#him to inch forward to try and make it across. and then my horse CLIPPED THROUGH the bridge and started FREE FALLING

[funsizedcrow]

funniest thing that ever happened when we were playing botw was my sister was playing and she had made it up to the top of the tower in hyrule field (the one surrounded by guardians) and was looking down at the guardians through a slot in the like railing and i was like "you should shoot the guardian" because i thought they were out of range and so she shot the guardian in the eye with an arrow and it came alive and immediately hit link with a laser and link instantly died ragdolled and fell through the slot and miphas grace activated and my sister immediately teleported away while mipha was still doing her thing. and i was just laughing so hard.

[redeadepression]

Dutch’s Con | Arthur/F!Reader | Secret Cupid! ♥♥♥

Light Skinned, Plus Sized Female Reader!

~~

Happy Valentines Day!!!

This is my @rdr-secret-cupid gift for my cupid @thepalestcowboy / @asteroidbear I really hope you liked it. I used some of the things you suggested when you answered my ask. Sorry if it seems like I’m roasting you a little bit when Y/N is being self-deprecating!!! I swear I’m just repeating what you said and don’t worry spoiler alert. Arthur is SO into you. ;)

~~~~

Relationships: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader Words: 3443 Tags: Fluff, crushes, lewd thoughts, one bed trope, awkward Arthur (like, not smooth at all. Man’s game is rusty AF) Warnings: Reader is described very specifically to look like my cupid as this is a gift for her! :)

Summery: You and Arthur are sent on a recon mission, posing as newly-weds but *GASP* There’s only ONE bed???

~~~~

Arthur glowered at the back of his horse’s neck as she took long, laboured steps onwards towards the town of Oakseed.

He could tell the poor old girl was feeling the heat more than he was and he vowed to treat her to a sugar cube and good grooming once he arrived at his destination.

His eyes flicked to his left he heard you grumble under your breath. The humidity was suffocating, and he wondered briefly if you were suffering a little more than his poor old horse.

You were a relatively new addition to the gang but he felt he had gotten to know you well enough in the last few months for you both to work side by side. At least, that’s what he had told himself after the choice had been taken away.

You were to spend a few nights in the town closest to camp. Playing the part of newly-weds and scoping the scene for rich old bastards that would be easy to con.

Dutch had been so sure that you would work well together. Arthur had his doubts. He had voiced them vehemently and repeatedly but they’d fallen on deaf ears. Dutch had insisted that this recon mission was only to be pulled off by the two of you alone and when Hosea had put his paper down long enough to back him up, Arthur had realised he had lost.

He looked to you now, riding alongside him. The sweat he felt running down his own back was gathering on your neck and chest and the heat he felt burning against his bare arms was currently tinting your face a light shade of red.

You wiped at your forehead with the back of your palm. Smearing sweat and dirt together in a feeble attempt to stop it from dripping into your eyes.

You blinked furiously in the afternoon sun, wishing you’d thought to bring a hat. Even the sparse shade of the trees along the edge of the trail didn’t shield you from the unrelenting heat. You licked at your cracked lips. Gritting your teeth as you were reminded that you’d drank the last of your water not too long ago.

Flies buzzed around your face and you felt yourself grow agitated as you let go of the reigns briefly to swat at them.

You heard a sniff of laughter from your right and turned to face your traveling companion with an incredulous scowl.

“It ain’t that bad.” Arthur said simply, his tone light as he shooed a large fly away from his own face.

“I’m not from here… I ain’t used to the heat.” You croaked, throat dry from breathing in the dust that had been kicked up by your horses hooves.

“I can tell.” He replied plainly, mirth in his tone as he looked back to the road with a smirk on his lips.

You watched him for a moment, feeling silly for your frustration but unable to curb is as another fly made a beeline for one of your nostrils. You swatted at it, growling angrily and jolting slightly as your horse decided she’d had enough.

She snorted angrily, hooves stomping the ground in agitation as she began to disobey you.

You were never fantastic with horses to begin with. But after your old faithful had passed away on a mission, you’d purchases the first horse you came across just to be able to get back to the gang.

She was moody and stubborn. She could tell you were inexperienced and liked to test your control. That coupled with the stifling heat, you were surprised she had tolerated you this long.

You held the reigns tight, thighs clenching onto your saddle as you cooed her softly and tried desperately to stay in your seat.

Arthur was at your side in an instant. His own horse exhaled softly as he steered her towards you. The large mare not batting an eye as your own horse fidgeted uncomfortably at the proximity of the other animal.

“Here.” Arthur said gently, his calf brushing against yours as he leaned in against your side. Leather covered hands with bare fingers encompassed yours as he showed you how to pull the reigns more efficiently. “Like this.” He instructed simply, pulling back on your hands and showing you where to hold them.

“It’s alright girl.” He purred, directed at your horse. “It’s okay.” He assured; your horse seeming to calm at his words alone. His firm grip on your reigns slowing her to a stop. You couldn’t help but swallow thickly at the way his voice reverberated in your ear. “There.” Arthur whispered, slowly handing you back the reigns and turning to face you.

"You gotta’ show her you’re in charge.” He said quietly, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You nodded in understanding. His face only inches from yours as he pulled his hands away. You turned back to the road quickly, Arthur doing the same. Clearing his throat as he directed his mare back to her side of the road.

Your horse listened to your direction as you subconsciously guided her a little farther from Arthur than you had been before. It was as if you could still feel the heat radiating off his brawny form from your place across the trail.

“Thanks.” You said softly, smiling through your embarrassment as Arthur made a noise of acknowledgment.

The rest of the ride was silent. The soft clip of your horses hooves against the dirt filled the space between you both as you passed through the gateway entrance of the small town.

Arthur directed you towards the small hotel on the end of the main street. He’d stayed there once before and knew where he was going.

You hitched your horses at the post to the left of the hotel and jumped down into the red dirt with a thump. Disturbing the dust and coughing slightly as you breathed it in.

Arthur moved to stand beside you and hovered as you removed the supplies you needed for your stay.

“I can’t wait for a bath.” You sighed as you turned to him, your bag in your arms.

“Mm.” He hummed in agreement. Eyeing your possessions coolly before opening his mouth to speak.

“Listen.” He said awkwardly, crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke. “We should probably only get the one room.” He said clumsily, making your brow raise at his forwardness.

Arthur watched your face chance, furrowing his own brows before raising them both in surprise as he realised his mistake. “For… For the con.” He explained in a hurried whisper. “Just… for authenticity o’course.” He added quickly, holding out his hands in front of him.

“Of course.” You replied quickly.

“Right.” Arthur nodded.

“Sure.” You smiled with a shrug, trying to break the tension.

Arthur nodded again, clearing his throat uncomfortably as he pulled his hat down further to cover the flush on his cheeks.

You stood there for a moment, unsure what to do now as you waited for him to take the lead. Arthur seemed to follow your train of thought, turning quickly and walking towards the entrance of the hotel.

“Don’t worry.” He chuckled, stopping as you drew closer to the front door. “ You can have the bed.” He clarified.

You stopped just behind him, laughing nervously.

“Oh, I don’t mind.” You said earnestly when you realised he hadn’t been joking.

“Please. I insist.” Arthur said firmly, holding up his hands once more before turning back towards the hotel. You watched him go, frowning at the way he had spoken before sighing inwardly and following in his stead.

“Okay.” You mumbled, fully aware he couldn’t hear you.

You supposed you should have known better than to put yourself out there like that. Arthur was nice enough but he was the type of man that had women throwing themselves at him without him needing to try.  You weren’t sure you were even close to his type.

You were on the larger side and your skin was very light considering the amount of time you spent in the sun. All the woman you’d seen Arthur chatting too in the last few months were incredibly thin and at least three shades tanner than yourself.

You cast your gaze onto the ground as you followed Arthur up the front steps of the hotel. A sickening feeling of rejection sinking to the bottom of your stomach as you resigned yourself to keeping your feelings for him locked deep inside.

Arthur stopped in front of you suddenly and you looked up at his handsome face inquisitively as he held out his hand to you.

You took it without thinking, letting yourself be pulled inside and silently swooning at the feel of his fingers intertwined with yours.

Arthur stopped at the front desk, nodding to you once and reminding you without words of the part you were to play in this con as you both waited for the man behind the counter to notice you.

He looked up within a few seconds and you watched in awe as Arthur flashed his charming smile at him.

“Hello.” He began simply, his voice a long drawl as he forced a chipper tone. “The name’s Arthur Callahan.” He said confidently, flashing a toothy smile as his arm slid around your waist as easily as if he had it done it a thousand times before. “And this is my wife Clementine.” He purred, pulling you against his side as he looked back to the man behind the desk. “We’ll need a room for the night and the lady would like a bath.” He ordered, placing a few notes on the desk in front of him and sliding them across to the clerk with the palm of his hand.

The clerk’s eyes widened as he jumped to attention.

“Of course sir.” He agreed, snatching the money roughly from the counter and stuffing it into his pocket. “There’s a room  ready at the end of the hall.” He said cheerfully as he placed a key on the counter and slid it into Arthur’s waiting hand. The burly man caught it with ease. “Our bathing facilities are this way ma’am.” The clerk continued, gesturing in the other direction and waiting for you to move first.

You smiled in response. Turning to Arthur and placing one of your bags into his outstretched hand. He had been waiting patiently, as a doting husband would. You caught yourself flushing as the older man turned away with your belongings.

Even if it was all one giant fantasy… You could get used to this.

 ~

 Once you had bathed you headed towards your room. You knocked softly and waited for Arthur to answer. After a minute of silence you tried the handle only to find it still locked. You knocked again, waiting a few seconds before returning to the front desk.

The man there informed you that Arthur had headed back outside after placing your belongings in your room. You frowned in confusion, following in Arthur’s footsteps and walking back outside towards the horses.

You didn’t have to look far. Stopping in your tracks as you caught sight of him. Large, muscular arms flexing in the late afternoon sun as he ran a grooming brush over your horse’s rump. You watched for a second, smiling involuntarily before walking closer.

He turned at the sounds of your footsteps, pausing his work and looking you over briefly.

You could have sworn you’d seen his face change momentarily. Cheeks growing rosy as he turned away from you and began to speak.

“Hope you don’t mind.” He said casually, petting horse’s side as he continued to groom her. “I gave Bo a once over and I figured YH/N could use one too.”

“Thank you.” You said quickly, guilt rising in your stomach that you hadn’t even considered your horse. You’d been so keen to get yourself clean you hadn’t even thought about your poor horse that had carried you all the way there.

“Don’t feel bad.” Arthur said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t usually go to this much effort. I just didn’t feel too much like sitting around in the room.”

“I wasn’t feeling bad.” You lied.  “I was just coming out to give her some attention.” You said bluntly as you stepped up next to Arthur and petted your horse’s neck.

She snorted softly, looking to you for a moment before returning her attention to the food Arthur had left at her feet.

Arthur looked you up and down once more, quickly turning his attention back to the horse as you turned your attention on him.

“What?” You asked frankly, eyes roaming his form as he shrugged in response.

“Nothin’.” He answered, tucking the grooming brush back into his satchel and dusting off his hands. “Just don’t look like you was about to come outside and do some grooming.” He snickered, gesturing towards your fresh, clean clothes and damp, towel dried hair.

“Well I was.” You lied again, voice a little more firm than you’d have liked, causing him to smirk in response.

“Okay.” He conceded, holding up a hand to calm you before giving his horse a quick pet and turning back to the hotel. “it’s getting’ late.” He mumbled, gesturing with his head towards the door. “Should probably head to bed.”

You nodded in agreement, watching as a smile formed on his lips. You cocked your head in question and he chuckled softly.

“Well, you’ll head to bed.” He laughed. “I’ll head to floor, I suppose.”

You barked out a laugh, covering your mouth quickly and turning away to hide your embarrassment. Arthur seemed to feel accomplished in making you laugh. Smiling wider to himself as he headed inside.

You followed along behind him, feeling like an idiot.

 ~

 Arthur opened the door and allowed you to move into the room first. You were surprised to see he’d already set up his bedroll on the floor next to the double bed in the middle of the room. You frowned at his haste as he locked the door behind you both.

You slipped off your boots and left them at the end of the bed. Crawling on top of the covers and positioning yourself on the left side, closest to Arthur’s bedroll as he took off his own boots.

You stared at your hands, eyes flicking up to see what was taking so long and shooting back down to your lap when you realised Arthur was unbuttoning his shirt.

You licked your lips, eyes darting back up once more. You inhaled softly as he pulled the fabric over his shoulders. The muscles in his broad chest shifting with him as he let the shirt fall to the floor and his hands moved to his belt.

You looked away quickly, swallowing hard as you listened to the clinking of his buckle as he worked the leather out of the loops in his jeans.

A soft clunk signified it had joined his shirt on the floor and you scolded yourself for having the urge to look up at him once more.

You resisted the temptation. Picking at the dirt under your fingernails as you heard him approach. A small, strained grunt accompanying his decent to his bed on the ground.

The silence in the room was deafening. You suddenly found yourself wishing you had brought a book. Anything to look at other than your own hands, the ceiling or… Arthur.

You turned to him intending to say your goodnights, surprised to find him studying you with curious eyes.

“What?” You asked a little too quickly, feeling flustered at his gaze.

“Ain’t you gonna get comfortable?” He asked, gesturing towards your outfit and making you look down at yourself uncertainly.

“I am comfortable.” You answered, confused.

“I mean, more comfortable.” Arthur laughed, hands gesturing to his own bare chest and then back to you. “It ain’t comfortable to sleep in a shirt and jeans. I’ve tried.” He chuckled, feeling inexplicably flustered.

“I’m fine.” You answered tersely. Suddenly extremely irritated at the feel of your jeans cutting into your waste and feeling suffocated by the neck of your shirt. But the thought of stripping down to your undergarments in front of Arthur was too much to bear in that moment.

He already wasn’t interested in what he saw. No point in going out of your way to show him even more of your body.

“Okay.” Arthur replied with a shrug. “Just saying. You can if you want.” He remarked casually. “I ain’t leering you know?” He chuckled awkwardly, staring at his hands as the words left his mouth.

You smiled weakly, unable to stop yourself as the words fell from your own lips.

“Trust me, I know.” You mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat at the admission.

Arthur looked to you with furrowed brows, blue eyes filled with confusion as you turned away from him.

“What you mean by that?” He asked quietly, frown deepening as you shook your head at your own stupidity.

“Nothin’.” You said softly. “Nevermind.” You added as you slid down in the covers. Wishing for nothing more than to be able to pull them over your head and hide.

Arthur watched you for a moment longer before following your queue and slipping under his own blankets. Staring at the ceiling as he tried to figure out what you had meant.

Perhaps you were being sarcastic. Had you noticed the way he’d looked at your earlier? Had he made you feel uncomfortable with his gaze?

He mentally scolded himself. He had tried so hard to hide is quick glances but of course you had seen the way he was looking. He couldn’t help himself. The way your freshly washed hair framed your face was intoxicating.

Not to mention your choice of jeans. He’d been sure to walk in front of you on the way back to the room so he didn’t have to spend the entire time staring at the way the denim hugged your ass in those pants. They were his favourite of all the pants you owned. He couldn’t help but look twice when you stepped up next to him outside.

A silence descended upon the both of you as Arthur found himself lost in thoughts he would be ashamed of later. He cursed himself for making you feel uneasy. Selfishly wishing he could have kept his eyes to himself so he’d had the chance to see you in less clothing.

He wondered what kind of chemise you’d wear to bed if you were alone. Or perhaps you only wore a brassiere.

Arthur thought as his tongue darted out to lick as his dry lips.

He swallowed audibly, rolling to face away from you as felt the heat that had been rising on his cheeks travel lower, down his neck and towards more intimate places.

He’d already made you feel uncomfortable more than once today. He didn’t intend to be caught red-handed thinking sordid things about your body or more specifically, the things he would do to your body given the chance.

He was suddenly extremely grateful for his place on the floor. Unsure he would be able to hide his attraction to you if faced with the reality of sharing a bed.

He had found it hard enough to slip an arm around your waist at the front desk. To remain composed and casual while being that close to you. It had been torture.

He’d told Dutch from the beginning that they wouldn’t be able to sell the story. This con was going to fail. But without admitting his crush he was unable to give a strong reason why you two wouldn’t work well together.

He was pretty good at playing a part when he needed to but he wasn’t sure a person that had spent weeks dancing around his feelings for you could play the part of your new husband successfully without things getting awkward.

Dutch had put a lot of emphasis on how important it was that the two of you were in harmony to pull of your con. It was important that people believed you were in love. He stressed how imperative to the mission it was for you to be openly affectionate with one another and…

Arthur’s mouth fell open as realisation washed over him.

“Dutch you sly bastard.” He growled into the darkness. His hand coming up to rest over his eyes as he kicked himself for being so bloody stupid. “There’s no mission.” He whispered angrily, suddenly full of regret for his insistence at sleeping on the floor.

End.

~~~

Thanks to anyone that reads this! I hope you enjoyed it! Would love to hear your thoughts. ♥

[lokislittlesigyn]

OG616 : Thor 1 - Pt.4 [A New King]

[My masterlist, where all parts of this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: Angst? Maybe?

Author’s Note:

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath

To be added to the taglist, just ask me here or send a message! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'm going to find Sif." Sigyn clipped a short dark brown cloak around her shoulders. She was dressed in her regular clothes, now – sapphire and silver, dyed leathers mixed with comfortable, woven fabric. Like Lady Sif, she usually wore pants rather than dresses - but while Sif did so for flexibility in battle, Sigyn preferred it mainly for horseback riding. And it showed: her attire had hardly any metal on it, more breathable and adjustable than most armors. She smirked approvingly at her reflection before turning to Loki.

Loki nodded an understanding. He was still on the balcony. Staring out over the city, as though glued there, tethered there by some unseen force. She wasn't even sure he'd eaten yet.

She walked closer to him. Stopped a few paces behind, and waited.

"...Loki, are you all right?"

"I’m fine."

He didn't sound fine.

But she figured he was just as scared as she was, just as concerned. After all, their entire world had changed in a day.

Perhaps he needed more time. Time to mull over things, to process. He was always an introspective sort of person.

"I'll be careful."

Another nod.

Give him time.

Sigyn glanced at him once more on her way out.

~~~~

As she made her way through the castle, following a guard's guide of where the Warriors Three were resting, Sigyn thought to herself.

If Laufey truly meant his declaration of war, the Frost Giants would be here by now. They would already send war bands. Heimdall would see them, she assured herself, quickening her pace. They must still think Thor is still here. And they don't know about Odin... They have no reason to believe we're vulnerable.

She straightened up.

If we act wisely, we can avoid war. But first, we have to bring Thor home.

Sigyn reached a set of large gold doors. The guards in front of it stepped aside, allowed her to enter.

"It still stings a bit…"

"You've had worse, my friend."

"Believe it or not, Volstagg, being impaled on ice rather hurts."

