faster than bleeding out from a bloody bullet wound. Fucking Inferno, he thinks, and then forces himself into a sprint, praying for an impossible burst of speed and a miracle, never mind that they don’t get those in their line of work – and – and

– He almost trips when he lands the leap of faith, head spinning. He feels vaguely ill as he stops, looking around, as if debating whether this is some agony fuelled hallucination.

It isn’t.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, looking up to find Tera firing her gun. It clicks once, empty, and she reloads and shoots someone in a series of motions so practiced he entertains the thought – not that he’ll admit it – of her being born with a gun in her hand. He doesn’t turn, but judging by the scream and the scrabbling of nails on a surface with nothing to grab, she sent someone tumbling over the gap.

She’s just one woman and he’s not a good enough shot to help (and she knows it, unfortunately, a fact he hates – maybe he could throw a knife well enough to help but there’s no guarantee a knife will get around whatever lightweight armor the Inferno’s are wearing) , so after one more shot sends one more person screaming, Tera turns and leads him across the rooftops.

This continues for a while, this dance of whittling down the Inferno’s. How their numbers got so endless he has no clue; he’s always known there are a lot of members of the rival gang, but enough that they don’t even pause at the death of another, not after they catch up. Either they’re really good at compartmentalizing or aren’t noticing the reduced numbers – he’s not sure which possibility is more disconcerting. Eventually Tera skids to a stop, throwing a glance over her shoulder, “It’s a bit of a fall,” she warns, backing up and making it.

He dares a glance before swallowing. It’s down two floors, enough to cripple him. Tera rolls when she makes it, gun up immediately to fire at anyone who comes too close to the edge. How she doesn’t even hesitate at the twenty foot drop he doesn’t know – no doubt there’s some elaborate story, an oh, you should’ve seen this one time when that Vain will ask about later – and now is definitely not the best time to think about whether his siblings and Virus are still alive, wow, he’ll lose his nerve if he goes there. He wipes his mind, forces himself to compartmentalize as well as the Inferno’s seem to, backs up a few steps and breaks into a sprint, running at the edge of the roof despite every survival instinct screaming at him to stop, stop, idiot, fool, you’re going to die you’re going to die you’re not going to make it, fucking leaps off the rooftop, and –

And –

             And –

                           And he doesn’t make it.

Arms wrench in their sockets and he’s pretty sure he’s dislocated at least one of them, and god knows the damage done to his wrists, his nails, his fingers, fuck. A hazy cocktail of adrenaline and panic make the pain barely noticeable, thank Christ, but he can only guess how much he’s going to be suffering when this ends. If this ends without him in the ground, or more likely dumped in the port, at least.

Maybe the suffering is a good thing, if that’s the alternative.

He doesn’t have time to loathe himself for long, feeling his grip slipping. He scrabbles like the Inferno who fell from the roof, momentum pitching them forward after a bullet to the leg that he didn’t even bother witnessing, and just like that Inferno panic consumes him – and unlike that Inferno, pain spikes through his nerves and his grip actually slackens.

He forces himself to readjust out of sheer desperation, but that strength he reassured himself of earlier, strong enough to beat Tera? It’s gone, along with the use of his hand. He’s debating just letting go when a face he’s spent literal months resenting appears above him, shades removed – discarded somewhere – and eyes fixed on him, as though she’s a predator and he’s the cornered prey. She disappears back over and, past the blood rushing in his ears, past the gunfire from two storeys up and back a few yards, back from the building behind him, he hears her moving around. Apparently the Inferno’s are trying to shoot them, and evidently they’re as bad as he is, nowhere near the level of Tera or Valentina or Syrus. Maybe they sent all the competent gunmen after the other five, he muses, or maybe they’ve already put them out of commission. Tera shoots a few of them and fumbles in the pocket of the coat he hasn’t bothered to notice before – of all the things – and something soars over his head. Apparently Tera has a fucking gift for everything physical, because like her crossing the rooftops at a sprint interspersed with ridiculous leaps and bounds, this seems to be effortless for her, and the explosion tells him that it’s a grenade she’s thrown.