“Who would have thought?” Sigyn stepped into the healing room. It was a comfortable, enclosed space with a fire in the center. Clearly, they had been here before – their wounds mostly mended, now only needing a checkup. The warriors turned to her.

"Ah, my beautiful Sigyn..." Fandral practically jumped up to greet her, kissing her hand with a wink. “Come to see me, have you?” She noticed the wrapping still around his otherwise bare torso. He caught her eye and shrugged playfully.

"Now he feels better.." Sif snorted.

“No, Fandral...” Sigyn smiled. The Warriors Three - and Lady Sif - had always felt like family to her, ever since she spent more time in the palace. They certainly joked like family. “I was rather hoping you could explain what happened yesterday.”

The room went quiet.

"Loki has been remarkably silent, even for him. What little he has said is far from good news. I'm worried."

"Well," Volstagg shifted in his seat, "What do you want to know?"

Sigyn took a seat across from Sif. Fandral joined her.

"Did anything happen to Loki, while you were away? He hasn’t been himself lately."

Sif shook her head, "Not that I saw. Though we were in the heat of battle... We may not have noticed."

"A bit of his armor was damaged," Fandral glanced at Sigyn, "But no. He wasn't hurt. He seemed remarkably untouched."

Volstagg nodded. "But it's not like Loki to get jostled in battle, now, is it?"

Fandral chuckled. "Doesn't want to ruin his hair."

"You're one to talk." Sif smirked at him.

"Where was Thor banished to?" Sigyn pressed.

"We don't know." Sif swallowed. "Allfather Odin demanded we leave the Bifrost before he was banished... And we had wounds to tend."

"Was Loki with you?"

"No. He stayed while Odin and Thor.. Talked."

Sigyn felt the breath leave her chest. "..He lied." She stood, clenching her jaw.

"…Well, that is one of his defining traits," Fandral settled into his seat.

"No, he told me he didn't know where Thor was. He lied. Oh, Loki, what is wrong with you?" She started toward the door, but Sif spoke.

"Sigyn - if there is any way to bring Thor back…" The warrior was standing, watching her with pleading eyes.

Sigyn paused, let out a deep breath. "I hope there is. But we can't do anything until we know where he is."

~~~~

On the way back to her quarters, Sigyn asked palace guards if they had any idea where Thor may be, or how Odin fell into the Odinsleep. None knew.

She re-entered her room. "Loki, I need to speak-"

Loki was gone.

Of course he was gone.

"Perfect."

"Is something wrong, Princess?" A guard peered around the door.

"Where is my husband?"

"Prince Loki has gone to the Allfather."

"Thank you." Sigyn made her way to the Allfather's room.

Act wisely and we'll avoid war... She huffed. We're off to a magnificent start, now Loki's lying to me. She pursed her lips. Don't assume anything. Give him a chance to explain. He deserves a chance to explain.

She reached the Allfather's room, stepping in to find Frigga, still at Odin's bedside.

"He's just left." Frigga stroked Odin's hand, speaking with her eyes still trained on him. She had a way of knowing just what people wanted.

Sigyn let out an audible sigh. "Just marvelous..."

Frigga smiled, turning to her. "You'll find him in the throne room."

"Throne room..?"

Frigga nodded at Sigyn. "The throne room."

With a slight huff, Sigyn turned and left, and broke into a sprint. A few passersby shot her looks as she ran past them, but she hardly cared. She was more concerned with finding Loki.

Throne room.

Why would Loki be in the throne room? He was a prince; princes hardly belonged there. Unless...

As she neared the throne room, she heard voices.

She turned the corner and - "Ah!" - Nearly collided with Volstagg.

"Whoa, you must be more careful, Princess." He steadied her shoulders, keeping her from falling over. She smiled in thanks, still breathing heavily.

"My apologies, sorry.."

"In a hurry to see your beloved?" Fandral stepped up beside Volstagg.

"Actually I was. Frigga said he was here."

"Oh, he's definitely here." There was an air of spite in Fandral's voice.

Sigyn paused. Even Fandral didn't despise Loki that much. "What's going on?"

"See for yourself." Sif passed by, giving a slight nod as she did.

Sigyn furrowed her brow when they left, then entered the throne room.

She froze.

Loki.

Loki was there.

Standing tall, clad in his full armor and holding Gungnir. He looked imposing. Regal. Kingly.

When did this happen?

She inched forward, astonished.

"You're allowed to speak, Sigyn." Loki straightened up, but his gaze was soft.

Sigyn now stood before him, mouth slightly agape, still staring at him.

"Did you plan on telling me about this?"

Loki smiled. "Actually, a guard was on his way to bring you here."

Sigyn nodded, adjusting to the sight of Loki as king. Loki as king. She swallowed.

".. Loki, I need to speak with you."

"Clearly."

"Why did you lie about Thor?"

His jaw stiffened. "I couldn't tell you."

"Why?"

Loki paused a moment… "Because if I told you, you would go after him."

Sigyn's cheeks turned a slight pink. "I.. Would not necessarily-"

"Oh, I think you would."

She shifted her weight. "I'm only trying to help."

"Even if you were to find Thor, you couldn't help him. He's on his own."

"And what of Odin? Of the Frost Giants? If they make it back into Asgard, if they find out our eldest prince and our king are powerless to defend us, they could-"

"Silence."

Sigyn shrank back, folding her hands.

"Odin will rest until he is restored. The Frost Giants have no knowledge of him nor Thor. And I am king, now."

They watched each other, each waiting for the other's move. 

Sigyn broke the silence, never breaking eye contact with Loki. "Very well. Guard, have Villieldr saddled."

"Stay here, Einherjar." Loki turned to the guard, who remained at his post, then looked back at Sigyn.

Sigyn clenched her jaw. "I-"

"I am your king, Sigyn," He spoke with intent, lowering his head slightly, "And as your king, I order you to remain within the palace. Understood?"

She stepped back, fidgeting her hands. He never spoke like that to her. He hardly even raised his voice at her.

He's scared. His father and his brother are practically gone. He's carrying the burden of the throne now. The burden of the entire realm.

Just listen to him.

".. Yes, my king," She bowed, "As you wish."

Loki turned, cape sweeping after him, returning to his throne. He sat, watching her as she left.

~~~~

Sigyn stayed in the palace, as Loki ordered. She sat in a chair – one of a pair in their room, next to a table they set books on. But she hardly felt like reading. She had hoped to ride down to the Bifrost and ask Heimdall where Thor was, demand someone give her answers, but of course, Loki forbade it.

And he was her husband.

And her king.

This wasn't like times before, where she'd sneaked off before the sun rose, saddled her horse, and galloped off to explore the forest. Loki wouldn't follow her like he used to, laughing and calling for her, telling her how she should at least eat breakfast before going on adventures.

She wasn't sure Loki would laugh much anymore.

With a gentle sigh, she wiped a strand of hair back from her face. There was nothing more to do. Even if Frigga knew where Thor was, Sigyn couldn't change anything. She tapped her foot in annoyance.

Her only option was to wait.

Finally surrendering, she grabbed a book and took it out to the balcony. Opened it. The pages were covered in sketches, wispy drawings of various objects and people.

Her helmet. A wine goblet. A fire pit. Sif's sword. Mjolnir. Loki's daggers.

She turned more pages.

Villieldr, her beloved horse. Odin's horse Sleipnir. An Einherjar. Frigga.

Another page.

Loki.

She paused.

Loki, asleep on a quiet afternoon. Loki, deeply focused on perfecting a spell. Sharpening his daggers. Reading. Grinning after a particularly skilled trick.

She ran her fingers down the page, tracing his jawline with her fingertips. She heard footsteps, with a third beat accompanying them, then the soft clink of metal on the table. Someone stepped onto the balcony.

".. I thought you'd be in our room."

Sigyn lifted her head, snapping the book shut.

Don't mistreat him just because you're hurt. Don't make the wrong choice.

"I was. For a time. But then I wanted some fresh air."

Loki stopped next to her.

"Don't think I'm punishing you by keeping you here. I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I don't think that."

Loki hummed an understanding, turning to the city.

Sigyn joined him. Shifted her weight. "When were you crowned?"

"Today. Mother gave me Gungnir. I'm to act as king until Odin wakes."

"...I'm sorry, Loki."

He turned to her, his brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry all this has happened," She looked at him.

He swallowed.

"Loki, I," She stepped closer, "I can't imagine the pressure you're under. Everything that's happened in so short a time, everything that might happen.."

His expression didn't change. He just watched her. Silent. Waiting.

Please talk to me.

Please.

"If you need me… For anything, please, just say something. We can't lose each other." She blinked, swallowing hard.

Be strong. Be strong for him. He needs you.

Loki took a step back. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it, taking another step away and turning back to the city.

Sigyn waited. She watched him, internally begging him to say something. Anything. Even if it hurt...

Nothing.

Then a noise from the distance. Flashing lights. The Bifrost had been activated.

Sigyn could feel Loki tense next to her. By the time she turned to him, he was already leaving.

I love you, Loki.

The door shut behind him.

I love you so much. Even if you stop loving me.

[itsafanficthing]

The Paper Boy - Chapter Five

Sorry for the break in between chapters. Took a second to squeeze this one out of my brain and onto the keyboard.

A03 is here

School. It was back. Summer was over and it was back to the daily grind of homework, teachers and chores. Truth be told, the chores hadn’t really stopped over the break, but now there was more of a routine to the rest of Jamie’s day. The only thing that made him spring out of bed on the first day of school was the one and only Claire Beauchamp.

Jamie had promised to walk with her to school, introduce her to a few more people, and that he wouldn’t leave her side. She laughed at that and asked if she could at least have some privacy in the bathroom. He had conceded that yes, that was probably for the best.

School. Sixth-year. His final year. The year that he was supposed to make decisions about his future (as if they hadn’t already been made for him). His father and his sister wanted him to buckle down, make good grades, no distractions- academia, this was his year.

His mates wanted to have a good time. They wanted to have a laugh, play as many sports as possible, make a mess, get in trouble, flirt with pretty girls; live while they were young.

Claire. Jamie wasn’t sure what Claire wanted. She wanted a friend- of that Jamie was sure and he was only too willing to fill that role in her life, if not something more.

—

He rushed through his morning chores, feeding the horses and chickens by throwing handfuls of feed in their general direction before sprinting over to the pigs to lob last nights scraps into the pen. Jamie scoffed down a piece of toast in the shower- which was not a good idea for both taste and practicality- but it did save time. Jamie swung his heavy backpack over his shoulder, the second hand books thumping him across the back as he called goodbye to his father and sister. Both of whom were sitting together at the kitchen table, grinning at each other at Jamie’s apparent eagerness to start the new school year, though Jamie didn’t see it. He had somewhere to be.

Jamie rode his bike to Claire’s house as fast as his legs would carry him. He was running late. Or at least, late by Jamie’s standards. He’d wanted to get their early and have a relaxing ride so he didn’t turn up red-faced and sweaty. Instead the early morning sun beat down on the back of his neck and he could feel the sweat gathering at his hairline.

—

He finally made it to Claire’s house and took some time wiping his face on his school uniform and digging the can of deodorant out of his bag and dousing himself to disguise his nerves and the effort of the bike ride.

Jamie brushed his hair out of his face (his sister said he needed a haircut, but he quite liked it long) and carefully parked his bike inside Claire fence. He took a deep breath and was about to go to the front door and knock when a voice called his name.

Dottie Ables, the sixty-something town gossip was calling out to Jamie.

“Morning Mrs Ables,” Jamie greeted as she made her way over to him.

“Jamie, lad. How are ye this morning?” Dottie asked sweetly, although she wasn’t looking at Jamie. She was looking at the house behind him.

“Well, thank you.” Jamie shifted uncomfortably on his toes. Dottie was one of the worst gossips in the town; she always had something to talk about- which was saying something in a town where hardly anything happened.

“Yer ready for school then? Yer first day, is it no’?” Dotties eyes flickered over to Jamie briefly but it was clear that her interest was much more directed to the house behind him.

“It is,” Jamie answered. He didn’t want to say anything that would make the rounds through the town, twisting and turning until it wasn’t even remotely close to the truth. Saying nothing was better. Let them think he was shy or stupid.

“Ye lookin’ forward to it? New school mates and so on?” Dottie wasn’t even bothering to look at Jamie now. In fact, she took a step to the side to see the Beauchamp’s house better.

“Aye, summer has to end at some time.” Jamie shifted slightly so that he was standing directly in front of her again, forcing her to look up at him.

“Ohh aye, ye ken I used to be young once-” Dottie stopped mid sentence as the front door behind Jamie opened.

Lamb standing in a tweed fluffy dressing gown, slippers on his feet and a steaming cup of (what Jamie assumed to be) coffee in his hands.

“Jamie lad, I thought I heard you pull up. Fancy some breakfast?”

Jamie couldn’t help the smile that came to his face at seeing Lamb. Jamie had always thought that Lamb’s hair was perfectly straight in contrast to his niece, but looking at him now assured Jamie that was not the case.

Lamb’s hair was spiked, wavy and very much all over the place. It looked like the man had just rolled out of bed and Jamie wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t.

Dottie, who was blocked from Lamb’s view by Jamie suddenly cleared her throat and Jamie jumped in surprise, forgetting that she was there.

“Mornin’” she called loudly, wanting to be seen with no room to not be heard.

Lamb yawned widely as Dottie moved into view. Rubbing a hand over his face and smiling brightly Lamb called out a “good morning” before promptly turning around and going back inside.

Jamie could hear that it wasn’t at all an acceptable response by Dotties’ standards as she huffed as Jamie took a step toward the house.

“Does’na even greet his neighbours. How do ye like tha’?” Dottie grumbled as Jamie headed towards the open front door. He was sure that Lambert Beauchamp was going to be the hot topic at the next coffee catch up with the locals.

—

“Claire will be down in a moment. She’s just getting dressed,” Lamb said as he tried and failed to flip a pancake with the pan. “Should stick to the spatula,” he grumbled, binning the sloppy half cooked mess before pouring more batter into the pan.

“Do ye always cook pancakes in the mornin’,” Jamie asked curiously, watching Lamb move about the kitchen, pulling various condiments and spreads (jam, chocolate spread, maple syrup, and for some reason- mustard) from the cupboards and refrigerator.

“Goodness no,” Lamb laughed as he placed a bottle of brown sauce in front of Jamie. “Only on special occasions. First day of a new school warrants a special occasion, wouldn’t you think?”

Jamie wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical but nodded in response anyway.

There was an awkward pause between them as Lamb continued to cook and Jamie sat at the table waiting for Claire. Jamie was never really sure what to say to Claire’s Uncle. It seemed like sometimes Lamb was more than willing to launch into a conversation with rapt attention, no matter the subject. And others, Lamb was vague and unresponsive, as if he was somewhere else entirely. Jamie watched him flip pancakes and tried to see if he could figure out what mood Lamb was in.

Footsteps thumping down the staircase brought Jamie out of his inspection of Lamb and he turned to see Claire enter the kitchen.  

Jamie could honestly say that he didn’t care for school uniforms. He knew that some of the lads in his class spoke about how the girls looked in it, in the white blouses and the black skirts. Especially the girls that rolled their skirts so that they were shorter than what was strictly allowed. He’d never really understood what the lads saw in the girls that were purposefully flirting and trying to change their uniforms to be more appealing. To Jamie, it was just another article of clothing to put on. It was what he wore to school. He wore his jersey when playing rugby. He wore his farm clothes when he was doing his chores.

He never understood the fantasy some of the lads with the school girl uniforms. They’d shown Jamie some pictures of girls with their tits bursting out of their tops and skirts that were little more than a scrap of cloth, and all Jamie had thought was how impractical it was and how uncomfortable it must be. It was hot, of course, the pictures were designed to be provocative, but aside from Jamie's natural hormonal reaction, he didn't understand the fantasy of it all.

That was, until, Claire Beauchamp walked into the kitchen. She was struggling with the black and red tie, her hair was in looser ringlets than usual and her crisp white shirt and perfectly ironed black skirt fit her to perfection. Jamie felt his mouth run dry and he was sure he had made some kind of strangled choking noise before swiftly turning to hide his lower body under the table, lest he shame himself and Claire this early in the morning. Good lord. Early in the morning. That’s what he told himself. It was just because it was early in the morning.

“Lamb, I can’t work out this tie.”

Jamie could hear the frustration in Claire’s voice but he didn’t dare turn around.

“Have a seat, Bumblebee. I’m sure Jamie can help.”

Unsexy thoughts. Unsexy thoughts. Auntie Jocasta’s knees. Cold Rugby practises. Jamie took a deep breath trying to calm his racing heart. Claire had no idea of the effect that she had on him. Mucking out the stables.

“Morning,” Claire said brightly as she sat next to him. “Can you help?”

Jamie finally turned to smile at her and felt his heart skip a beat. Her cheeks were flushed with her frustrations and the tie was hanging limply around her neck as she waited for his assistance.

“First time with a tie?” Jamie asked, loosening his own.

“My last school didn’t have ones you had to tie yourself. It used to clip on.”

“Clip on?” Jamie made a disgusted sound and Claire giggled. “Hand it over and I’ll tie it.”

Claire slipped the material from around her neck and handed it to Jamie with a sigh.

Jamie put it around his neck and tied it quickly before handing it back to Claire.

“Do it again. I need to learn how to do it,” Claire said with a huff pushing the blasted material back to him.

Jamie grinned and undid his work before slowly retying the tie several times as Claire watched him

Claire tried and the tail came out about four inches longer than the front and she groaned in frustration before trying again.

“There, how's that?” She asked, straightening it and holding out her arms in triumph. It wasn’t the best work that Jamie’d ever seen but she certainly had tied it.

“Perfect,” he said as Lamb set down a mountainous stack of pancakes in front of them.

“You look smashing, Bumblebee,” he said as he took a seat opposite them and immediately started eating.

Claire rolled her eyes before picking up a pancake of her own and smothering it in maple syrup.

—

Jamie found himself quite enjoying breakfast with Lamb and Claire (and it wasn’t just because Claire looked bonnie in her uniform).

Once breakfast had started, Lamb launched into a few stories from his archeology digs and it seemed as though he had a tale for every occasion. A natural born storyteller, he could have been a Scot. Claire ate her breakfast in relative silence only speaking to amend or add details to Lamb’s story.

“Lamb, we have to go,” Claire said from the sink as she and Jamie washed the dishes, interrupting Lamb’s extremely interesting story of excavating an Indian Tomb back in the nineties.

“Yes of course. You have everything? Your books? Your lunch? Have I forgotten anything?” Lamb immediately jumped into action, lifting different condiments on the table, half expecting Claire’s textbook to be hiding underneath.

“No I have it all,” Claire answered as she dried her hands on Jamie’s teatowel. “But we really need to be going.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you? I’m more than happy to,” he offered holding a bottle of maple syrup in one hand and a bottle of lemon juice in the other. He quickly put the bottles down on the table and wiped his hands on his dressing gown. He looked lost and Jamie had a vague memory of his mother and father looking at him the same way when it was his first day of school.

“It’s five minutes down the road. I’m sure that we can manage. Jamie can show me the way.”

Lamb looked over to Jamie who nodded enthusiastically in return, “Aye sir, Lamb. I’ll make sure we get there safely.”

“Alright then.” Lamb seemed appeased and clapped his hand enthusiastically. “Well, have a great first day, Claire. Come home if you need to… and I suppose… I suppose I will see you this afternoon when you get home.”

“Thanks, Uncle Lamb. I’m sure it will be fine.” Claire smiled briefly at her Uncle before picking up her school bag, swinging it across her back and looking back at Jamie expectantly. “Ready then?”

“Aye,” Jamie nodded and together they left the house.

--

It was mayhem. The younger kids were in tears, the slightly older kids were trying to escape their overprotective parents and the seniors were causing general disruptions wherever they could. Jamie could feel Claire tense up beside him as they approached the gates. Somewhere along the walk she had tied her hair out of her face and her hands automatically fluffed over her hair, trying to flatten it.

“Don’t worry, Sassenach. I will’na let ye out of my sight,” Jamie said as his name was called over the general shouts, laughter and sounds of the other children.

“I know, I know,” Claire reassured him, though her voice wobbled with nerves. “It’s just… it’s a lot of people.”

“Come,” Jamie said holding out his hand to her, “I’ll introduce ye to some of my mates.”

Claire looked between Jamie’s hand and his face nervously. Whatever she had seen there seemed to fortify her and she took his hand. Jamie could feel her shaking and vibrating with nerves but all he could really concentrate on was the fact that she was holding his hand and that she trusted him. He was sure that he was blushing, but right at that moment, he didn’t particularly care.

--

“Aye, who’s this then?” Angus Mohr called out as Jamie and Claire approached. “Ye’ve got yerself a wee girlfriend then lad? No wonder ye’ve been ignoring us all summer.”

“I have’na been ignorin’ ye,” Jamie shook his head, still very much aware that Claire was gripping his hand tightly.

“Ye just did’na want to see us then? Is that it?” Ruper interrupted, taking a step closer to Claire. “Rupert MacKenzie, Jamie’s better looking cousin. Pleasure to meet ye.”

“Claire Beauchamp.” Claire’s voice was soft and it felt like Jamie’s fingers were about to fall off with the pressure she was exerting on them- he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“This is Angus, all round eejit and attention hoor,” Rupert continued as Angus wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her.

“Pleasure.”

“So, ye had to go all the way to England to get a lass to fancy ye then, Jamie Lad?” Rupert laughed with gusto. “Ye’ve never fancied any of the lasses in our year so ye had to travel abroad. Angus thought ye might be swingin’ the other way.”

“Claire just moved here. Walter Sturart’s house. I’ve been showin’ her round.” Jamie ignored the second part of Rupert's ribbing.

Both Angus and Rupert crossed their hearts at the mention of Walter Stuart and Jamie felt Claire relax slightly.

“Weel, yer in better company than just a Jamie here now, lass,” Rupert went on after a respectful pause for the deceased Walter Stuart. “Havin’ no one but Jamie to show ye ‘round all summer. Must have been a bore.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Claire answered.

Jamie could hear a slight warble in her voice as she spoke but at least she wasn’t trying to crush his fingers any more.

“Here comes Geillis and Mary,” Angus hissed from behind Rupert and Jamie noticed Rupert stand a little straighter and puff out his chest.

“So Rupert did fancy Geillis, then,” Jamie grinned to himself. Seeing Rupert's cheeks flame as the two girls approached as he called out in greeting, Jamie wondered if that’s what he looked like when he looked at Claire.

“Who this then?” Geillis asked as they approached and Claire took a nervous step behind Jamie, trying to hide herself.

“Claire, she’s just moved here over the summer,” Jamie introduced Claire as she seemed to shrink back into herself.

“I’m Geillis, this is Mary,” Gellis introduced happily, seemingly unaware of Claire’s nerves. “So I guess we ken where Jamie’s been hidin’ all summer then. Had to go all the way to England to find a lass that will put up wi' ye then?” She laughed at her own joke and Rupert joined in as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, despite making the exact same joke seconds before the girls had arrived.

“As I was just sayin’ to the lads, I was’na hidin’. I was workin’,” Jamie defended again, although why he was giving them any kind of excuse, he didn’t know.

“Aye, aye, yer paper route,” Geillis waved away his comment with her hand. “I’m sure that kept ye up till all hours.”

“Ye ken I live on a farm, aye?” Jamie asked sarcastically. He could feel Claire relaxing again, though she was still partially hidden behind him.

Geillis scoffed and rolled her eyes as Angus interrupted whatever her retort was going to be.

“Aye ye do, and I’ve a bone to pick wi’ ye. We usually have the best parties in yer back field and I waited all summer for an invitation that never came.”

“Sorry to inconvenience ye,” Jamie laughed as he pushed Angus’s shoulder playfully. “Good to ken I’m only yer friend for the parties.”

“It’s about time ye apologised,” Angus shoved him back before the bell rang, signalling the start of the new school year.

“Do you know which homeroom you’re in, Claire?” Mary asked in such a soft voice that Jamie barely heard her.

“Oh um,” Claire jolted slightly at being addressed by someone. She dropped Jamie’s hand to pull her school schedule from her bag and Jamie flexed his hand in response. (First- to get the feeling back into his fingers and second- from the feeling of having Claire so casually hold his hand, linked together, a feeling he hoped to repeat several more times.

“Mrs Fox,” Claire read from the trembling paper in her hands.

“Same as us,” Rupert said swinging his backpack onto his shoulders. “Come on then.”

Claire looked up at Jamie with wild panic in her eyes.

“Same as me as well, Sassenach,” he said, seeing her visibly relax. “Ye alright?”

Claire nodded quickly, a few curls coming loose from her hair and it was all Jamie could do, to not gently sweep the hair from her eyes. Eyes that were slightly panicked and running over his face quickly.

“Y’ll be fine. Come on.” Jamie held out his hand again and to his satisfaction, Claire eagerly grabbed it once more.

—

The halls were busy with students pushing past each other, trying to get to class, or stopping and greeting each other and holding up the flow of students. It was mostly thanks to Jamie’s size that he and Claire made it to their homeroom together. Jamie more or less parted the sea of students and Claire followed behind him, gripping the back of his shirt to not lose him in the throng of people.

“Where do I put my bag?” Claire asked as Jamie stopped.

Jamie was pulling his own bag from his shoulders and tossing it carelessly onto the bag racks outside of the room as she asked and she watched him with curiosity before nodding to herself and following suit.

“Do I need anything? Pens, paper?” She asked eagerly as Jamie walked into the room without anything.

“It’s homeroom, Sassenach. Mrs Fox is’na likely to start handin’ out homework.” Jamie smiled at her and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks. “Come on,” he indicated with his head and she followed him nervously.

The desks were set in pairs and Angus, Rupert, Geillis and Mary were sitting in the back left corner waving over to Jamie and Claire. Jamie wove through the desks to pull up his usual space- third from the back, next to the window, spare seat beside him. It hadn’t always been spare. John Grey had sat next to Jamie for most of Jamie’s schooling life until he had transferred back to England after his father passed away. Since he’d gone though, Jamie had mostly sat by himself. His friends would rotate with him if someone was away sick or fighting (not that it happened very often).

He no longer sat alone.

Claire’s fingers were tapping nervously on the desk in front of her and he could feel her knee bouncing and shaking the desk. Jamie turned to face Rupert sitting directly behind him. It was best to leave Claire for a moment to calm her nerves without forcing her into a conversation.

“Do ye think Mr Langford will be such a hard ass this year?” Rupert asked.

Mr Langford- the physical education teacher, was notoriously firm with students. He was also Jamie’s rugby coach.

“He’s not that bad. It’s only ‘cause ye muck about in class that ye get detention,” Jamie answered as Angus scoffed.

“Perfect Jamie. O’ course ye’d say that. Never got a detention in yer life. Not to mention that ye’re his favourite.”

“I’m not his favourite,” Jamie laughed, shaking his head. “I’m just not a complete eedjit.”

Angus was about to retort when Mrs Fox called for the class's attention.

“Good morning everyone. I hope you had a good summer break. I see a new face in our class. Welcome. Now, lets take the roll shall we? See who could’na roll out of bed this morning!.” Mrs Fox said all of this very quickly, nodding over to Claire and causing half the students to turn in their chairs to look at her.

As Mrs Fox read out the list of names, each student responding in turn when their names were called, Claire lent closer to Jamie.

“She’s not going to make me introduce myself to the class, is she?” She whispered, flinching as Angus hollered “PRESENT” from behind her.

“Nah. Homeroom is just for announcements and roll call. I doubt any of the teachers will make ye stand up and introduce yerself. It is’na primary,” Jamie replied shaking his head and seeing her sigh in relief. “Do ye ken yer first class?”

“Yes. It’s English I think.” Claire nodded eagerly. “What about you?”

“English as well I think. Who’s yer teacher?”

“Oh. I don’t know. How many English teachers are there?”

“Weel, there’s different levels of English, dependin’ on yer results from last year,” Jamie explained under his breath as Mrs Fox put away the roll call and started to go through morning announcements.

“Oh.”

“I’m in Higher English wi’ Mr Randall, as are Rupert, Angus, Mary and Geillis and I’m in Advanced Higher Maths with Geillis, but Rupert and Angus are in level 5,” Jamie continued as the speakers crackled to life and the Principal (Mr Worthing) interrupted Mrs Fox and welcomed the students to a new year.

“Oh,” Claire repeated looking downtrodden.

“It’s alright, we’ll look at yer schedule and figure out where yer goin’. Chances are ye’ll have at least one class with one of us.”

“I didn’t even think about different levels, Jamie. I just… Lamb just transferred across my credits and I picked some classes. I didn’t even look at the levels,” Claire said unhappily.

“Most of the time, ye dinna need to,” Jamie tried to reassure her. “The teachers usually look at yer marks and will place ye in the class that suits ye.”

“But what if,” Claire paused and bit her lip. What Jamie wouldn’t give to gently tug it loose from her teeth and kiss her. He shook the thought from his mind as Claire started to speak again. “What if I’m in… one of the lower classes.”

“Lower classes?” Jamie asked in confusion.

“You’re clearly in all the advanced classes. What if I’m in one of the dumb ones?”

Jamie snorted with laughter and Mrs Fox looked up from her list of announcements and frowned at him.

“What?” Claire asked sounding thoroughly put out by Jamie’s reaction.

“Sassenach,” Jamie said shaking his head and smiling at her, “yer one of the smartest lasses I’ve ever met, ye read encyclopaedias in yer spare time- ye’ll be fine.”

Claire blushed prettily before she sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “I do not read encyclopaedias.”

—-

Jamie was right (of course). When homeroom was excused he and Claire rushed to her bag to check her schedule.

Claire Beauchamp Monday

Period 1 - English (Higher) - Mr Randall

Period 2 - English (Higher) - Mr Randall

Period 3 - Maths (Adv Higher) - Mr Sandringham

Period 4 - Biology (Higher) - Mrs Miller

Period 5 - History (Higher) - Mr Randall

Period 6 - History (Higher) - Mr Randall

“Weel, yer certainly not in any of the easy classes,” Jamie said as he looked over the sheet of paper. “They’re all Higher or Advanced Higher classes.”

“Is that a good thing?” Claire asked nervously as Jamie started to steer them towards their first class.

“Weel, if it helps. English and Math are both with me. I think Gellis is in Biology but I dinna ken who’s in History with ye.”

“You’re not in History?” Claire asked as they arrived at their English class.

“Nah,” Jamie shook his head. “I reckon my Da taught me enough about my families own history. I dinna think I can stomach any more.”

“You’re family history is convoluted then?” Claire asked somewhat sarcastically, though she definitely also sounded eager to hear more.

“Oh, aye. Very much so. Fought in risings. Locked in jails. Outlaws, landowners, prisoners, laird's- There is’na much the Fraser’s have’na done.” Jamie collected his books and pens from his bag and watched as Claire eagerly followed suit.

“Sounds fascinating.”

“I’ll tell ye about it someday. Not now though. Randall’s a right grump when yer late to class. Come on.” He smiled at Claire reassuringly and she returned the smile, following him into the classroom and taking the seat next to Jamie.

--

“Good Morning Everyone.” Mr Randall stood in front of the class, his dark brown eyes running across the faces looking back at him, lingering for a moment over Jamie and Claire before flicking back across the room. “I trust you all had a good summer. Anyone read anything interesting over the break? No? Well, rest assured this year will solve that issue for you. We will be starting the year with 1984 by George Orwell. Read it before? No?” Mr Randall spoke at such a rapid speed that he gave the class no chance to respond before he was moving onto the next point. “Published in 1949,” Mr Randall turned to face the whiteboard and began making bullet points as he spoke. “The year is 1984, as the title suggests, civilisation damaged by war, conflict, revolution. Three super-states rule the world. The world is run by the “Party” with a leader, cult-like status, Big Brother. The book is about conformity, surveillance, and propaganda.”

Jamie had read the book about two years ago. His father was a keen literary and made sure that both Jamie and Jenny had read the “classics”. Jamie glanced over to Claire who was carefully making notes in her book as Mr Randall continued his monologue.

“Have you read it before?” Jamie wrote the words in the top corner of his notebook and slid the page across to Claire. He saw her hand pause briefly from the notes she was taking before she pulled Jamie’s book closer and wrote her reply.

“About a year ago. I did an assignment on it.”

Claire’s writing was clean but angular; each letter on a significant slant.

“Same- read it a while ago too. Maybe you can recycle the assignment.” Jamie wrote back, casually sliding the book back the Claire. He saw her smile and shrug her shoulders slightly before she put went back to taking notes from Mr Randall.

--

“I want you to finish reading the book in the next two weeks. It shouldn’t take long. Don’t fall behind, we will be discussing the themes of each chapter in the coming classes, and it won’t do you any good to not know what the rest of the class is talking about.” Mr Randall had to raise his voice over the sounds of students packing up their belongings as the bell rang.

“Claire, do you mind staying a moment? I’d like a word.”

Jamie stopped as Mr Randall called Claire’s name.

“I’ll wait for ye outside.” Jamie saw Claire tense before she nodded tight lipped and made her way to the front of the room.

--

Jamie packed away his books and paced outside the classroom, waiting for Claire.

Whatever Mr Randall had wanted to say to Claire didn’t take long and she was soon back with Jamie as they walked slowly on their break between classes. Jamie was eating an apple as Claire dug a cheese stick out of her bag.

“What was tha’ about?” Jamie asked through a mouthful of apple.

“Oh, he just wanted to welcome me to the school. Said he knew my Uncle Lamb at Oxford, they went to the same university,” Claire shrugged casually but Jamie could see that there was something else.

“And?” He prompted when Claire didn’t say anything further.

Claire smirked up at him and Jamie felt his heart beat irregularly in his chest. The things that she did to him.

“He also wants to introduce his son to me, Frank. He said that I should look out for him next class and say hi.”

“Ah, Frank,” Jamie said with a sigh.

“What’s wrong with Frank?” Claire asked curiously as Jamie stopped on a bench outside a classroom and took a seat.

“Nothin’ at all,” Jamie shook his head. “I dinna ken him too well to be honest wi’ ye. Seems a bit up-tight sometimes, but I’m sure it is’na easy havin’ yer Da as one of yer teachers."

“I can imagine, I don’t know how I would be if Lamb came to teach history.”

“He keeps to himself mostly, but I can introduce ye if ye like.”

“It’s fine,” Claire waved away the offer. “I’m sure we’ll have a class together somewhere along the line. I don’t need to meet the entire school on the first day.”

“Nah, I suppose not.”

Jamie smiled at Claire.

Claire smiled at Jamie.

She looked so pretty in her school uniform, her earlier nervousness now somewhat dissipated.

“Thank you, for taking me under your wing Jamie. I really do appreciate it,” Claire said softly. “I don’t know how I would have done this morning or any of today without you.”

Jamie shrugged and swallowed heavily before clearing his throat. “It’s no bother, really. I’m glad I could be of assistance. We’re friends aren’t we?”

“Friends,” Claire repeated the word with a soft hum. “Yes, yes we are. I was thinking that-”

Though what she was thinking, Jamie never found out, as Jamie’s name was shouted to him from across the yard and they both looked up to see Laoghaire and her friends making their way towards them.

[snailcomicz]

“I can’t live without you…” for KoTOR with that one ship you love, and for a second choice... Miles from Into the Spider-Verse, “I thought you were smarter than that!”

@owldart​, listen, in fact sit down why don’t you.

You asked me to make the pair that refused to admit the fact that they liked each other out loud unless they were on the timeline where one of them was dying say something as gut wrenchingly honest as “I can’t live without you.”

The fact that I wrote over five pages of this stuff is your fault, not mine.

[I will come back and write the second prompt too, because turn about is fair play and also I wanna]

The party sure does have to spend some time fighting the hidden Sith outposts after the final war against evil with Revan... It sure would be a shame if something were to... Happen...

"GLADIOLUS!”

“Rand, don’t go back there-”

He tore through the Sith apprentices, kindness be damned, hostages be damned, even watching his own back be damned, several tons of rock and dirt had just collapsed on the only person here that was worth a damn-

“RAND!”

Because they had trusted her to hold the rockslide off, to have their backs, when the only reason he was here, the only reason Kreia had kept him around, the only reason he came on this specific mission was to watch hers-

"ATTON!”

“SHE’S ALIVE!”

“WILL SHE FIGHT OFF THESE SHUTTAS WHEN WE FIND HER?!?”

The fact she didn’t say ‘if’ was the only thing that made him turn around, snarling into the gas mask and hurling a poison grenade at his feet. The Sith apprentices impulse to flee or cover their mouths left gaps in their guard, places he and Revan took savage advantage of in their mutual desperation. Revan was all brute force, brute Force and raw muscle, shattering one of the Sith’s lightsabers through the power of her strike alone. Atton had to fight smarter, using the apprentices uncoordinated moves against each other and hurling a handy grenade when the best opportunity struck. Their mutually destructive tactics were usually tempered by the more practical strategies of the Exile.

She wasn’t tempering either of them now.

The battlefield was quiet for barely a breath before both of them whirled back around. Some distant, emotional, soft part of him had expected her to have blasted a hole in the rubble and already started treating her injuries with a medpack, ready to remind them both to take the edge off of their fighting strategies. Instead they found a wall of rock, with dirt still drifting down from it’s landing, and utter silence.

“At-”

“She can cut herself off from the Force.” He started towards the cave in, trying to figure out how to even approach this.

“Don’t touch it Ran-”

“Do I look like I’m touching it?” Explosions would be useless, too uncontrolled, it could crush her. He should have felt something by now, she should have opened back up to the Force by now. They couldn’t start at the top and burrow down, she would be at the bottom of the silt and it would take too long. He whirled back around. “Do something useful and help me! Help her!”