What the fuck, he thinks, head spinning from the pain, she’s gonna let the whole city know we’re here. Or, know he’s here, more accurately – he’s expecting her to head for whatever escape is available, leave him literally hanging. Except there’s some more movement overhead, and as his heart stutters in his chest he wonders if the bitch is going to step on his fingers and make him let go, after all of this.

Falling from a mess he gets himself into seems like an appropriately climactic end to the last year of bullshit that he’s been through, though he doubts the impact of his skull on the ground will do the same (it doesn’t occur to him that he’ll land on his feet unless he angles himself in such a way to hit the ground head first, and it certainly doesn’t lead to him considering that he’d just be trapped in an alley unable to move, legs shattered and arms unable to do shit, if that’s the case).

She’s back in a moment, peering down at him again. He opens his mouth to spit at her, isn’t this what you always wanted, you traitor, Mantis, but the words catch in his throat when she offers a hand, stretching it over the ledge.

“Grab my hand.”

Leo stares at her. Time ticks away as whoever survived the grenade blast screams their suffering to the world. If this were anyone else, he thinks he knows what he’d expect – either a boot to the hand, which admittedly he does still think Tera will offer, a nudge to his death however many feet below (thirty six, actually, twelve for each storey and the space between, but he determinedly doesn’t think about that) – or a lifeline. If he is thinking that she is about to force him to his demise, he’d normally grab an ankle or a wrist, whatever’s on offer and within reach – but there’s the pain to consider, and the fact that she’s still not as strong as him, and the fact that he still thinks she’s going to kill him after all of this.

Then again, this is Tera. He’s never known what to expect from her.

“Grab my hand, boss man,” she repeats, reaching that little bit further. As if she expects it to encourage him to grab on.

He doesn’t grab on -

                         – He hesitates.

 Because Tera Michiligan is terrifying. She’s an assassin first, anyone who’s anybody in the criminal world knows that, and even if they don’t know her name, he suspects that more civilians know of her than vote in the American elections. She has a dozen code names, each more disconcerting than the last – Blonde Bombshell, Black Widow, Mantis – so many of them refer to animals that utterly ruin other members of their species; the Black Widow that eats its’ sexual partner in a post-sex haze, the Praying Mantis that devours the lover during copulation, both of them so heedless of the fact that the other trusts them or wants them, has evolved to deal with this but still cannot survive the encounter. Tera Michilgan has a reputation for taking a gang and tearing it apart from the inside, for being the last one standing – wherever she goes, destruction follows; gang leaders everywhere doubt her motives, hiring her on for one-time things and quite often never willingly hiring her again, unless she’s the only one on offer. Her name is so on the nose that it feels like a lie, a joke told over and over again at the expense of her countless victims. She’s frighteningly smart, picking pretty flowers because she knows they contain a toxin that can cause agony or instant death or anything in between, a tactical genius with enough connections to pull off whatever she decides needs doing (and don’t think for a second he’s not still convinced the woman she called Ange so many months ago is a method actor hired exclusively to fuck with him specifically), smart enough to make even the most paranoid of people fall in line behind her, allies to the death – even Intella, Intellect, even the best offline information dealer in the country never spoke a word against her.

Tera Michiligan is absolutely terrifying and Leo, who has decided to follow her across rooftops, who lets her carry a gun around him despite being entirely aware of the fact that she’s got too good aim to miss if she wants to (maybe he’s a little resigned to imminent death), Leo who took her word into consideration when struggling to adjust a plan that had been in place for ages – Leo has to decide whether he’d rather face her on the ground, or just let go.

He’s seriously considering letting the fuck go when Tera huffs, apparently sick of waiting – she grabs his wrist herself, the wrist of the hand he probably should have noticed isn’t actually going to help him stay in one piece for more than a few seconds longer – and hauls him up, ignoring his shout of protest as pain spikes through his limbs.

“Hold still,” she orders, apparently suddenly in charge, and prods his arm a few times before abruptly relocating it. He definitely shouts out this time, and when she moves to the second one he flinches away, driving himself into the wall – he even blacks out for a second, coming to with her hands on his shoulder, the pain now a dull ache. She doesn’t wait for permission before grabbing his hands and examining them, first one, then the other – Leo is thankfully ambidextrous so he can cope with damage to one hand and she knows this, but both? She nods again, leans over them. “Your fingertips are fucked but you should be fine to grip a knife handle with your right hand. Left index should be able to handle the trigger of the gun.”