“Trying, Rand.” Revan stood stock still, hand barely raised, staring at the wall with that distant ‘solving a puzzle but only in my mind’ look. Her greying hair lifted away from her face slightly, and all the dirt that had started to settle started unnaturally floating back into the air. Her voice was low and tight as a crossbow string when she said, “I don’t have her precision, you’re going to have to go in and pull her out yourself.”

Then, the rocks started to shift. Barely by an inch near the top of the rock slide, and even when Revan’s powers got to the bottom of the rubble there was only a small gap, but some part of Gladiolus would have still been on the ground when the whole thing came down and it was the best shot they had. Getting to his knees and dragging himself forward with his arms, he breathed through the filter of his mask and tried to push his senses outward. It was too dark to see, even with the dim lights still on on their side of the cave in, and pushing against the rocks might break Revan’s concentration so he had to calm down and use his other ‘sense’. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard, thinking of how boring meditating was usually and who would guide him through it.

-It’s basically an extension of your gut instinct, Atton. I’m teaching you how to focus power you already have, just in ways you haven’t thought about using it.-

He pushed his senses outward, using the gut instinct concept as a crutch he hadn’t needed in some time. Danger was everywhere, pulling his at his nerves and making him grit his teeth, but where was it worse? What place scared him most? He shifted left and pulled himself forward a good few feet, not daring to open his eyes and lose his train of thought, when something streaked gritty liquid across the edge of his cheek.

“Gotcha.” He barely breathed, feeling none of the confidence his tone tried to convey. Quick exploration with his hands found her hand coming off the low ceiling, and after that finding the rest of her was easy. Revan had, by accident or on purpose, pulled Gladiolus to the temporary ceiling with the rest of the rockslide. Finally finding her belt, he also found more gritty liquid and realized it wasn’t water.

“Come on, Exile, I got you.” Tracing upwards until he found a catch in her chestplate he pulled her down slowly, waiting until her feet dragged on the ground to start pulling her in and shuffling backwards. Gravity seemed to come back to her slowly, like Revan was trying to pull her back up, but he was just strong enough to manhandle her out of the rubble before he saw the extent of the damage.

“No.”

“Rand, get back.” Revan’s horse whisper barely registered as he stared in horror. Gladiolus wasn’t just bleeding, she was bleeding heavily from multiple places.

“Rand,” Headwounds always looked bad, but the shoulder that bore the hand he brushed against looked ripped open, and her side was bleeding too. He tried to pull healing energy from the Force, silently begging it wouldn’t fail just this once, and nothing happened.

“Atton. Move. Back.” Revan hissed, ignoring the Exile’s condition, ignoring her healing duties because her healing spells worked, ignoring-

Revan was sweating, he could see that from several feet away, with her hand fully extended and shaking all over with effort. Even her breaths were clipped, and the darkened lines that appeared when she tried to push past her limits or use the Force too much-

Oh.

Only taking the time to be gentle with her shoulder he hoisted the Exile up and started forward. Moments later the entire rockslide slammed back into the ground. Revan choked, stumbling and falling backwards, but he didn’t have any time left to spare for her. Laying Gladiolus back on the ground he pulled out one of the Life Support packs and jammed it into her thigh, waiting until he heard the distinctive shift in air pressure and beep from medicine being released before opening its outer case and gathering gauze for her shoulder.

Revan had crawled close enough to see out of his periphery, dark lines still coating her cheeks and pulling at her creaselines, but as soon as she was in range she held up her hand in the healing shape and tried to draw healing light to Gladiolus’s shoulder.

“Take a breather.”

“I’m not losing her either Atton! Y-”

“I know how healing works, even if I can’t do it, Revan.” He snapped. “Just stop and recover so you can actually heal.”

Revan bared her teeth at him before quickly crossing her legs and rifling through her bag, tearing open something sealed and biting into it. Her face faltered when her eyes fell back on her friend though, and she shifted closer to put pressure on Gladiolus’ shoulder with her empty hand. “She’s, she isn’t reconnecting to the Forc-”

“She will.” Another Life Support pack, click beep gauze, wind it around the gauze already on her shoulder, he thought, the next one goes to the side wound, then head, then what’s bleeding worse, he thought, they should have brought more people, he thought. He knew he couldn’t lose her.

Revan’s healing light flared up around Gladiolus’ head, and he shifted back to put pressure on her side. “Is she breathi-”

“She will.” He didn’t dare check, not her breath or her pulse, pressing firmly on the wound in her side. Because he was a coward, a deserter, selfish beyond belief, and if she was gone not only was the rest of the universe done for, but he wouldn’t have anything left. He used up all his hope in the Mandelorian Wars, his loyalty on the figurehead the woman beside him used to be during the Jedi-Sith Wars, his luck on Pazzak, and his sheer doggedness on keeping the last person he expected to love alive. Without her support, his slowly growing empathy and healing would collapse in on itself. In her solid, unshakeable light he had changed too much from the shell of the man he used to be to go back, but not enough to hold on to any of the good he’d scraped up in himself without her.

“Please, ‘Lus.” He whispered. “I can’t do this- I can’t live without you.”

The one person, the only one of the three of them that didn’t deserve any of this, he should have gotten over himself and made sure she was breathing seven, twelve, twenty one seconds ago, damn it-

Revan slapped him on the shoulder with unregulated strength, almost bowling him over. “It’s your stupid card game!”

He thought four barely a second. “What?”

“Listen.”

He glared at her wordlessly, double checking the Exile before glancing over his shoulder-

“No, idiot.” She flicked his head with one hand, before pointing at his chest and trying to pry into his mental wall, oddly grinning when he automatically started counting cards to rebuff her. “That kind of listen.”

Tension prickled up and down his back from her intended intrusion and distrust surged back into the forefront of his mind, leaving up his mental walls and checking his tally, putting down a plus four-

He held his breath and reached out once more. He kept counting his cards, hoping that she would respond with her own play, that Revan was saying what he thought she was saying, he hadn’t imagined Fourteen

Reaching out for Gladiolus in the Force most of the time was like trying to find a massive searchlight in the middle of the day, where yes, other light and connections were everywhere, but it was always blindingly obvious where she was. During the rare times she cut herself off from the Force, reaching out for her was like looking for a specific light that wasn’t turning on a navigational console, scrambling for something that should be there but wasn’t even if you knew it would turn back on eventually. In this moment, when he faintly felt her for the first time, it was like trying to find a shorting flashlight beam in a fully illuminated room.

But she was there, barely flashing out numbers without any of the addition or colors the two of them normally conveyed when they had to play this mental game. Wetness gathered along the edges of his eyes when he felt the barest hint of satisfaction at twenty and realized she really was going to be alright. 

Revan switched which hand was putting pressure on Gladiolus’ shoulder and held her other hand out, healing light surging back stronger than before and finally stemming the bleeding on her forehead. “I can’t believe you. Minutes after getting crushed, you regain consciousness and you’re inspiring us instead of healing yourself?!?”

The almost hysterical note in Revan’s voice matches the deep seated twist in his gut, with them both feeling that sickening terror of too close, too close hanging in the air. But even when Gladiolus’ lost consciousness again and her numbers faded back out her light didn’t, barely there but there where he can reach her.

[peterparkers7evilexes]

One soul [Parksborn/OOPS All Winterspider, ASOIAF AU]

TW for an animal getting hurt, but she lives and will be fine and escapes into the fields and lives out a happy wild life

Harry is sweet enough to him. In the months following their wedding, he showers Peter in kisses, takes him for strolls through the garden and loves taking Peter apart on his fingers. The Prince’s issue is with Peter’s shadow.

Bucky follows Peter where he can, an ever-watchful guard who stiffens at the slightest provocation toward his ward. Bucky’s been hypervigilant since the wedding night, and although they haven’t talked about it, Peter knows he blames himself for his humiliation.

He catches Bucky staring at Harry sometimes - always a distant, neutral expression, but Peter knows Bucky well enough to recognize the faint twitch of his jaw and the slight furrow in his brow that means he’s imagining tearing the Prince’s royal head off his shoulders.

The Prince seems well aware of Bucky’s dislike for him - he takes to fawning over Peter whenever he can, a possessive arm around his hips at dinner, or when they’re making their way to a meeting, slamming Peter up against one of the shadowy hallways and slipping a hand down the front of his trousers and kissing him rough as if to mark his property. And each time, his eyes flick sideways to catch Bucky’s and he smirks in the knight’s direction.

It comes to a broiling head at Peter and Harry’s one-year anniversary tourney. Peter should have known something was wrong when he starts to make his way to the lists and Bucky doesn’t appear to escort him down. Instead, Ser Brock is waiting outside his bedchamber, a gloating smirk on his face.

“Where’s Bucky?” Peter asks immediately, tensing when Brock claps an armored hand down on his shoulder, steering him down to the castle grounds.

“Opportunity of a lifetime,” Brock drawls. “Who’d think? Poor farmboy turns traitor to his lord, crawls into servitude with a bunch of savages--” his fingers dig painfully into Peter’s arm and he bites back a yelp, “--ends up back in King’s Landing, invited to his very first tourney.” A cold dread grips Peter around the heart and it suddenly becomes very hard to breathe.

“What are you saying?” He demands, twisting himself out of Brock’s grip.

The King’s Guard sneers down at Peter, his eyes dark with malice. “I’m saying your pet dog belongs to the Prince as much as you do. Now, you think his guts can withstand a spear, or is that just his metal arm?”

Fear crawls up Peter’s spine, trickling and numb, and he runs the rest of the way out onto the castle grounds, weaving through the knights’ tents until he sees the long stretch of dirt cleared out for the lists.

A pair of knights - one of House Manderly and the other of House Redwyne, turn their horses around at either end of the list, lower their spears and charge. The spear of the Redwyne splinters as it makes contact with the Manderly knight, throwing the young man off his horse, a loud scream rending the air his horse tramples his legs.

Peter feels ill, watching as squires rush onto the track and haul the man from the dirt, his leg dragging behind him at an awful, unnatural angle. Triumphant, the Redwyne knight raises his arm and the watching crowd shouts their approval.

“Peter?”

Turning around, he sees Harry standing behind him, a concerned expression on his handsome face. “Come on, sweet husband,” he says, holding out an arm. “I wondered where you were.”

His tongue heavy and dry in his mouth, Peter wordlessly takes Harry’s arm and lets his lord husband lead him up into the high seats. Ser Brock stands waiting beside his empty chair, baring his teeth at Peter in a menacing grin. As Peter takes his seat, the knight leans down and hisses, barely audibly, “You’ll want a good view for this next one. Don’t wanna miss all the gore.”

Clenching his fists in his lap, Peter keeps his gaze straight ahead, gritting his teeth as the game master announces the next match: “Presenting Ser Aenys of House Frey! Presenting Ser Buchanan, from across the Narrow Sea--!” the rest of his introduction is drowned out by hateful booing from the crowd, and Peter digs his fingernails into his palm.

As the horn sounds, two horses enter the lists and Peter leans forward, his heart beating loud in his chest. Bucky’s draped in thin, rusted armor, a half-helm cocked open to reveal his face. Blue eyes scan the crowd and land on Peter, and he stands up in his seat, wanting to shout something to Bucky, tell him he doesn’t have to do this -- then the horn sounds again, and Bucky charges toward his opponent.

Dust kicks up beneath the massive beasts’ hooves as the two knights thunder forward, their blunted spears lowered toward the other. Bucky’s spear strikes true, swaying the Frey knight off balance, and the Frey curses colorfully at Bucky, barking at his squire to restrap his saddle.

Breathing shallowly, Peter watches as Bucky picks up a fresh spear, the man’s face set and determined. They charge again. Once more, Bucky aims true - the end of his spear lodges itself under the Frey’s arm, finding the weak point in his armor and the knight howls in pain, keeling forward on his horse to clutch at his side.

The crowd is quiet for a moment, and then they’re on their feet again, shouting and roaring in unison. Peter is sure it’s more calls for Bucky’s head, but as he listens closely, he picks out some heartened cries of ‘Bu-cha-nan!’ mixed in with the angry curses.

Peter huffs out a quiet sigh, his shoulders relaxing just a bit. Bucky would be insulted if he knew how much Peter was worrying about him right now - the man’s trained with the best of Braavosi warriors for a reason.

As if detecting his comfort though, Ser Brock leans forward, his breath hot in Peter’s ear as he murmurs, “It’s not over ‘til a Frey’s had his dirty way.”

Sure enough, as the Frey knight turns back around in the lists, he spits on the dirt, an ugly sneer on his face as he rounds on Bucky again.The two horses snort and charge, and Peter sees it - a nearly-imperceptible edge to the head of the Frey’s spear. Time slows down, and Peter realizes what the Frey is about to do seconds before it happens.

The Frey tucks his spear just a few inches lower than before, pulls his arm back and, as the two horses approach each other, he thrusts his spear forward and down, striking home. Bucky’s mare goes down immediately, braying as she falls, the blunted spear leaving a deep gash across her flank - she lands on top of her rider, kicking her legs furiously.

“No!” Peter shouts, diving down the stands.

“Peter, stop!” he hears Harry calling, but he twists and ducks through the staring crowd, losing Ser Brock behind him as he bolts to the lists.

A small crowd of squires are already on the track, trying to pull Bucky out from underneath his frantic horse - through the chaos, Peter sees a limp body, and tears burn in his eyes. “Let me through,” he gasps, wriggling his way in.

Bucky’s helm has been knocked off lying a few feet away from him, and a thin trickle of blood runs down the side of his temple, collecting in a pool underneath his head. “Bucky,” Peter says in a clipped voice, scared to cry for fear he won’t be able to stop. “Bucky, you idiot, get up.”

“Er, Your Grace,” one of the squires says awkwardly, dragging Peter back when the mare jerks angrily. They’re able to roll the wounded mare off of Bucky and, once she’s led hobbling away to tend to her wounded flank, Peter watches as they drag Bucky off to a maester’s tent.

Some other hapless knight tries to lead Peter back to the Red Keep, and after he squirms free and escapes, he runs after them to the maester.

He bursts through the tent’s hanging curtain and stares, astonished as Bucky looks back at him, alive and awake.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks dumbly.

Peter stands frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his side, and then he bursts into tears.

Startled, Bucky sits up slowly, holding a rag to his bleeding temple. “Um.” He looks to the maester, who just looks deeply uncomfortable seeing the Prince’s husband bawling. “Would you--?” and the maester shuffles out of the tent with a curt nod, glad to be excused.

Bucky holds his metal arm out and Peter goes to him, crawling into his lap and still heaving sobs as he wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck.

“I’m okay, Peter,” he says softly, wrapping his own arms around Peter’s waist, drawing him in and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Through his crying, Peter gasps, “I thought you were-- you were gonna be killed! You’re not supposed to leave me!”

Bucky laughs at that, and he pets Peter’s hair gently, kissing him again. “I’m not gonna leave you, Peter.”

Shaking his head angrily, Peter pulls back, glaring up at Bucky through red-rimmed eyes. “Brock-- Brock said,” he starts, but Bucky’s jaw clenches and he cuts in.

“Brock is trying to scare you. He’s a twisted, sadistic man, Peter. They-- This is all designed to scare you. You can’t let them Peter, or they win.”

Despair clenches tight around Peter’s heart. If they stay here, Bucky’s only ever going to be used against him - a pawn to manipulate and torture their royal pet. “Let’s leave,” he says, rubbing the tears from his eyes. When Bucky doesn’t say anything, Peter nods resolutely. “Let’s go home. Please Bucky, let’s leave. I don’t care what they do, I don’t care what my uncle says, we-- we don’t even have to go back to Braavos. We’ll go-- We can sail to Lys, to.... Norvos, we can go to Qarth, I don’t care--”

“You’d hate Qarth,” Bucky says with a teasing grin.

Peter scowls at him and shakes his head again. “I don’t care,” he repeats firmly. “I hate this. I just want to be with you - they can’t do this, we’ll go anywhere--”

Bucky grips him by the face and kisses his lips. He gasps softly and, just as he feels Bucky stiffen and start to pull away, he surges forward, kissing him back needily.

A thumb strokes gentle over his cheek, pulling him closer and Peter whines, parting his lips. Slowly and tentatively, Bucky licks into his mouth, his strong arms winding tight around him to drag him into his chest and hold them close together.

Peter moans softly, his fingers curling in the front of Bucky’s dirtied tunic and when the older man pulls away, Peter whines and blinks dazedly up at him, a lightheaded euphoria ringing in his head.

“They’ll kill us, Peter.” Bucky looks mournfully at him, rubs the pad of his thumb over Peter’s pink lower lip. “We wouldn’t make it across the Narrow Sea, you know that.”

“No,” Peter begs, but he can already feel fresh tears prickling at his eyes. “Bucky, please, I just want to be with you.”

“And neither of us can be with the other if we’re dead,” Bucky points out, a bitter little smile twisting his lips.

The weight of his words sinks in, and Peter blinks quickly, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I hate it here,” he whispers fearfully.

Bucky’s lips tighten and he tucks Peter’s head under his chin, petting up and down his spine in comfort. “I know. But this is the safest place for you.” He takes Peter’s face between his palms, his voice quiet and serious. “And I’m never going to leave you. I made a promise to my Prince.”

Peter sniffles a bit, tracing his hand slowly up Bucky’s chest as if to assure himself that he’s really safe and alive underneath his fingers. “Now and forever?” he whispers, meeting warm blue eyes.

A wry laugh escapes Bucky, and he takes Peter’s hand in his, pressing his shaking fingers to his lips and kissing each one, soft like a vow. “Now and forever.”

[katedoesfics]

Stardew Valley: Request

Alex asks Sam to help him propose to the farmer, but things don't exactly go according to plan

Alex stood on the beach, alone, admiring the pendant in his hand, and smiled. He still couldn’t believe that he was doing it - proposing to the farmer. It had to be perfect, just like the farmer. His heart raced in his chest as he imagined all the possible scenarios play out in his head. He had never felt this way before - nervous, excited, and at the same time, at ease. For once in his life, he knew what was in his future, and he would do anything to make it perfect.

He hid the pendant in his pocket, returning to town as Sam zoomed past on his skateboard, almost knocking him backwards.

“Sorry, man,” Sam muttered as he regained his balance.

But Alex’s mind was still on the farmer, his gaze on the ground. “Sure.”

“Earth to Alex?”

Alex looked up and met Sam’s gaze. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

Alex shrugged and smiled. “Yeah.”

“You look like you saw Elliot naked in the ocean. And liked it.”

Alex laughed. “Actually.” He hesitated. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“What is it?”

Alex pulled the pendant carefully out of his pocket. Sam’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“It’s for the farmer.”

Sam crossed his arms and smirked. “What do you want from me?”

“I was thinking of putting it around the farmer’s horse and riding into town.” Alex hesitated. “But I’ve never been on a horse before.”

“And you think I have?”

Alex looked at Sam’s skateboard and shrugged. “The horse moves. The skateboard moves. How different can it be?”

“A horse has a friggen mind of it’s own,” Sam pointed out, dropping the board at his feet. “They’re not even close to the same. That thing will probably throw you off.”

“Then I’ll need someone to get Harvey for me in case I break a leg.”