He’s a little surprised when the gun she presses into his fingers proves to be lighter than the one he remembers carrying, clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He squints at it in confusion, observing engraved patterns across the thing – it’s her gun, the one she cleans for hours rather than have idle hands whenever they have down time and she’s not doing something else. “Give me my gun back,” he orders. She rolls her eyes, rocking back on her heels.

She’s quick to retrieve her sunglasses – apparently she’s chosen to lay them carefully on the ground, but they cover her eyes before he can read her expression any further. “Your gun went over the side, this is your backup. And, no. It’s too heavy for you to work right now, and besides, good luck reloading. Mine’s fully loaded, light, easy trigger – not likely to jam, unlike this garbage. Be more appreciative. Now get up and move.”

Well. Her logic is straightforward, easy to follow, and actually makes objective sense – he kicks himself. Maybe she’s saved him, you know, again, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything other than selfishness as a driving motive. That doesn’t mean there’s a chance she isn’t going to shoot him or lead him somewhere worse.

But sirens are blaring in the distance and he doesn’t have much of a choice – between Tera and the cops, he’ll take the one he isn’t outnumbered by, thanks very much. He forces himself to his feet and goes after her, hissing when he has to carefully maneuver over the edge of the fire escape. Tera scoffs a little, but doesn’t offer him help – not until they’re on the edge of the street again, in an alley peering out at flashing lights visible in the distance – not nearly far enough away – and clamoring people who’d been around just to experience the nightlife of the city. Leo thinks he hears Tera curse and sigh, but that seems unlikely – and next thing he knows she’s acting like she’s in charge, again, like she has been all night. “Wrap your arm around me. We’re playing the happy couple.”

He turns back to her, away from the red and blue. “Are you crazy? I’m not pretending to be your boyfriend.” If he sneers a little, well, it’s only fair. She’s done nothing to earn this, so far as he’s concerned.

“You can barely walk,” she points out. He’s at least glad she’s not speaking slowly; people have this ridiculous conviction that pain turns you into a toddler, renders comprehension of basic situations somehow impossible. “I’m doing us both a favour by offering to not have it be completely obvious that you’re limping, battered as all get out, and too exhausted to walk. Besides – we don’t know if the base’s compromised. I have a safe house closer to here, anyway.”

“They cornered you as well, Tera,” he snaps, irritated, “sounds like your safe house is compromised, too.”

“I wasn’t there when they caught onto me, so I seriously doubt that,” she retorts, grabbing his hand and physically forcing him to wrap it around her waist. “Now walk with me.”

He seriously considers pushing it, arguing some more – except she’s not wrong about him being exhausted. The few jarring landings while leaping the rooftops have left his legs shaky at best, even without the scare of dangling thirty feet in the air, which has added a layer of trembling that he’s about half-convinced is only psychological or maybe a psychosomatic symptom of stress. Plus, the position she’s selected covers up any visible bruises, from the front at least, and if they’re walking away from any curious investigators they can keep walking, feign deafness or simply not hearing. In the end, he walks with her – though of course he continues to mutter complaints under his breath. Tera lets him – as if she could stop me, he thinks, trying to assure himself that he’s still somewhat in control of this farce – and it’s not ten minutes later when the two reach what appears to be a mid-range hotel.

There’s a sleepy receptionist at the counter; he waves them through the second he recognizes Tera, whose responding smile features mouth and eyes – she’s tucked her sunglasses into the neckline of her shirt so they fall between the flaps of her jacket – as she guides Leo to the elevator. There are no cameras in there, Leo notes – well, there is, but the light that indicates its’ activity appears to be dead. Tera follows his gaze. “Batteries have been dead for the last three months,” she says, “and it doesn’t take much for them to ‘lose’ the footage anyway.”

He doesn’t bother answering, because it doesn’t feel like a question, and even if there’s no video it doesn’t mean there isn’t some sort of audio. On the thirteenth floor Tera loops his arm back around her, making for the room she’s been staying in for Leo has no clue how long. It’s a neat room with two perfectly made up beds, and he gets the impression that Tera’s actually allowed housekeeping to come through – it’s perfectly possible; watching her reveals that there’s a safe in the wardrobe and she’s got a decent stash of weapons, cash and what look like ID cards there, and in the safe there’s no chance that standard housekeeping could get a glimpse. There’s a kitchenette and a crappy television with a bathroom attached, and Leo’s annoyed to see that she’d thought far enough ahead to get the room that doesn’t have direct access to the fire escape, rather requiring a bit of gymnastics to get over. It’s the safest option, allowing for a quick escape and a difficult entrance into the room. She hangs the do not disturb sign on the outside of the door and sets about shrugging off her jacket. “First aid’s in the bathroom cupboard,” she tells him, and he takes that as a directive to get the hell out while she changes or something similar.

When he comes back a moment later – the bathroom is a lot nicer than he’s expecting, looking at the rest of the place – it’s because he figures she’s dressed. She isn’t. Actually, she’s poking at a bullet hole in her front. “When’d they get you?”

“First approach,” she tells him, “before I hit the alley.”

He feels a little guilty for not even noticing that she’s been bleeding through her shirt for however long, and curses himself internally for not realizing that there’s blood soaking the clothing. Though it explains her placement of his arm on their retreat – he’d been applying pressure the entire time, as well as covering the blood, which would be clearly visible in the harsh interior lighting even under her jacket. He even feels a little bad for having a moment worthy of Vain or Syrus, simply admiring her figure. She might be a traitor, but god, she’s an attractive one.

“I need you to pass me the tweezers,” she says. He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not a through-and-through?”

“Nope,” she pops the p, her discomfort evident. He can appreciate that – being shot sucks. “Now pass me the tweezers, Constantine. You get the job of keeping me conscious, since you’re useless to this whole thing.”

He’s offended, ready to protest that he’s more qualified to give medical help than she is to operate on herself, before glancing at his hands. She’s not saying he’s incompetent – she’s alluding to earlier, when she told him that his fingertips are going to be useless. She’s protecting his hands from over-exertion, or possibly herself from his fumbling, as best she can, and looking at them – already an ugly shade of blue-violet – he can see what she means. He goes to work on cleaning his own wounds as best he can with the alcohol in her medkit. The only sounds are their little protests to the pain they’re inflicting on themselves – Tera keeps hissing in apparent discomfort, obviously; she’s digging tweezers into her flesh and the angle while she’s on the bed is less than ideal. She ends up having to stand in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors and dealing with things that way, which makes the blood flow that much faster.

At the end of it, she’s a mess. Tera’s hands are shaky as she finishes stitching up the gaping hole in her flesh, and he overhears her muttering about fragments she thinks she might have missed. Afterwards, he turns away and pretends not to have heard anything, because a vulnerable Tera isn’t something he can work into his image of her. She’s still a sociopath to him. “Text the others,” he instructs once she returns from the bathroom looking considerably less blood soaked, tossing her his phone.

She nods once, lying across the bed on her back to do so. “Vain and Jenna are safe,” she relays, not bothering with verbatim. She knows he won’t appreciate specifics. “Valentina’s seen no one, but she’s keeping an eye out. Rachael and Virus are – they’re safe.”

He pretends not to notice her stammering over the last verification. “Syrus?”

Tera shrugs, then props herself up on her elbow. “Syrus will be fine,” she tells him, voice flat. “Now are we sleeping or are you still too convinced that I’m going to kill you?”

Leo almost chooses sleep. Almost. Except this is a conversation that he knows he should have had ages ago, and besides, she’s not wrong. Maybe he’s actually starting to doubt his own convictions, like he had back when her name was his biggest issue, but facts are facts, and it’s true that he won’t sleep a wink with these issues eating away at him. He doesn’t move from where he’s sat himself at the end of the lone double bed, and nods resolutely. “Time to talk.”