Sam smiled. “Okay. Yeah. I’d pay money to see that. I’m in.”

*****

Sam and Alex stood at the fence, watching the horse graze in the paddock.

“So,” Sam started. “What do we do now?”

Alex shrugged and whistled, but the horse ignored them.

“It’s not a dog, Alex,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.

“Do you have a better idea?”

Sam shrugged. “What does the farmer do?”

“Just… gets the horse.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “Let’s just… get the horse.”

They both stared at the horse, neither of them moving.

“It likes carrots,” Alex said. He hurried into the barn, grabbing a handful of carrots. Sam took one, climbed over the fence, and approached the horse cautiously, Alex following close behind.

“There’s a good horse,” Sam said quietly, stretching his hand out with the carrot in his palm.

The horse lifted his head and flicked his ears. He watched Sam and Alex and stretched his neck out towards them. Sam stumbled backwards, startled, and the horse threw his head in the air and trotted away.

“You have such a way with animals,” Alex muttered.

“Like you’re doing any better.”

Alex waited until the horse began grazing once more an approached the horse quietly. “Hey, buddy, you know me. I have carrots.”

Again, the horse lifted his head and watched as Alex inched towards him. The horse stretched his neck out towards Alex’s palm and sniffed at the carrot. Alex patted the horse’s neck as he grabbed the carrot from Alex, crunching it happily. Alex took the horse by his halter and let out a sigh of relief.

“Now what?” Sam said.

Alex hesitated and looked around. “Help me get on?”

“Doesn’t it need, like, a saddle, or something? And that thing that goes in it’s mouth?”

“I don’t know how to do all that.” Alex lead the horse towards the fence. “Hold him,” he said to Sam.

Sam grabbed the halter carefully. “Good horse. Don’t eat me.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to eat you.” He climbed the fence and stood on the top board. “Bring him over here.”

Sam circled the horse and attempted to line the creature up next to the fence for Alex. The horse snorted in confusion as Sam tried to manipulate him. He pawed at the ground and finally came to a stop beside the fence, but still just out of Alex’s reach.

“You can’t get him any closer?”

“He’s going to kill me, Alex. See how mad he is?”

The horse sighed and stood still, waiting.

“He looks pissed,” Alex said sarcastically. He straddled the fence and leaned out, putting his hands on the horse’s back, but the horse was just far enough away from his legs.

“Just push yourself on,” Sam suggested.

“Easier said than done,” Alex muttered. He studied his target for a moment, then let his torso rest on the horse’s back. When the horse didn’t move, Alex continued. He shimmied his body across the horse’s back until he lost his footing on the fence and his legs dangled down the horse’s side.

Sam laughed hysterically as Alex attempted to push himself up on the horse.

“Swing your leg over,” he said.

Alex groaned and mumbled under his breath as he tried to pull himself up on to the horse’s back. He swung his legs in an attempt to give him momentum, but only ended up kicking the horse in his rib cage. The horse stepped to the side, trying to get away from Alex’s swinging legs, causing Alex’s grip to slip.

“No, no, no!”

He pulled at the horse’s mane and shimmied himself further up, but the horse continued to move and prance anxiously. He jerked his head out of Sam’s grip and reared back on his hind legs, throwing Alex to the ground. Satisfied, the horse returned to his grazing.

“Are you okay?”

Alex groaned but did not move. He stared up at the sky and blinked.

“Should I get Harvey?”

Alex turned over and pushed himself to his feet. He dusted off his jeans. “No. Stupid horse.”

“Maybe you can do something else.”

Alex shook his head. “No. The farmer loves this horse. This is the one thing I can do right in my life. Help me again.”

Sam didn’t argue - only slightly enjoying Alex’s suffering - and retrieved the horse once more. After another failed attempt, they finally lined the horse up to the fence and Alex easily slid on to the horse’s back.

Alex let out a sigh of relief and patted the horse’s neck. “There. Good horse.”

The horse flicked his ears and sighed.

“The hard part’s out of the way,” Sam said. “So, now what?”

“The farmer should be coming home any minute. I guess I’ll just wait in town.”

“And how are you going to get the horse there?”

Alex hesitated. “I didn’t think about that. Just lead it over there. The farmer uses a rope in the barn and it clips there.” Alex pointed to a ring under the horse’s halter. Sam found the rope and clipped it to where Alex said.

“It’s like a leash,” Sam said, holding the rope in his hands. “Come, boy.” He tugged at the rope and the horse inched lazily forward, hanging his head low.

Sam smiled. “Looks like I’m a natural.”

The horse stopped and proceeded to graze. Alex laughed.

Sam tugged at the rope again, but the horse did not budge. “Come, horse. Come on. Let’s go.” Sam pulled harder, with all his might, but the horse still did not move.

“I think the farmer says walk and gives him a kick.”

“Good luck with that.”

Alex sucked in a nervous breath. “Come on, horse. Walk. Move. Go.” He tapped the horse lightly on the sides with his heels. When the horse did not respond, he kicked harder. He clucked the way he had seen the farmer do, kicking harder until the horse lunged forward, throwing his head in the air.

“Shit!”

Alex grabbed the horse’s mane as it ran across the farm. “No! Stop! Woah!”

The horse ignored the commands, running until it reached the road, just as the farmer walked towards them.

“What the…”

The horse threw his head down, coming to a sudden stop, and Alex fell off, hitting the ground hard.

“Alex!” The farmer ran to him. “What the hell? Are you okay?”

Alex looked up into the farmer’s eyes. He sighed, fished around in his pocket, and pulled out the pendant.

“Alex…”

“I can’t take anymore falling off that damn horse,” Alex muttered. “I tried to make it perfect. Will you just marry me before it kills me?”

“Alex…” The farmer smiled and helped Alex to his feet. The farmer took the pendant from him and hugged him.

“Only if you let me teach you to ride.”

Alex smiled. “Deal.”

[fantasticalrealms]

Wings Over Avalon: For Your Love

Chapter One

“We can never go back.” Zaros explained as he sat before Marabus. “If we do we’ll either be killed or kill the whole clan. Both of which neither of us wants.”

“I understand your situation. However, it is our policy to not harbor exotic species such as yourself here permanently.” Marabus explained stoically as he stared out the window. Zaros simply nodded with a forlorn look on his face. “On the other hand,” a smile worked itself across his face, “your sister is injured and it is also our policy to help those in need.” He turned and looked at the ice dragon with kind, understanding eyes. “No matter what the species…”

Zaros’s eyes lit up and he rushed forward to hug the wizard.

The elder threw his hands up and the dragon slid to a stop. The wizard stepped forward and patted him on the slide. “A little big to be hugging an old and frail man like me, aren’t you?” He mused teasingly.

Zaros threw a foreleg around him and squeezed gently. “Thank you Marabus.” He whispered with an air of relief.

“Marabus…” Merlin said quietly as he knocked on one of the massive wooden doors. “I hope you don’t mind but we patched up Clarina…”

“That’s fine. Take our friend here to visit with his sister.” Marabus replied cheerily. “Tell the doctor I’d like to hear his prognosis so we know how long they’ll be staying. I’d say oh… A year… Two years would be pushing her recovery just a bit, don’t you?” He went on winking at his pupil.

“Yes Sir!” Merlin beamed a bit shocked. “Slow and careful I always say!” Merlin beamed as he turned to leave.

“Merlin… How familiar are you with the smith?” Marabus wondered in passing as he sat down at his desk.

“Not very well…” Merlin replied confused as he poked his head back in the door.

“I suggest you get to know him if you’re going to have him make this… sword of yours…” Marabus went on holding up a piece of paper. “This Excalibur… And you’ll need to work on the binding spell.”

“Yes Sir!” Merlin beamed barely able to contain his excitement before taking off down the hall at break neck speed.

Zaros watched warily before following after him.

The young mage did much hooting and hollering before stopping abruptly when he realized Zaros was watching him. “Marabus convinced the Council to use my plan to choose the new king.” He explained quietly as Zaros caught up with him, smoothing his robes while he waited.

“What is this plan and why do you need it?” Zaros wondered as they walked on down the hall.

“Marabus has foreseen that should the future king, Uther Pendragon, rear his son, great devastation shall befall the land. We have to devise a way to part him from his son then ensure his son’s rise to the throne. I proposed that we send a representative to befriend the king and give him counsel. Then ask for his baby as payment.” Merlin explained before stopping and baring a thoughtful countenance.

“So how was the sword to figure into this idea of yours?” Zaros asked as he carefully slid out of a window to follow Merlin up the tower to see Clarina.

“Well I thought we should have the sword enchanted to where only the boy could use it. We’d put it where any noble could get to it and let them try their hand. The boy would no doubt turn up sometime.” Merlin called out the windows of the tower awkwardly.

“That leaves a lot to chance, doesn’t it? I mean what if the boy never tries to claim the sword?” Zaros pressed concerned. “This doesn’t seem very well thought out…”

“Oh, hush you… The king and the plan are both young. There is yet time to perfect things…” Merlin soothed irritably.

“You’re very smart, Merlin… I’m sure you’ll finish the plan and it will work well.” Zaros remarked landing on the balcony.

“Thank you!” Merlin beamed in reply out the window. “Give me just a second and I’ll open the doors.” A moment later the double wooden doors to the balcony swung open wide. Zaros slowly and carefully wandered in but still managed to clip his wings on the stone around the doorway. “Look at that!” Merlin mused pointing to the little pieces of rock missing from the bricks. A few inches below them were some that were clearly older. “You’ve grown some since you were here last!” He went on jollily as he patted Zaros on the side. “I think you finally out-grew our draft horses!”

Zaros growled taking the remark as an insult instead of the compliment it was meant to be.

Merlin snapped his hand back and watched in hurt confusion as Zaros walked away.

“Zaros is a noble dragon… He is meant to be feared for his size and ferocity… He is the son of the clan leader and is meant to walk tall so as to command respect… It’s hard to walk tall in a crowd when you’re not tall enough to see where you’re going…” Ariala explained slowly as they watched Zaros lay down next to his unconscious sister. She spoke in a quiet tone making her sound far older than she was.

“How… How have you acquired such wisdom so fast?” Merlin wondered looking at her dumbstruck and wide-eyed.

“Zaros said I have a lot of spirit… Like I had the heart of a dragon. Maybe I’m just blessed… Only the gods in heaven know for sure.” She went on smiling up at him with her childish innocence. He wrapped an arm around her and they watched quietly as Xanas tried to comfort Zaros.

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 Zaros flapped around, soaring above the spires of the Northern Order of White Mages and Wizards. They had been there for three months and his adventurous nature grew restless. Marabus had warned him that the fire dragons’ territory started not far from the compound; the words were lost to him as he flew off over the mountains.

“Sister! Look up there! An ice dragon!” A small, young fire dragon roared as he pointed to the sky with a forefoot.

“Lady Landrian… Haven’t the ice dragons been pushing towards the outskirts of their territory? Do you think he could be a spy for an invasion force?” The largest of the three dragons said to the one of medium stature.

“The ice dragons are known to be bold but not to martyrs. I very highly doubt they would send one alone. Especially one as small as him and moving that slow.” Landrian replied in a regal tone full of pensive thought. “Let us wait this one out, Peladar.”

“You’re much too old-fashioned Sister! He is an enemy! We should kill him!” The smallest one roared bolting to the sky towards Zaros.

“Dyzynas!” Landrian hissed angrily.

“Lord!” Peladar called out chasing after him.

“I can’t let you run off and get hurt!” Landrian groaned in frustration as she followed them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zaros spotted a small ball of flame floating towards him. He stopped and puffed a whisper of his icy breath at it to put it out. “Die spy!” A young voice called out from above. Zaros barrel rolled out of the way and grabbed the youngster by the tail.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to attack things bigger than you? No less twice your size or more?” The ice dragon wondered slightly annoyed.

The youngster flipped up and bit his foot.

“Gah! What is wrong with you?” Zaros snapped letting go and shaking the pain out of his paw. He looked down at the little dents that didn’t pierce the skin.

“I’m going to kill you before your clan can invade!” The youngster hissed before breathing another puny attack. Zaros suppressed the attack and smiled as ice crystals formed on the end of the little one’s nose.

“He certainly isn’t acting like a spy…” Peladar remarked slightly confused as they watched Dyzynas try to tackle Zaros. Zaros hugged the smaller dragon into his chest, a teasing grin on his face. Dyzynas wriggled free, a look half pout, half angry, every bit adorable because of his size of his face.

“Certainly not…” Landrian agreed watching the scene almost entranced. “The way he moves is so perfect… It’s almost as if he can read Dyzynas’s moves before he makes them and then reacts appropriately.”

“But that’s impossible…” Peladar protested with a chuckle. “It’s probably just so easy because Dyzynas is young and inexperienced…”

“My Father can do it…” Landrian snorted quietly.

“Yes, but your Father is the clan leader and an An…” Peladar stopped in mid-thought and looked at her in horrified awe.

“I don’t think he’s a spy though…” Landrian went on approaching the fight slowly.

“I won’t let your clan attack mine!” Dyzynas roared fiercely.

“My clan, attack yours…” Zaros hissed in a deeply pained voice. “I don’t have a clan anymore… I haven’t for months.” Zaros replied to the youngster’s frequent mention of it.

All three of the fire dragons froze solid in place. It was an unspoken law amongst dragons, bound by their pride, that you never deny your clan.

“You have no reason to fear me. If it bothers you that I’ve infringed on your territory I’m sorry and I’ll leave now. I meant no harm…” Zaros went on just above a whisper as pain dripped on every word he said. After a moment of hovering in the air with his head hung he turned and started to fly away.

“You lie!” Dyzynas shouted angrily as he flew towards the retreating opponent. “You are a worthless piece of trash denying your clan like that!”

“I’M NOT LIKE THEM!” Zaros roared painfully as he spun around and met Dyzynas’s attack. He shoved the small dragon back effortlessly but without hurting him. “The color of blood is what I despise don’t make my paint myself in yours…” He whispered in a strained voice. Landrian watched wide-eyed and something about the words struck pain in her heart. Where had she seen such passion and value for life? One that she herself held but saw in so few around her…

“I have to know…” She whispered taking off towards the fight again.

“Don’t lie coward!” Dyzynas shouted when a huge ball of flame, burning blue at its core, rose from beneath him. Zaros let off a faint blue glow as he spun out of the way, taking Dyzynas with him momentarily to protect him. Zaros flew backwards as he suppressed another attack with one of his own. Dyzynas looked on in awe as a white blur flew out from a cloud of steam. Zaros shot down following the heat in the air to Landrian. His eyes were lost to the fierce blue glow that filled the orbs. When he realized that Landrian was a female he stopped abruptly just feet away from her. Ice crystal shot off his wings from the force of stopping so quickly. The embedded in the ground around Landrian. He hovered there panting as the glow around him faded. Their eyes met and there was something vaguely familiar that Landrian saw within the bright orbs. After a stand-off of a few seconds he spun around and flew away with great speed.

“What was that?” Dyzynas wondered in shock as he sank down next to his sister and guardian. He kicked one of the ice spikes in disdain but found it far too sturdy to shatter easily.

“That was an Ancient… Or one of Ancient blood if I’m not mistaken…” Peladar commented in equal awe and shock.

“But yet… After all that… I still don’t believe he’s a threat to us…” Landrian mused in a far-off voice as she watched Zaros fly away. Dyzynas’s face grew heated as he took off to follow Zaros without being seen.

“I’ll show them all! I’ll show Father that I can make him proud. Even if he isn’t a threat I’ll make Poppa think he is so I still win! I’ll get the glory when the clan destroys him!” Dyzynas snickered in his mind. “No one will ever make fun of me then!”

“Poor little dragon… The one you seek to destroy may possibly be the first being you meet capable of understanding how you feel…” An ethereal voice sighed gently like a spring breeze. A being cloaked all in white with a thin veil covering its face stood upon a branch of a nearby tree and watched as Dyzynas pursued Zaros on the ground. “I have no power here… I cannot stop you young Prince… All I can do is hope for the best and pray for your soul…”

“Spiritus Mane Caelum…” A voice whispered from somewhere in the air. “Reverto domus… Reverto Avalon…” With that, the being disappeared like mist in the hot sun.

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “A grievous wrong has been committed against our clan!” A thunderous voice boomed and the sound echoed off the nearby cliffs lined with red dragons of various sizes. “A spy of the ice dragon clan has invaded our air! He came to survey our weaknesses and vantage points! Now my fellow High Council members we must make a weighty decision. Attack or be attacked?” The huge red dragon went on. Even without his massive size, his voice alone commanded attention. It was clear, right and deep much like the pigment of his scales. His voice wasn’t rash or angry but calm and wise. “Before we make such a decision we must first weigh all of the consequences evenly.” He went on spreading his wings and taking to the air. His wingspan was easily fifteen men laid head to toe if that is any indication of his size. Landrian listened to the High Council’s words carefully and it soon became apparent to her that an attack was eminent. She slipped away in a manner which, she thought, no one had seen her depart.

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “Zaros… I think you had better come see this…” Ariala called warily as she stood in the castle garden. The young dragon flew down and landed on a stone walkway not far from her.

“What is it?” He wondered looking at her cautiously. She pointed to the massive wooden doors of the main gates into the compound. The ice dragon slowly walked down the weathered cobblestone avenue and pulled the doors open.

“He who flies freely and without a plan… Meet me soon where the signal fire burns.” Had been roughly carved and scorched into the wood. “Or danger will befall you…” The prince slowly turned and looked at Ariala with a grim countenance.

“I’ll be back soon…” He remarked before taking to the air. He flew on over the mountains looking for what might be the signal. A plume of smoke rose from the far side of a mountain, which Zaros decided must be the signal fire. He slowly approached the far side and landed. Cautiously, he walked towards the huge pile of burning trees. Beyond the pile he discerned the dragon he had almost struck down just days before. It was a red dragon, slender in form, with her long, narrow body and gracefully arching neck. Unlike his wide stocky head, hers was narrow and pointed like an arrowhead. He noted how the spines on her back were fewer but wound and twisted like dancing fire. Unlike his blunt and boxy spines, hers could most certainly do harm. Her tail was of equal length to her neck, ending in a slender spiny point. He mused, for a moment, about how beautiful she was, how her proportions were very pleasing to the eye. He noted from her fairly even skin tone she must be young. His mother had told him all about the different flights. The thing that stood out in his mind about fire dragons was how their skin changed color as they aged, blue creeping up their feet chasing away the reds and oranges of their youth.

“You called, my Lady?” He called out respectfully. She turned and looked at him a bit startled but quickly composed herself as she walked towards him.

“I felt it was my duty to tell you, to warn you that my clan will most likely attack the ice dragon clan. I’m not sure when but it will happen.” Landrian explained looking at him gravely.

“Why are telling me all this? Aren’t we enemies here?” Zaros wondered warily.

“I don’t feel as though you’re my enemy… In fact, I respect you and your power. There are no Ancients in my clan anymore, save for my Father who is weak of heart. I haven’t seen power like yours in many years.” She answered slowly and in a regal tone. “It’s something worthy of respect.”