They watch each other in the mirror. “I didn’t seek you out,” Tera tells him, “not intentionally. I was hired to take him out for his connection to Veronica, favored son and so forth. We stayed in contact after taking care of the people who wanted him dead were disposed of. Didn’t realize Syrus was in a crew until he asked me to kill a dealer named Cruz – who deals exclusively with gangs and won’t sell to solo workers. He’s always referring me to other contacts when I’m in the city; wasn’t awful having to kill him. I didn’t think he’d hire me a second time, or I’d have probably left. I don’t like doing second jobs. That’s usually when people start planning to have me killed to protect themselves from the harm I can do.” She says this all in a very matter of fact tone. Leo gets the feeling she isn’t actually invested in what she’s saying. “You’ve heard the rumours of me being a Mantis, which is frankly disgusting – human flesh does not appeal. Destroying groups from the inside?” she flutters her fingers in a vague manner that could mean maybe or maybe not. “It’s never a plan. Someone attempts to kill me, so obviously their power structure is too lax and they’re a danger to themselves and others. I kill every member I believe likely to take advantage of that – it’s the decision of whoever’s left to dissolve or remain. Or, they’re chain of command orders my death – in which case, I serve them the head of their second in command, demand an explanation, and put them out of commission.”

Leo listens, though except for his eyes on her reflection, there’s very little sign he’s doing so. Turns out, this is just the start of her self-defense, a speech that sounds carefully planned but is probably just her telling it like it is, from her perspective. None of it sounds like opinion; Tera has this way of speaking that he finds familiar – he speaks like this, and Veronica, and Intella, as though every statement is the pure, unadulterated truth.

By the time Tera’s done, she looks ready to pass out and the clock on the bedside table reads 3:13 AM. Leo exhales, slowly, as she wraps up with a, “I’m going to take out the Inferno’s next. Then I’ll leave, if you order it, boss man.”

She offers a small, sarcastic smile, then lays back down. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her talk so much, certainly not without prompting, and yet she’s explained every rumor and it still doesn’t seem like she cares about the consequences. Leo doesn’t really know what to think, not yet, but Tera falls asleep extremely quickly, obviously used to catching some shut-eye whenever it’s convenient. His knives are still on the counter where she put them after she emptied her pockets of the weapons he couldn’t use as expertly as usual, along with all three of his guns. He’s absent-mindedly considering just slitting her throat as he looks them over. It’d sure save a lot of trouble. He could even offer her body to Inferno, claim that it’s a peace offering, look, I took out the biggest threat to each of us. He stands and walks over to the knives. It’s as he’s examining them, hand hovering an inch above, that his phone goes off, switched to vibrate and left on the bedside table.  It’s a text alert from Syrus, finally.

(3:15 AM) Hiding out in the warehouse. Reeks of rat feces in here – hopefully it’ll ward off Inferno. Return to base at…?

Leo snorts, awkwardly types out instructions to get whatever rest he can, adds a note that everyone is safe. It’s so full of typos that it looks like it could be written in a poorly encrypted code.  By the time he hits send, his fingertips are in agony. He manages to set an alarm for sunrise and leaves the room, making a beeline for the bathroom. He figures he can sleep in the bathtub.

He hasn’t forgotten that he doesn’t trust Tera – he’s just warmed up to her the tiniest amount. Enough that he’s ready to acknowledge that she isn’t his biggest problem. She’ll be a big help while they deal with Inferno’s impertinence, try to take them out altogether, try to get to Paimon himself.

It’s just one more job, he tells himself.

(He’s well aware that with Tera, it’s never ‘just one more’.)

[pcurrytravels]

Las Vegas: A Love Hate Thang (Chapter III - Like A Hometown Transplant)

Good morning everyone! Now, as you all know I’m a near-lifelong resident of Las Vegas. The very earliest portions of my life however were spent in Chicago. In Vegas this is very common; a lot of people I knew growing up and even still to this day were born elsewhere but came here as young children.

......this is also where we run into yet more problems. Our local population can be roughly divided into three tiers: Natives who were born and raised here, Natives who were born elsewhere but mostly raised here and Transplants (both longtime residents who were raised elsewhere and recent arrivals). The second tier is probably the largest demographic of all, and yet we’re ostracized by everyone. 

Okay, let me explain: there’s a strange, subtle tension between Vegas natives and transplants. It’s almost impossible to get anyone to admit it but it’s definitely there. As I explained in the prior chapter, a lot of Vegas natives are very much stuck in a small town world, even though we haven’t been a small town since the 1970s. They also love to complain about how transplants are ruining everything (Psst! Both natives and transplants are at fault for ruining this place).

Vegas transplants on the other hand are a very lofty, condescending and low-key elitist bunch, generally speaking. They love to believe they’re more cultured and worldly by far than the desert bumpkins us natives are by proxy of being from somewhere else. Even if they’re from rural northern Arizona or some backwater town in California’s half of the Mojave like Barstow or Victorville. 

And then, you have us: The natives who were born somewhere else. Transplants won’t hesitate to remind us that where we were born is irrelevant because most of our lives were spent here. Vegas-borns won’t hesitate to remind us that we were born somewhere else and therefore don’t count as a “real” native. As to be expected, this leads to some serious delusion among people in this category, including yours truly. 

For a very long time, I would insist to you that I was a Chicagoan, for a number of reasons. Part of it had to do with how, in the early-mid 2000s, Vegas shifted from the place I loved as a child into something I no longer understood. The fact that this change coincided with my happy childhood shifting into my turbulent, miserable and problematic preteen/teen years didn’t help matters in the slightest. During that time period, I developed a severe case of destination addiction that I still struggle with today. I wasn’t happy, so in my delusion, I managed to completely convince myself that happiness and the life I want simply didn’t exist here. 

Another part of it was because of the “birthing” culture, if that makes sense. Quite literally everywhere else around the world can be called a hometown if you grew up there, regardless of where you were born, but Vegas-borns are relentlessly insistent on preventing that from being the case here. Your mother could have been a Vegas resident whose water broke while she was on vacation or something and they still don’t care. That icky birth certificate from another state automatically disqualifies you of being a native to them. To say this is alienating AF is an understatement. 

I used to make a fool of myself with it all the time. I would talk at length about Chicago as if I actually did grow up there, by taking the stories of my family and other Chicagoans I knew and adding my own little embellishments. God forbid an actual Chicagoan heard me talking. Some very interesting stories there. When I visited Chicago in 2010, for the first time since I was a very young child, it was there where it REALLY sank in (although it would still be a pretty long time before you could get me to admit it). I mean, there were bits and pieces that felt homey, and I did thoroughly enjoy and appreciate the place overall, but ultimately? It’s a foreign land to me. Much as I love the place, it’s not home. Vegas is my home.  

It can definitely be hard to admit and own up to this place being home, for a number of reasons, when you’re a member of my category. Part of it is likely rooted in the same snobbery and pretension that many transplants have. I mean, we are the children of those same transplants after all. (See: “Oh, well, at least I wasn’t BORN here!”) Another part is how, as mentioned in a previous post in this series, being that Vegas is a major global destination for tourism, nightlife, conventions and relocation, it can be really difficult to make this city feel like it’s even yours to begin with when literally everything is done with tourists, business travelers or recent transplants in mind. And then you have the ridiculous “birthing” culture which persists among Vegas-borns.

Well, here’s what I have to say to all of this:

Dear Vegas-Borns, here’s a newsflash: The only difference between those of us who spent most of our childhoods here (if not just about all of it in my case) despite being born elsewhere and you, is that you happened to have been born here. We’re also Las Vegas natives, so I suggest you get over it and stop it with this childish and elitist high school club of “real” natives you all remain insistent on upholding. 

Because, just like you, we also undergo culture shock when travelling to different places only to see nothing stays open after 9 P.M. Because, just like you, we also went to grade, middle AND high school here. Because, just like you, we also had to deal with 100+ degree summers. Oh, and one more thing: *turns up the mic*, ahem, literally  EVERY MAJOR CITY IN THE WORLD started out as a transplant dominated society. Los Angeles (and most of SoCal really) prior to the 1970s? No one was born there. New York City prior to the 1930s? No one was born there. Tokyo during the Edo period? No one was born there. London during the Dark Ages? No one was born there. Rome during the Classical era? No one was born there. Seeing a pattern here yet? No city was established with the people already there, so stop acting like you’re so special. 