“Do you think I could have killed you?” Zaros wondered painfully as he avoided her gaze.

Landrian nodded slowly as she moved to try looking him in the eye.

“If you had hit me then yes… I would have killed you without a second thought I’m afraid. Power like that isn’t worthy of respect…” He went on in a sad tone.

“Why were you ostracized from your clan?” Landrian wondered making a move towards him slowly.

“I didn’t want blood on my claws… I still don’t…” He answered without fear or remorse. “How long do you think I have to warn them?”

She looked at him surprised and didn’t seem to know just how to react to his answer. She finally collected herself and took a deep breath.

“We usually move within a week.” She replied with a hint of delight in her voice.

“Thank you, my Lady. You may have saved many lives this day.” He remarked as he bowed and turned to leave.

“Noble Lord…” Zaros stopped abruptly but didn’t look at her. “It wasn’t the power of your Ancient blood I was referring to…” He spun around and stared at her curiously. “It was the power of your heart and your will to do what you feel is right; the power of your will to control a force far beyond yourself. You have proven it again by coming here. I hope you’ll do so a third time with this information I have given you.” Before he could respond to her solemn words, she took to the air and left. He stared at the hypnotic, dancing flames sadly as they danced for a moment before taking to the air himself.

“Sometimes we have to do hard tasks that we don’t want to in the name of what’s right… Even if it means risking our lives…” He sighed as he flew away. The being cloaked all in white stared down from a tree branch.

“And some things you cannot fight, fair Zaros… Like fate… You are the one and soon your destiny will be clear to you. Good luck, my love…” With that she faded away and disappeared.

Ariala was waiting for Zaros dutifully at the gates when he returned. He smiled and acted as if nothing was wrong when he greeted her warmly. “Looks like I’m going to have to take a little trip, Love.” Xanas landed beyond the intricate fountain in the center of the garden and walked up to his leader.

“What happened?” Xanas wondered in their clan’s draconic tone Ariala somehow still vaguely understood.

“The fire dragons mistook me as a spy and now they’re going to attack the ice dragons.” Zaros replied in the unique dialect.

“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do, my Prince?” Xanos wondered warily as he cocked his head.

“Of course…” Zaros replied looking up at the towering ice dragon before him and smiling slyly. Xanos nodded and took to the air.

“We’ll be back soon, Ariala. Go tell the others not to follow. Everything will be ok.” Zaros explained in his clear human speech. “Bye, Love.” With that he took to the air. As he did so Ariala rushed forward and tried to grab his leg and stop him. “Zaros… There’s something brewing in the air! Don’t leave, Zaros!” She pleaded as he flew away.

“I have to do this if I want to keep living the way I want.” He replied not noticing her forlorn expression. “I don’t want any bloodshed because of me or when I can prevent it.”

“But I feel like someone might die if you leave…” She whispered to herself as tears welled up in her eyes. “Maybe my senses just aren’t developed yet…” She shook her head violently to clear away the doubt. “No! This feeling is much too strong to be wrong! ZAROS! Come back!” She screeched desperately but he was long gone.

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “Father… I followed Landrian today when she left the Council… She went to the spy and warned him about the attack. We have to move quickly and destroy him before he can warn them.” Dyzynas said in a slyly beseeching tone.

“Yes, in order to maintain the element of surprise… A spy with that information could put us at a disadvantage. I’ll round up the warriors and you’ll lead the way. Obviously, he’s still in the area.” The fire dragon clan leader replied pensively as he stared at the ground. “We must do this without her knowing it…” He went on absentmindedly as he walked out of the cave. Peladar dashed off before he could be seen and took to the air to find his Princess.

“My Lady!” He shouted when he spotted Landrian. He tackled her in mid-air and they crashed to the ground with a crack of breaking wood.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” She gasped shoving him off angrily.

“Dyzynas followed you! Your Father knows of your treason and is going to attack the ice dragon we found first! Dyzynas is going to take them there.” He explained desperately. “If helping that lad is truly your desire then we must go now by foot. We’ll be captured if we go by air.” Landrian looked at him wide-eyed as the words sank into her mind.

“He lives with humans… They’ll be slaughtered as enemies…” Without saying another word, she spun around and bolted down the slope. Peladar followed her loyally and she glanced back at him and wondered why he was there aiding her in this treason. “Why did you warn me… Why are you still here?” She finally asked warily.

“Because I’ve not seen passion like yours since your beautiful mother when I was very young. I’d like to see that passion live a little longer… Landrian… My Lady…” Peladar replied with a tone the Princess had never heard him use before. It didn’t take them long to reach the castle and to their surprise there was an angry face waiting for them at the gate.

“Where’s the boy?! Where’s the ice dragon boy?” Landrian demanded with a heavy voice.

“Zaros? He left to warn our kind about your kind… Now get out of here before I have to hurt you!” Clarina said in a low growl.

“I was the one who warned him about the attack!” Landrian replied in a similar tone. To her surprise, Peladar kneeled down and bowed to Clarina.

“We only wish to aide you, Highness… It’s good to see you well… You have deceived us well all these years of your absence…” He replied not looking at Clarina.

“Have we met?” The ice dragon wondered confused but not easing her stance. Peladar looked up at her wide-eyed.

“You really aren’t her are you? But your… Eyes…” He got up and shook his head briskly. “Forgive me… I mistook you for someone else.”

“Look the point is my clan thinks Zaros is a spy and that I’m a traitor for warning him! Now which way do we go to find him?!” Landrian snapped passionately.

“Do I look stupid to you?” Clarina smirked spreading her wings wide. Suddenly she felt a small hand on her back leg.

“If you hurry we can bring him back. If he doesn’t return everyone in this compound will perish. I can show you the way.” Ariala said quietly as she walked forward and stared Landrian and Peladar down.

“Get on.” Landrian said quietly as she held out a forepaw.

Ariala climbed up her leg and on her back careful to avoid the spines. She waved good-bye to Clarina as the three took to the air. They soon spotted Zaros and Xanos in the distance.

“We’ll just waste more time trying to catch up with them…” Ariala remarked standing up carefully.

“Hey what are you doing?! You’ll fall if you aren’t careful!” Peladar gasped watching the fearless little girl.

“I know… Just let me fall… And watch Zaros…” She replied with a smile before she leapt head first off Landrian’s back.

The pair of dragons watched Ariala fall for a split second then shot their attention back to Zaros but he was nowhere to be found. They looked down again in time to see a bright blue light shoot beneath them. From the light emerged Zaros with Ariala on his back.

“We have to go back… They’re in danger.” She whispered while hugging his neck as best she could.

“Then let’s go!” Zaros replied. “Come on Xanas! We’re going back!”

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “Marabus!” Merlin yelled frantically as another ball of flame slammed into the wall beside him. “Fire dragons! We have one ice dragon against 50 fire dragons… MARABUS!!!”

“Stop yelling and start casting, fool!” Marabus yelled slightly annoyed. “I’m going to move to the other side.” He explained shoving past the young wizard.

“Yes Marabus… Right… A spell… Water…” He muttered gaining his resolution. “Right got it!” He ran to the nearest window and pointed his staff at a group of five or so dragons. “River run and river rage. Free of earthly cage. Flow unto where I bid. Flow through fire bright and fire hid!” A huge beam of water shot out of the end of his staff and engulfed the five dragons. Plumes of smoke rose from their mouths in lazy curls to the sky. They angrily tried to shoot flames at him. He flinched and hid his head behind a wall. To his delight all they could do was spit smoke. “Woo hoo!” He cried before doing a little dance and running off down the hall. “Let’s try that again!”

“I’m sorry Zaros…” Was all Landrian could say as they saw the plume of smoke rising in the distance.

“We live with a guild of spellcasters… I’m more worried about your clan than them.” Zaros replied with a sly smile.

“Many of them left with the delegation to the Grand Council.” Ariala interjected. “Only Merlin and Marabus are left that can cast.”

“And only Marabus can cast well.” Xanas added worried as he smacked his forehead.

“Dear Gods…” Zaros gasped bolting forward. “I’ve said it before… Whoever leaves him in charge of anything is crazy!”

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “Father!” Dyzynas yelled with fervor as excitement danced in his eyes. “We’re about to breach a wall on the other side! Come on! Come on!” He exclaimed tugging on one of his father’s foreleg. His father followed him around and sure enough one of the castle walls gave way as they approached. Dyzynas shot down into the castle despite his father’s protesting. The little dragon rushed in with group towards the worst possible target, Marabus. The old wizard sensed the oncoming attack and through up an ice wall. Dyzynas came to an abrupt stop then looked on in horror as the wall broke apart and huge chunks of ice bigger than himself flew at him. They melted in a massive inferno as his father let loose a powerful attack.

“Dyzynas! Get out of here! It’s too dangerous for you! Go home!” The regal fire dragon ordered sternly as he slid to a landing in front of his son.

“But Father!” The young one protested discouraged and shocked.

“GO!” The leader roared turning his head back slightly but keeping an eye on Marabus. Dyzynas looked at his father shocked and hurt for a moment. “GO!” He roared angrily as he snorted smoke and flame. Dyzynas jumped then took to the air. As he flew out of the hole in the wall he glanced back.

“I’ll make you proud Father… Somehow… Somehow I’ll prove myself…” He whispered in a hurt voice.

 ---------- ---------- ----------

 “Zaros look! The tower!” Xanas gasped in horror. From somewhere on the other side of the tower Clarina swooped around and plunged into the gaping opening, disappearing into the light. “Go! get Ariala to safety!” He added before flying off to head off a group of fire dragons.

“Marabus!” Ariala screamed in horror. “He’s going to die if we don’t hurry! I swear to you Zaros he’ll die!” She went on as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“We’ll try to buy you some time.” Landrian said resolutely before turning and flying headlong against her clan.

“Protect what you love, Zaros.” Peladar added with that same resolution in his voice. “And I’ll do the same out here.” Zaros nodded quickly and flew off towards the opening of the tower. Growls and gnashing teeth could be heard from the opening and it was clear a battle was taking place. Clarina was suddenly flung out of the tower and a huge dragon followed her out.

“Who the hell is that?! What the hell is that?!” Zaros gasped taking in the sheer size of the beast that now hovered over his sister. Dark blue all the way up his legs. This was an Ancient fire dragon… Clarina looked up helplessly as he reared his claws up to strike. “CLARINA!” Zaros screamed and the fire dragon hesitated long enough to look at Zaros. In that instant, Zaros head-butted him with such a violent force that he was completely knocked over. Zaros spun around and slid to a stop on the stone ground. “Get off and hide, Ariala…” He growled giving the towering beast a death glare. Ariala did as she was told and disappeared into the debris that now littered the ground.

“Everyone stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!” Landrian screamed desperately. “This is a huge misunderstanding and someone will die if we don’t stop!”

“And why should any of us listen to a traitor like you?” A lone voice rang out and a grizzled and darker colored fire dragon lurked out of the shadows of the debris.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about Festranis. Stay out of clan business, dirty scum.” Landrian hissed angrily.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk… Wouldn’t your mother be ashamed to hear such language from your mouth?” The large dragon replied with a cool tone.

“Don’t talk about my mother! Murderer!!!” Landrian screamed charging him with all her speed. Everyone looked on in shock as she was easily flung away with one swipe of his huge claws. She landed near Zaros bloody and bruised.

“For once I have to agree with Festranis… Misunderstanding or not you defied your clan and that makes you a traitor… Traitors are to be killed or exiled as I see fit and I order you exiled…” The huge dragon beamed in a thunderous and stern voice. Out of the corner of his eye, as Landrian made her heartfelt protest, Zaros spotted Dyzynas sneaking in to attack a clearly weakened Marabus.

“Marabus! Look out!” Ariala screamed frightfully. Everyone threw their attention on the old mage in time to see Dyzynas break through his barrier and defy all they knew about magic and Marabus’s control over it…

Dragonkin

[scaryscarecrows]

Gotham Ghosts

Or, Scarecrow in the Gotham by Gaslight 'verse.

Tim is one thousand times more paranoid to be alone with his older brothers than he is dealing with Gotham’s unsavories. The unsavories might kill him, but his brothers (Jason, he’ll be honest, it’s mostly Jason) will make his life a living Hell.

Like now.

“Quiet night, baby bird.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aww, you’ll miss it someday.” Jason jostles him, pushing him closer to the edge of the roof. Tim does a quick check for any questionable devices, not-so-hilarious notes tacked to his cape, or Clayface slime, and comes up with nothing. Good. “When you’re old and grey and trapped in a wheelchair, with noisy grandkids running around, you’ll look back and miss me.”

“No,” Tim says blandly, “I won’t. I’ll be grateful you’re not there to shove my wheelchair into a wall.”

Mask or no mask, he can feel Jason’s Done Look against the side of his head. Whatever.

“Really.”

“Really.” Jason flops down, head hanging over the side of the roof. Tim kicks his boot. “If you fall and die, I’m telling Dick you were doing the can-can and lost your balance.”

“What did I do to you, huh?”

“Salting my coffee was a poor life choice.”

Tellingly, Jason has no response. Tim settles down cross-legged and leans against a chimney. It really is a quiet night-it’s cold and there’s been…incidents. Horrible deaths, or people driven mad by terror. Bruce is trying to see if they’re related, but so far they can’t even find out if there’s someone behind it or if it’s an environmental problem.

It’s foggy tonight, and Tim can’t help but remember this time last year, when a man with a meat cleaver came after them for seeing too much. Jason’s not helping-slack-limbed as he is right now, he doesn’t look so different then he did when he had a knife embedded in his chest. Not that Tim’s going to admit it-his idiot sibling would return from the grave to mock him for being worried.

“I’m bored.”

“Go pester Dick.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Great.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

No wheels. Single rider. Tim would say police, but those horses are heavier, and their riders jingle a little from their equipment. This is a lighter animal, built for speed rather than brute force. Who’s out at this hour?

The fog is doing an annoyingly good job of hiding them, whoever they are, and Tim reluctantly straightens up to go a little lower and find out. Jason’s already on his feet.

“There’s a balcony straight down.”

“I know.”

“Then go. Unless you’re scared.”

One day. One day he will push him off a roof and say it was an accident.

He sticks his tongue out and promptly dodges the grasping thumb and forefinger. Humph.

Going lower doesn’t really help. The lights cut through the fog a little more, but the rider’s whereabouts are difficult to pinpoint.

They’re moving slowly, anyway. No great hurry-there!

The wind and the light clear away the fog just enough to make them out. It’s a grey horse, and the rider is of indeterminate gender-the cape is also grey, and the hood hangs down to hide their face.

That’s both suspicious and irritating.

The horse stops, ears pricked forward, and the rider’s head looks both ways. Tim frowns. Are they waiting for someone?

Perhaps, perhaps not, but it doesn’t matter-a constable rounds the corner. Good. This will be resolved very quickly, he’s sure.

“State your business!” He moves up towards the horse, hand on truncheon, and tilts his head back. “What do you-”

Things happen too fast for them to do anything. A sword slices through fog, skin and bone and the constable’s head falls to the cobblestones with a terrible thud. Then the rider is gone, the ringing of hooves the only sign they were there at all.

They give chase. There’s clearly no helping the constable.

“The hell?”

“I don’t know.”

They catch up to the horse two streets over, though Tim’s getting the feeling that was intentional-it’s just standing there again, not even really out of breath. The rider appears to be looking at them, hands folded loosely across the animal’s neck. The sword is nowhere to be seen.

One hand lifts and beckons and oh. Oh, dear. This is bad. This is a situation that Bruce would not approve of.

But Bruce isn’t here and there’s a dead man (decapitated…brr) two streets away and this is the one responsible.

There’s two of them. They can manage.

“Dismount and keep your hands where I can see ‘em!” Jason warns. The rider does not comply, merely wags the finger and drops the hand.

Smoke pellets are not going to be helpful, not in this weather. They might not even work.

“Last warning! Dismount, hands up! Let’s go!”

The horse tosses its head. The rider is motionless.

But they do whistle, a long, clear blast that skips down the street before being swallowed by the fog. A second later, there’s an answer.

And the sound of another horse.

This one’s bigger, Tim thinks. All right. So there’s at least two people in on…on whatever this is-WHAT IS THAT.

It’s a horse, it’s definitely a horse, but it’s. It’s glowing, like some sort of escapee from Hell, and the rider…

Logically, they have to be human. But Tim’s gut response is that they’re not. That face, dear God…pits for eyes, and stitches forming a monstrous grin…

He can’t really complain when Jason shoves him back a few inches.

“Come down to the ground, little birds,” the monster rasps, eyes glowing yellow in the streetlights. The horse rears up, pawing at the air. “Come down and say hello to Scarecrow!”

Stall. Bruce will make his way over here eventually, they need to stall. But carefully-that’s a scythe the new one has.

“Why don’t you come up here?”

That is not what Tim had in mind.

The stitched head tips upwards, looking like it’s falling off, and from this angle the stitches look like teeth.

“Such bravado…I expected nothing less.”

Tim sees her first-a flash of red, plunging neckline-but before he can gesture her away, Scarecrow has turned his horse. The woman gasps, backs into the alley, and Jason-

Every goddamn time. Jason has the self-preservation of a toddler.

He’s swinging down before Tim can stop him and he has no choice but to follow. Unfortunately, this ends exactly as well as you’d expect.

But not in the way you’d expect.

Scarecrow twists (and twists and twists-how?) and the next thing Tim knows, there’s a cloud of bitter white gas in his face, stinging his mouth and nose and making him cough. He falls, landing hard on the stones, and looks up into…into…

The eyes. The monster’s eyes are gleaming yellow, slicing through the dark like lanterns, and something with long legs moves behind the stitched mouth.

“Hello!”

Beside him, Jason’s deathly still and when Tim tries to reach for him his hand lands in a puddle of blood.

No no please no-

The horse-wreathed in flames, Tim sees that now, it wasn’t glowing at all-neighs, a hellish sound that grates against his ears and Jay’s still not moving and there’s so much blood-

The grey rider looks impassively down at them, a black hole where the face should be, before turning away. Scarecrow cackles.

“Tell Batman I want to meet him!”

And then he’s gone. Tim struggles to his knees, trying hard not to vomit, and gives Jason a hard shake. His neck’s at a horribly awkward angle and he can’t tell where the blood’s coming from and Jay no wake up you gotta wake up-

Something big lands in front of them, claws reaching forward, and Tim swings his staff, hits them with a satisfying crack!

“Get back! Get away!”

They lift a hand and there’s a prick at the side of his neck.

Then the world falls away.

THE END

[dragonfics]

Summary:

Edge enters the very lair of the monster to whom he owes a great debt. With enemies everywhere, passing through without drawing Muffet's attention is going to be difficult... if not impossible.

Warnings:

Non-consensual collaring and chaining (continued from the last chapter), threats of rape (though not treated as a 'threat'), threatened forced prostitution.

Additional warning: This chapter does not end on a positive note. If you need to put your mind at ease, the end notes on AO3 contain spoilers for the beginning of the next chapter.