Dear Transplants (well, not all, but a large enough amount to be noticeable): It would be quite lovely if you abandoned the snobby, patronizing and pretentious attitudes. Moving. Buying a house. Raising your kid(s). Your job/career and general livelihood. You chose to do these things here. I understand adjustment can be difficult. There’s also nothing wrong with having a slice of your hometown in the place where you moved. The problem is your apathy. Relocation isn’t the easiest task in a number of ways, which is why it’s disappointing that so many of you seem to only care about your relatively affordable house in comparison to where you’re from (which you’ll likely toss to the side as soon as some new ones are built anyway but that’s none of my business). 

A lot of you seem more interested in perpetually recreating your first trip to The Strip rather than making this place like home for you. Again, this doesn’t go out to all of you. There are many transplants out there who’ve made many great contributions to this city (I actually think transplants on average do more for Vegas than natives do, but again, none of my business). These people have put in the work to make their chosen place of residence more like home; I would suggest more of you do the same and stop living like full-time tourists who condescendingly stick your nose up to the place at the end of the day.

Dear Vegas Natives who were born elsewhere: There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging being born somewhere else, as it is part of your story after all. There’s nothing wrong with having an interest in that place as well. But honestly, if you came here before the age of seven or eight, that place isn’t home. You’re a Las Vegan.

I can completely understand the desire to claim another place as home when raised in a place where everyone and everything is so hellbent on alienating you. I think I know better than anyone, as it took me years upon years to get over that delusion after it first set in.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but frankly? I’m tired of sitting back and accepting defeat. Between Vegas-borns leering at me like some sort of invader and transplants snobbishly looking down upon me as an uncultured and provincial dweller of a small desert town, it’s been made quite clear to me that I’m simply not “good enough” for either crowd, and the time has come for me to stop caring.

And lastly, Dear Las Vegas: I know you have a habit of disregarding anything that’s been around for longer than ten years (and that’s being generous here), including people, but now, more than ever, you need to drop it. We’ve grown far beyond our origins as an old west railroad town, and there’s far more to this place than adult!Disneyland. For too long, us natives (even more so those of us who weren’t born here, as we have connections to other places to begin with) have felt like we’ve had more reason to leave than we do to stay. And before you start, no, new houses being built all the time does not do much to help the latter argument. 

Many of us, including yours truly, have long romanticized our places of birth, however much or little experience we actually have with them. The sentiment “I bet it’s better in Cali” is one that can be echoed all throughout the city (and, being completely honest, can’t say I disagree). Constantly comparing and contrasting cities far larger, older and evolved than our own and fantasizing about one day moving to them. So many of us want to leave, because we struggle to envision happy lives for ourselves here. 

But here’s the thing. Las Vegas already has the ingredients. A well-known presence on the international playing field. A highly diverse, melting pot populace containing people from just about every background imaginable. A growing and active scene of creatives and small-time entrepreneurs. A very strange, unusual and quite interesting history. All we really need, are some tweaks. 

As we grow older, many of us have had to let go of the dream of leaving Vegas for a number of reasons. After all, it probably does have one of the most affordable COL’s in the entire country and people’s families tend to follow them here anyway (I would be an example of this as my mom’s two sisters and my grandparents were already living here when she decided to make the move). And another thing: Unlike NYC, LA, Chicago and a number of other places, things haven’t been quite “established” here yet. There’s still an ample amount of room left to actually make your mark here unlike the aforementioned places which already have their thing going on in full swing. 

Because of all this, you really could be a great city, Vegas, and still you remain stubbornly stuck in your ways and push away anyone and anything that seeks to do something that isn’t guaranteed to rake in a million dollars overnight. The only way your community can grow and flourish is if you give us reason to stay. 

I would like a Vegas that I’m proud and happy to call home. I would like this whole (very low-key, but still quite pervasive) “Native vs. Transplant” hoopla to be laid to rest. I want a more united community. I want to feel like my city cares about me. Is all of that really too much to ask? Until next time.