Ship: Spicyhoney Tags: Vampire AU, Medieval AU, Angst, non-con themes and elements Chapter WC: ~4.5k

__________________________________

We’re about to dive into the Bad Stuff™. If you feel the need to step away until there’s some comfort available, please do so. (This fic isn’t all angst, I promise).

~Below the cut~

“Stay close to me and keep your head down,” Edge murmured, giving Rus’s chain a tug as they stepped onto the dry gravel of Hotland soil. Already, Rus felt a discomfort beyond the blistering heat. All around him, he could sense the unwelcome gazes of other monsters.

The first street’s market was buzzing, even this late at night. The lamps were strung with lanterns of different colours, and Rus could feel the unnecessary heat emitted by the torches lining the road as they passed them.

Merchants shouted at them from all directions. Their stalls offered many varieties of wares and trinkets—from glittering jewels and ornaments, to freshly baked pies and baskets of strange fruit. Rus caught sight of one vendor whose stand held several jars of greyish dust, labelled with various names—and a rack which had been strung with necklaces of small bones and various other body parts. The vendor—a Migosp—leaned forward in its seat as they passed it. “Yer bones ‘re awfully pretty, love,” it said, leering at Rus. “Don’t s’pose ya’d like ta spare a few?” Horrified, Rus tore his gaze away and kept walking, inching closer to Edge, whose grip tightened on the chain; Rus was suddenly grateful for it.

As they pushed through the thick crowds, perspiration started to build on Rus’s skull. Though the moon hung high in the clear night sky, the air was hot and muggy. Rus could smell the magic and sweat of every monster they passed…

Which raised another problem. An itch had begun to tickle the back of his throat, slowly building to an irritating burn. Rus was growing hungry. It was well over a day since Edge had fed him—and much of that magic had been spent healing his wounds. The remainder had gone towards his teleport. His soul was nearing empty, and every whiff of magic he caught in the air reminded him of that. He kept his head low and tried to hold his breath as they walked.

They managed to escape the busier street to a less populated part of town. A few monsters scurried across their path into their homes, but none spared them more than a moment’s glance. Dust clouds swirled along the road, kicked up by the hot wind that blew through the street, and Rus coughed as the particles caught in his throat. The heat did little to alleviate the dryness in his mouth. He felt parched, and standing this close to Edge only served as a reminder of what his magic smelled—and tasted—like.

He winced when Edge gave the chain a tug, drawing him close. “By my side,” he instructed, voice dipping low. Rus followed his gaze—at the end of the street was a single stall, illuminated by a lone, eerie purple lamp. It was a simple table with a checked pink cloth draped over it, and a sign displaying the prices of the various sweets for sale. It was being manned by a petite bunny with neatly combed fur threaded with withered flowers. She wore a frilly pink dress, and greeted them with a smile as they passed.

Edge ignored her obstinately, walking swiftly, but she called out to them. “Won’t you try one of our pastries? They were made fresh just this afternoon.” Edge came to a stiff stop, drawing Rus’s chain tighter.

“No. We will not,” he said, his voice clipped.

The bunny seemed undeterred by Edge’s abrasiveness, batting her long, painted eyelashes and smiling sweetly. “Oh, but they’re delicious. The finest the kingdom has to offer.” Upon closer inspection, Rus noticed a piece of fine silk cloth tied around her neck. Thin threads hung loose from it, and Rus realised it was spider silk. “What about you, dearie?” the bunny asked, beaming at Rus. “Would you care to try a strawberry tart?” She lifted the pastry delicately. The icing had been painted in the shape of a web, and sprinkled with tiny flakes of glitter. “They’re one of our best sellers.”

“We’re not interested,” Edge said harshly, gripping Rus by the elbow and guiding him away.

“Not even one?” the bunny asked, and Rus detected an odd note of desperation to her tone. “They’re straight from Muffet’s bakery. The very finest!”

Edge came to a standstill, his shoulders tense. He inhaled, before looking at the bunny coldly. “Like I said, we’re not interested in doing business with the Spider.” He turned on his heel sharply, and Rus hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his deliberate stride. He dared a glance back over his shoulder at the bunny. She was standing primly, but Rus noticed an element of fear in her tight posture and the way her eyes darted around nervously.

Somehow, he was grateful when the streets grew busy again.

  They walked through the bustling town for about an hour before they emerged onto a narrow strait of rock. Far below on either side of the bridge were pans of molten rock, spitting and bubbling magma. Back in Rus’s world, Hotland was home to a volcano, which erupted once every decade. The town would evacuate for a month, then return to fertile lands and lush regrowth. Hotland was famous for its agriculture—thriving despite the hot climate, due to the rain magic provided by Waterfall’s residents.

Here, the land was barren and dry, lifeless, baked by the sulphuric magma that spewed from the ground. All around, there were no signs of flora.

The fumes emitted by the sulphurous pans below weren’t toxic to monsters composed of magic—much less vampires. The heat, however, was almost unbearable. Rus’s breathing became strained and ragged, and his pace slowed. Inexplicably, Edge seemed unaffected by the exhausting heat, despite his heavy attire. He turned, irritated, when Rus stumbled, worn weary by the sweltering heat and choking dust. “Come along, vampire,” Edge said, shortly. “We don’t have time to delay.”

Breathing laboriously, Rus gave him a strained half-nod, dragging his feet along. Edge considered him briefly, and his expression softened a little. “It’s not much further. We’ll be staying at an inn for the day. Then you can rest.”

Rus nodded, lacking the energy to speak. From there, Edge’s pace seemed to slow—just slightly.

  When at last they reached the other side of the bridge of rock, Rus felt ready to collapse. Ahead of them was an open stretch of road, spanning over the flat terrain. The land was barren and rocky, red dust catching in fleeting sandstorms. Hot, but not quite as hot as the air above the magma beds. Edge allowed Rus a moment to sit down at catch his breath. “this was a lot easier when we had a horse,” Rus brooded, resting his skull atop his knees.

“There’s a small town about a mile down the road,” Edge said, looking up at the paling sky with growing concern—concern that Rus couldn’t help but share. He could feel himself tiring, his bones growing heavy, sensing the impending dawn. “It’s remote enough to be beneath Muffet’s notice. Let’s walk quickly.”

By the time they reached the town, the sky was a hot pink, the sun’s warmth already stirring the land. Rus was relieved when they made it into the shade of the buildings of the small town. Unlike the first town, the streets here were quiet, but for a few pack mules making their morning deliveries.

Beneath the sign of an inn named The Dusty Planes, Edge brought them to a halt. He looped Rus’s chain tighter around his fist and drew him close, catching him by the elbow. “Muffet’s influence may not be as strong here, but I need you to keep your head down,” he murmured, falling quiet when a couple of villagers walked past them. “You attract too much attention, so I’ll need you to play the role of my…” Edge cleared his throat, and realisation dawned on Rus as he glanced at the chain.

“your… servant?”

“A generous way of putting it—but, essentially.”

Rus ducked his head, fists clenching around his arms. “right,” he whispered. “got it.” He followed Edge inside with a heavy pit in his soul.

The tavern was all but deserted, only a few half-awake monsters trudging downstairs for breakfast. The innkeeper—a tall reptilian monster with sharp teeth and curled yellow hair—greeted them with a disinterested look as they approached her desk. She sighed and placed her book on the counter, removing her spectacles. “Room fer two?” she asked, eyeing the chain in Edge’s hand with little more than a lifted eyebrow.

“Yes,” Edge said stiffly, placing a couple of coins on the countertop. Rus noticed his hand flexing around the chain. “We’ll only be staying for the day.”

The innkeeper looked dubious, but only shrugged. Gathering up the coins, she ducked behind the counter. Rus heard cluttering and the chink of metal before she emerged with a key. “Room two,” she said. “Up the stairs, first door on yer right. Enjoy yer stay.” She spoke with monotonous boredom, leaning back in her chair and repositioning her glasses before picking up her book, and returning to ignoring them. Rus hurried to keep up with Edge as he led them upstairs, casting mistrustful looks over his shoulder at the tavern patrons as he walked.

The room was dusty and cramped; stuffy, even this early in the morning. Edge drew the curtains against the sunlight before allowing Rus to enter, and he quickly shut the door behind him, locking it. Rus stood awkwardly in the centre of the small room, eyeing the bed…

The only bed.

“there’s… only one bed,” he pointed out.

Edge scowled as he rummaged through his inventory, producing a (relatively fresh) loaf of bread. Rus assumed he must have received a stock up from Undyne; he’d noticed Edge’s involuntary fast in the days before they’d arrived in Waterfall. Seeing him eat was something of a nagging reminder of his own hunger. He did his best to push back the thought.

Edge sat down on the armchair in the corner and let Rus’s chain fall to the floor, tearing a piece off the bread. “You take the bed,” he said. “I need to keep watch.”

Rus didn’t like that. Though Edge would deny it to his last breath, Rus could tell how exhausted he was. Shadows had formed beneath his sockets, and his eye-lights were dim and saturated. The colour had left his cheekbones entirely, and the magic in his joints had significantly diminished. “you should sleep,” Rus said. “we’ve locked the door—and you said it yourself, muffet doesn’t have people here.”

“Muffet has people everywhere,” Edge said grimly, taking another bite of bread.

“well… i don’t mind taking the first watch,” Rus said softly, nervous to make the suggestion.

He regretted it at once. Edge’s sockets narrowed and he stopped chewing, angling his body to study Rus properly. “Do you take me for a fool, vampire?”

Rus’s fists clenched at his sides. He was tired; worn thin by their travels and Edge’s treatment of him—not to mention the weight of the silver chain still clipped to the collar around his neck. And he was growing frustrated. “my name is rus,” he said, voice low.

Edge considered him with indiscernible scrutiny, and Rus crumpled beneath his piercing gaze, sinking onto the bed. “i’m not going to hurt you, silver knight,” he said, more exasperated than angry. “i take you for a fool because you assume that. because you’re warier of me than you are of the creatures all around you who would murder you sooner than i would. i would not see you brought to harm. though you’ve given me plenty of reason to.” He uttered the last part beneath his breath, though he was sure Edge still heard him.

Edge studied Rus, his face all composure and hard lines. Even at rest, leaning back in the armchair, breaking pieces off his loaf of bread—his demeanour spoke of danger. The dagger at his belt drew Rus’s gaze, as it always did, and he shrunk further in on himself, suddenly wishing he hadn’t been so brazen. Edge stood up, and Rus cowered slightly as he approached.

But instead of the expected punishment, he crouched and unclipped the chain from Rus’s collar. His gaze lingered on Rus’s neck for a moment, the tips of his fingers brushing the silver studded leather that bound him. Then he rose and sat back in his chair, his mask returning. “Go to sleep, Rus,” he said, quietly.

 ****

 Rus awoke to the chirping of insects and the bawdy noises coming from the tavern downstairs. Outside the window, it was dark. Night had fallen. His eyes wandered across the room and fell on Edge. He was still in the armchair, but he’d fallen asleep, head resting on his shoulder.

Sleep softened the tension from his face, and stole the hard mask of discontent. He didn’t quite look peaceful, but he was somehow… freer. Less subdued. There was innocence there too—and trust. Trust Rus had never seen in him in waking.

The minutes passed by quietly, and Edge’s eyes sockets opened, his eye-lights blinking into existence. In the dark, they were like two red pin-pricks; fierce and intense. Shock momentarily crossed his features when his gaze landed on Rus—but it quickly morphed back to the typical stoicism with which he presented himself. Surprisingly though, he didn’t look away from Rus right away. He scanned him for a few seconds, studying his features in silence.

Rus felt a shiver pass through him when Edge’s eye-lights lingered on his fangs just a split second too long to be normal.

  Edge reattached the chain to Rus’s collar before they headed downstairs. Rus couldn’t prevent the sinking feeling in his soul, but he collected himself and followed Edge wordlessly.

Unlike it had been that morning, the tavern was packed. There were throngs of monsters sitting at the tables and crossing the floor with drinks in their hands. Once again, Rus’s senses were assaulted by the numerous different scents of magic. He stuck close to Edge (not that it helped—Edge’s scent was enticing, too).

Rus was so distracted trying to muffle everyone’s scents in his sleeve, that he almost walked into Edge when he came to a sudden halt in the middle of the tavern. Rus glanced at him, frowning. His gaze was fixed on the door, tension lining his features. “She knows we’re here,” Edge said quietly, taking Rus by the arm and pulling him closer.

“she…?”

“The Spider,” Edge half-spat. “Her spies are all around us. Look.”

Rus blinked, glancing around, expecting to see swarms of spiderlings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “what?”

“Look at the ties around their necks—spider silk.” Upon closer inspection, Rus realised Edge was right. Scattered among the other patrons were numerous monsters wearing the familiar neckties Rus had seen on the bunny who had tried to sell them pastries the previous night. Neat, silver, woven of spider silk. They were everywhere.

“It’s her mark,” Edge said. “She owns them. They’re working for her, and that means they’ll do anything to stay alive.”

“what do we do?” Rus whispered, cringing beneath the scrutiny of the eyes on them. He felt vulnerable suddenly—weak and exposed.

Edge’s fist tightened around his chain and he breathed. “Can you teleport?” he asked, though the question lacked confidence.

“unlikely,” Rus said—reminded, suddenly, of the itch in his throat.

Edge swallowed, looking conflicted. He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs down which they’d come. “Would magic help?”

Rus stilled, shocked. “yes…”

Taking a shuddering breath, Edge nodded. “Good. Because we might need to���”

He broke off as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He spun, magic flaring at his palms, but the monster who had interrupted them only laughed gruffly, removing their hand. “Looks like you’re in a spot of trouble here, Edgy,” they said in a coarse, gravelly voice.

Rus looked up at the monster. They were large and burly, towering above both Edge and himself—two heads taller, and at least twice as wide. They were clad in heavy, polished armour—far too elegant to have come from Hotland, Rus mused. They must have been from the Capital. Their red cloak was long and silky, and a heavy gold claymore hung at their hilt. They exuded strength, and Rus knew without a Check that their LV must be high. Instinctively, he inched closer to Edge.

“I’m quite certain I don’t know what you’re talking about, guard,” Edge said, apparently unaffected by the daunting size of the other monster.

The guard laughed. “I know the Spider’s looking for you,” they said. They glanced around the room, then back at Edge, humming. “Seems she’s found you.”

Edge inhaled, stiffening. “What’s it to you? Here to collect a reward?” The magic at his hand brightened, and he took a defensive stance, shielding Rus. “I can promise you, you won’t be getting one.”

“A protector of the land?” The guard said. “After money? It’s against our code of honour.” Edge rolled his eye-lights at that, but the guard went on. “I think we can strike up a fair deal—one that earns you safe passage through Hotland. What do you say?” Rus noticed the guard’s eyes flickering in his direction through their visor, and he shuddered.

“You expect me to trust you?” Edge asked. “Forgive me, but I’ve had enough experience with the ‘protectors of the land’.”

“Well, as it so happens,” the guard said, leaning in. “You’re out of options.” They were right, Rus realised—and Edge seemed to realise it too, glancing around the room with a look of defeat. The guard laughed condescendingly, then said, “Come, Edgy. Why don’t you sit down with me? Have a drink. Let off some steam.”

Edge looked as if he’d sooner bathe in a pool of magma, but as the guard had pointed out—his options were limited. Monsters bearing Muffet’s signature still lurked near the doorways, their eyes hovering on Edge and Rus. Stiffly, Edge took a hold of Rus’s arm and grudgingly followed the guard to one of the corner tables. They sat down opposite each other, and no one spoke. Rus could still see sparks of magic prickling at Edge’s fingertips.

A bar maid wandered over to them and placed three flagons on their table. Rus eyed the frothy liquid inside his, and was reminded of his hunger. His throat was still dry, and although normal monster food wasn’t enough to sustain him, consuming it didn’t hurt. Tentatively, he reached for his flagon—but Edge caught his wrist. “Don’t drink it,” he warned, quiet enough for the guard not to hear. Rus let his hand fall, disappointed.

The guard gulped down their own drink without hesitation, lifting their visor just enough to drink, while keeping their face concealed. Edge tapped his fingers on the table in irritation, shooting anxious glances around the room. “Our deal?” he reminded them.

“Ah. Yes.” The guard placed their empty flagon on the table and let their visor drop. “I can offer you safe passage through Hotland. As a Capital guard, I’m quite good at providing protection.”

“Naturally,” Edge said, flatly. “But I know you aren’t doing this for free. What do you ask in return? I… if it’s money you’re after—”

“Not money,” the guard said. “But, I do have a price.” They glanced at Rus, and their gaze travelled down the chain hooked to his collar. “That’s pure silver, isn’t it? Hard to come by these days.”

Edge’s hand flexed around the chain, but he nodded. “It is.”

“That sort of thing could buy you more than just money.”

“I’m certain,” Edge said, dryly. “Do we have a deal, then?”

“I’ll take the chain,” the guard said, nodding. “But, I had something else in mind too.”

Rus’s soul plummeted as the guard looked at him. He shrunk closer to Edge’s side, trying to make himself unassuming. To his relief, Edge had a similar reaction, drawing him closer. “No,” he said, firmly. “He’s not for sale.”

“I don’t want to buy him. I want to rent him. Just… for an hour or two. Then you can have him back.”

Rus closed his eyes and tried to control the way his bones rattled. No. Not this. Anything but this. Edge wouldn’t. There was no way, surely Edge wouldn’t—

“Deal,” Edge said. Rus’s eye sockets snapped open and he stared at Edge, horrified, but Edge wasn’t looking at him, his face a cool mask of indifference.

“e-edge,” Rus whispered, his voice trembling. “you can’t—y-you’re not—”

“Silence, pet,” Edge growled. Looking at the guard firmly, he said, “Do what you wish with him, but I want him unscathed.”

The guard chuckled, surveying Rus. “No promises there.”

The table shook as Edge brought his fist down, magic sparking beneath it. “Do not damage him. Or you can be certain you’ll no longer have use for the whores you hire.”

The guard lifted their hands defensively. “Alright. If you insist.” They reached across the table, and Rus yanked his hand away sharply as their fingers brushed it. “Aw, there’s no need to be afraid, sweetheart. I’ll take good care of you.”

Rus closed his eyes, breathing shallowly. Tears beaded at his sockets. He felt sick.

“We have a room upstairs,” Edge said. “Will that do?”

“Perfect,” said the guard, standing.

Rus remained seated, frozen in horror. He flinched when Edge tugged on the chain—still fastened to his collar. “Come, pet. Let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

Rus looked up at Edge, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Edge’s expression was hard and blank, conveying nothing. No regret or remorse, no shame or sorrow. Nothing. He didn’t care.

Moving automatically, Rus stood and followed Edge upstairs, the guard just behind them. He tried not to think about them—tried not to think about anything. But still, he could hear them; their footsteps, their breathing, their soft words. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you, dear?” they said, reaching out. Rus flinched away from their hand, and they chuckled quietly. “Always had a thing fer the pretty ones. Don’t see many a’ them ‘round these parts.” The guard spoke quietly, almost as if to themself. Rus pondered on the strange slip in accent, but didn’t linger on the thought. His problems were far more pressing.

He stumbled on the stairs, and Edge caught him, guiding him swiftly into the bedroom. “edge,” he whispered, desperately. “please. don’t make me do this.” Edge stared at him without a trace of emotion—but there was something intense and deliberate behind his gaze, as if he was trying to communicate something.

He said nothing though, only addressing the guard when they entered. “I need to feed my pet before you can use him. He’s weak. He’ll need his strength.”

“Sure will,” the guard said, laughing. Rus noticed the corner of Edge’s mouth twitching downward.

“Yes,” he said, dryly. “So if you’ll leave us—”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” the guard said. “Do what you need with your little vampire. I’m not shy.”

A beat of silence rang loud in the room. The guard knew that he was a vampire…

“That wasn’t part of our deal,” Edge said, dangerously quiet.

The guard didn’t look deterred. They took a seat on the armchair Edge had been sleeping in not half an hour ago, leaning back with a shrug. “It is now.” Edge looked conflicted, glancing between Rus and the door. “You’re welcome to leave and let me have him as is,” the guard said. “I’m not fussy.”

Despite being empty, Rus’s soul churned. His fists shook at his sides and he hugged himself, trying to remember to breathe. At last, Edge nodded, sighing deeply. “Fine. Ru—pet.” He beckoned Rus over to him, giving the chain a weak pull. Rus walked without thinking, his mind working mechanically. To his surprise, Edge unclipped the chain—and the collar. He let the chain drop to the floor and stored the collar away in his inventory. “He feeds better without it,” he explained to the guard, who shrugged, before returning his gaze to Rus. Again, something unspoken flickered in his eyes.

Edge unwound his scarf, exposing his neck—and immediately, Rus was hit by his scent. The savoury-sweet warmth that was oh so familiar, and Rus’s fangs extended, eager to taste Edge’s magic again. “Rus…” Edge’s voice sounded distant, barely penetrating Rus’s subconscious. “Rus… you understand what you’re doing?”

Rus nodded without thought, stepping closer. He couldn’t focus on anything but the flow of magic through Edge’s joints, suddenly brighter, more vibrant, more delicious. He pressed Edge against the wall—too rough, a voice in the back of his head told him. He ignored it. He ran his fangs over Edge’s neck, even as Edge clutched at the back of his skull, trying to ease him, slow him down.

But Rus didn’t want to slow down. What reason did he have to grant Edge any more chances? He’d expended them. He’d run out. Rus owed him nothing. Nothing. After all he’d put Rus through, Rus was done. This was it. His opportunity to escape. To leave Edge for good. He wouldn’t stay—he wouldn’t. Not for this.

He was faintly aware of Edge’s whispers, but the words didn’t translate in his head. With nothing to hold him back, he bit down—hard.

The sound Edge made was somewhere between a choke and a whimper, his bone cracking in a way that had to have been painful. Rus didn’t care. Not anymore. He just needed enough magic to teleport, or to incapacitate Edge… or to drain him entirely.

Rus didn’t think—didn’t care. He just drank. Hot magic flooded him and he sighed as his soul began to absorb it. It flowed through his body, releasing the tension from his joints. He drank deeper, eager for more. He’d been starving for days, and Edge’s magic had been on his mind. And now, he could indulge.

  You’re in control, Papy.

  Rus ignored the voice. He didn’t need it. Not now.

  Stop.

  Rus kept drinking. He could feel Edge pushing against him, but his struggles were weak. Rus didn’t stop. His soul glowed with magic—more than enough for a teleport. He kept going. Edge slumped, leaning heavily against Rus—but Rus kept drinking.

Drinking until his soul was saturated with Edge’s magic. His body burned with it. Alive and strong and free. Rus was no longer Edge’s prisoner, his captive, his pet.

Too much. It was too much—and yet it wasn’t enough.

The flow of Edge’s magic began to weaken…

[garrisonsnug]

all are there forever falling // shelby sister

one hundred pounds. 

not a lot. well under the daily turnover. little enough that it could be shrugged off as a night on the turps, arthur’s expensive women. you would even take some of the blame - nick some jewels or something. you’d get a clip over the ear, but it would be worth it when the deal played out and you could proudly take responsibility as the one behind it. to be pulled into polly’s arms as she shakes her head fondly, to have arthur laugh and pour you a drink. to have tommy smile at you again, the way he did before the fighting. 

well worth a hundred pounds. 

you tuck the wad of cash into your bag and close the safe quietly, locking it shut and letting out a long breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. closing your eyes, you walk the path to the trades council in your memory. a relatively short one, though there would be coppers aplenty. safer to go earlier rather than later, before the unionists all began to show up for their meetings.

when you turn, john is standing in the door, glowering.

the silence between the two of you is thick. you open your mouth, and close it again, wondering how much he’s seen. maybe you can convince him you never opened the safe in the first place. 

‘why on earth,’ he says slowly, ‘do you need a hundred bloody pounds?’ 

you square your jaw at him. ‘hardly your business.’ 

‘i think a hundred fucking pounds out of the family safe is my fucking business, thank you very much,’ he seethes, slamming a hand against the doorframe. 

‘polly’s the family accountant, not you, and we’ve already settled the matter,’ you lie. ‘so if you’d let me get on my way, it’d keep you in her good stead as well as mine.’ 

he crosses the distance between you and wrests your bag out of your hands, taking out the money. 

‘if polly’s so clued in, then maybe she has some answers,’ he says, holding the money aloft. he turns on his heel, and you realise with a pang of fear that he’s heading to the betting shop. 

‘john,’ you plead, hating how much you sound every inch like a baby sister. ‘don’t tell polly just yet, please. it’ll pay off, i promise, and i’ll let you share the credit. for the plan, y’know.’ 

he glances over his shoulder, barking a laugh. ‘you’re nineteen. what do you know about plans?’ 

you remember when you were small, how you and john would play at wrestling in the alleys. ada watching, anxious to get home but more anxious to ensure that neither of you were too badly injured. occasionally, john would twist your arm too hard, or lay a particularly thick one into your ribs, and you wouldn’t be able to stop the tears or the burn in your throat. 

‘come on,’ john would whisper, panicked, already rolling up a shirtsleeve. ‘stop crying - they’ll be able to tell. i’ll let you pinch me - look.’ 

you wonder, almost with a bittersweet smile, when his allegiances shifted. 

that smile is replaced entirely with nausea when you reach the betting shop, where polly and arthur are sitting and smoking while scudboat scratches figures in a corner.

polly smiles at first. ‘what were you two doing in my office? nothing conspiratorial, i hope.’ 

john only looks at you, and she follows his gaze. sees the hot flush of shame in your cheeks. the hundred pounds in john’s fist. rises from her chair. arthur leans forward, stern but also vaguely curious. 

‘scudboat. give us a minute, if you will.’ 

he leaves obediently, and once the doors are shut, polly turns squarely to you. john may be holding the money, but it’s clear who the culprit is. her eyes blaze.

‘right. you’ve got thirty seconds to explain what you planned to do with that money, and by god i’ll know if you’re not telling the truth.’ 

you stare at the floorboards, because it’s easier than meeting her gaze. ‘the railway union,’ you say, firmly. arthur swears under his breath, and polly holds out a finger to quiet him. ‘they need the police to start turning a blind eye. they’re losing too many men when they strike. in return for the protection, we would have a detailed account of every single person and object that enters or leaves this city by rail. not to mention virtual invisibility in every train station surrounding, for us and any cargo.’

polly is quiet for such a long moment that you have to look up at her again. when you meet her eye, she snaps, as if she was only waiting for your gaze. 

‘you fucking idiot. do you think the communists have ever broken a straightforward deal in their lives? do you think they have the power to follow through on those terms? they might have the membership to protect us here, but in manchester? in liverpool? fucking london? and on top of that, you have the gall to exploit my trust, show me exactly how much you value the opportunity to help with the company’s finances -’ 

arthur clears his throat pointedly, and polly quiets, though she doesn’t look happy about it.

‘i’m guessing you were about to walk that money over to the trades council,’ he says. 

‘yes.’

‘do you have any idea how many coppers line the route from here to there? a whole fucking brigade waiting for this exact fucking day - when the blinders and the bolsheviks broker a deal and they can crack down on both. imagine their luck when the one to get caught with the cash is a pretty little thing, not even twenty -’ 

‘will you stop treating me like a child -’

‘you are a fucking child!’ arthur bellows, his chair clattering as he stands. ‘you’ve got a fucking nerve if you think any of us are going to let you walk into a fucking copper’s hands -’

the doors of the betting shop swing open, and standing there is perhaps the last person in the world you’d like to see. 

tommy glances around the room, cigarette burning. cocks an eyebrow. ‘what’s all this, then?’ 

you go to speak, but john beats you to it. ‘she thought that she’d make a little delivery to the bolsheviks,’ he says, gesturing at you with the cash. 

‘christ,’ he says simply. you can tell he’s considering his words carefully as he strolls over to the table and takes a seat at the head of it. ‘did ada have anything to do with this?’

‘no,’ you say. ‘friend of a friend’s one of the young delegates at the railway station. he offered -’ 

‘let me guess. total intelligence from the transit lines, and protection in surrounding stations, in return for a little police bribe?’ 

you stare at him. ‘yes. how did you - ?’ 

‘it’s a fucking scam,’ he says, with something that sounds like a laugh. ‘they’re trying it out in most every city with a big enough bolshevik concentration. not just businesses like us, either,’ he muses, blowing out a stream of smoke. ‘rich families. sometimes the police themselves. all sorts.’

you feel embarrassment crawling hot and red up your neck, into your cheeks. ‘i didn’t know -’

‘of course you fucking didn’t,’ he says, glancing over at polly before turning his eyes to you. ‘so we have two main concerns here. one, that you felt entitled to a hundred pounds of company money for your own selfish endeavours. and two, that you felt secure in your decision to offer yourself up to the police with absolutely no protection -’ 

‘don’t start on that, tommy, arthur’s already been there, and i’m sick of being talked to like i’m either a child or a whore. offer myself up, please. when you decide things on a whim, the entire company’s at your mercy. but when i see a good opportunity, i’m put through the fucking passion of the christ just because i’m a woman -’ 

‘you’re not just a woman. you’re a shelby,’ tommy says. ‘look me in the eye. you’re a shelby. your allegiance is to this family first. always. do you know what that means?’ 

‘things like this get run through the family meetings. i know. i made a mistake, tommy. just - dock my pay or something, and get it over with.’ 

‘it means something else, as well. it means that if there’s ever a situation where you might be in danger, we will fucking know about it. to put yourself in harm’s way without one of us knowing is the biggest betrayal you could make to this family, and that applies to all of us. do you understand?’

not you, you think sullenly. but you nod. 

he ashes his cigarette and gives a sharp nod. ‘good,’ he says. ‘that’s that, then. polly, you’re the one i came here to see. a word, please.’ 

the two of them head to tommy’s office, and john waves the cash at you again. ‘this is going back in the safe,’ he announces, and you just roll your eyes at him as he leaves the room. which leaves arthur. 

‘you never got to finish your dressing down,’ you say dryly, steeling yourself. ‘if you’d like to continue, be my guest.’

he silently reaches across the table, takes the bottle of whiskey sitting there, and pours two glasses. surprised, but thankful, you sit down next to him and take a sip.

‘you know why i shouted at you?’ 

‘because i’m an idiot,’ you say, smiling ruefully. 

he finishes his glass in one swill, looking suddenly as serious as tommy. 

‘sometimes, i remember, when mum found something funny - i mean, really fucking funny - she’d laugh, right, she’d tip her head right back and giggle like a schoolgirl. do you remember? you were probably too small. i’d stand on my fucking head trying to get her to laugh like that. get stuck up trees and kicked by horses and all sorts just trying to make her laugh that laugh. and sometimes, you find something really fucking funny, and you tip your head right back and you laugh. just like her.’ 

you stare at him, stunned, waiting for him to keep speaking - but he’s finished, looking the other way at the midday sun slanting in through the doors. 

‘scudboat,’ he calls. ‘you’re right to keep working, mate.’

scud returns in the doorway, smiling. ‘family business, eh? ten times as complicated as ordinary business.’ 

you nod, faintly, and stand to leave.

[nylaaaaa]

Little Secret

Chapter 3. Introducing Mathias

Cabbage for sale! Get your cabbage for sale here! Wouldn't want to spend the harvest eating a bland dinner now would we?" 

"Tomatoes for sale! Ripe and fresh! Perfect for all occasions!"

I ducked and weaved past all the stalls that scatter the outskirts of the castle. An abundance of people live just outside the castle walls but only a few of the "outside people" live inside the walls. Considering the majority of people live outside you would think the stalls would be set up there. I gave a forced smile to every merchant I ignored while moving around everyone as though I'd done it a thousand times. Truthfully this was my first time alone. But even with Isaieth I never had to deal with the stalls that blocked even the tiniest bit of gravel that blended into the path. He was a known friend of the king so he was allowed to go through the shortcuts, even though I'm known to be his adoptive daughter I don't get the same treatment as him. My mother and father ruined my reputation with their childish ways and so now people tend to ignore me or simply forget who I am.

Every rough step I took matched the beat of swords clanging against each other. This can only mean the knight's and soldier's were sparring again. They do this almost everyday. You can hear the swords hit against each other even from Isaieth's plot of land. The faint but strong cry of a horse froze me in place. I've always been more empathetic to animals than humans. Isaieth always told me it was weird and I should stop trying to befriend animals but for some reason I just understand them more. The cry continued, louder this time. I don't know where but somewhere a horse was scared. I hugged my basket of produce closer to me and without thinking headed to where the noise was located. 

The grunts and cries of maybe 50 men overpowered the sounds of icy wind. The horse was scared of the sparring and I'm not surprised. I would be too. I didn't notice I had just stood in the same place looking dumbfounded untill a huge man crashed into me forcing us both to land on the chalky and tough ground. I heard the sound of laughter before the rough and powerful voice of a man broke through the air.

"Alright that's enough!" Both the grounded soldier and I looked stunned towards to direction of the noise. A tall man with a prideful and powerful aura danced through to gaps of the men who stood in the way. He had to be royalty. The only men that tall in this land was either Isaieth or someone from the royal bloodline. He looked far too young to be the king so that left one of the two prince's.

"Rowan... You're meant to sleep with the whores after a fight, not before." Whore!  Excuse me! I am far from a whore. The sounds of 50 men laughing ticked me off even more. Who the hell does he think he is?

"I am not a whore." I said with venom in my voice. I'm not a scary person, far from it actually, and being female makes me even less scary. So I was expecting more laughter. Which I got. The burning sun hit his eyes giving them an intense green, one that would blind you from the glow it gave off. The eye colour fitted his skin perfectly and gave off an auburn blend. The sweat that dripped from skin to armour showed he'd either been out here longer or worked harder than all his men put together. It probably didn't help that his armour weighed 5 of me, probably more. His soaked deep brown curls stroked his smokey skin with even the tiniest bit of movement. If I wasn't so angry at his comment I probably would've spent this time admiring him. He could, for all I know, be a massive ass, but it doesn't change the fact that he looks like a God. He mockingly laughed away my response and rolled his eyes so they hit the sun even more making them pierce more than before. 

"A body like yours is only useful in a whore house. If it's not there it's no use and you are worthless." Ugh! UGHUGHUGH! God, what an ASS! Why does he have to insult me so much. Or compliment me in a twisted way? I don't even know. 

"That was a bit uncalled for don't you think, dear brother." Another tall, but only just smaller than green eyed asshole, man appeared out of the crowd. He wore a similar armour but his had more style than protection. This had to be the other prince. From looks alone I could tell green eyed asshole had to be the younger one, meaning he was the infamous Mathias. If that was true the stylish saviour had to be Kennedy. The man I presume to be Kennedy stepped forward a bit more blocking the sun and showing me the burnt skin that caressed his features. Kennedy is the oldest son of the prince, he turned 27 about 5 months ago. Mathias however has been 24 for merely a few weeks. Kennedy gave me a teethy grin that made me want to smile with him. His honey brown eyes melted into his tanned olive skin, the mixture gave you a warm autumn vibe that immediately calmed you. His hair stood tall, like him, and gave you a marble effect of blonde and brown. His hair colour looked like both colours were fighting for the spotlight. 

"Are you trying to deny the lady of her title, dear brother." He said 'dear' with a hint of venom and a lot of disgust. They obviously didn't get along very well and probably quarrel often.

"The lady's title is not a whore. Even if she graced us with her body in the brothel it doesn't make her a whore. It makes her a worker, just like everyone else." His attempt at saving me was sweet but still insulting. I'd rather not have 2 royals speak about my body as though I were a prostitute.

"Don't over play what a whore is brother. You'll make them think they are worth something more than the price you pay." Uuuuggghh! I hate him, I seriously hate him. I looked down realising my produce is all over the floor and my dress was torn showing the blood that trickled out of my grazed thigh. The man who had kept me on the ground had gotten up and, presumably, ran away. While the brothers argued about the importance of whores I gathered my belongings back into my basket and walked by them slowly so I didn't give away that I had moved. I hate royalty. 

Stopping outside a, what looked like, 10 story castle I released a hot breathe to calm my nerves. I was finally going to meet the king. The king joins the hall every month to oversee the rent. Today he was going to meet me properly for the first time. One step two step three step four... okay, I haven't actually moved yet. But I want to. With every inch I move I end up moving 2 inches back. Okay Natalie just go.

"State your name and business." I came face to face with a brunette woman holding a scroll of paper. Her emerald eyes shone a low and hollow silver. Her bright glow didn't give life to her eyes. She didn't have a dress on like every other female you would come across. Her clothes would be that of a whores but her attitude told you she wasn't. She had a soft looking fabric that covered her chest just enough to hide the shape. It clipped onto itself on the side under her left armpit and the rest of the material was wrapped around her left arm, it wrapped itself all the way down. On the bottom part she had underwear on that went up to her belly button and a sheer fabric that was wrapped randomly around her waist and thighs. It covered just enough to hide the colour of her underwear but not enough to hide the shape. Her lips were a deep pink colour that showed she had been eating a staining food. Her stance was professional but her clothes weren't, it made you wonder what her business was.

"Natalie Estelle, adopted daughter of Isaieth Scofield. Im here to sell the produce of our farm." She gave me a blank and slow nod. I felt nervous like she was asking something else.

"It's the usual right?" Uh. Maybe.

"Yes?" I didn't entirely give her a questioning yes, but it sounded unsure. I don't know if she ignored my slight confusion or just didn't catch it but she continued on anyway.

"Okay, leave the basket of produce in the 3rd door on the left and the king will be with you shortly." Before I could even blink she started leaving. 

When I opened the door she mentioned I was immediately blown away. This room was not only massive, it was so elegant and beautiful. Candles were hanging on the ceiling giving it a warm glow. Red blankets and animal pelts scattered every chair and table that stood proudly in the room. In the very middle stood a massive, strong looking table that was filled to the brim with paper work and books. On the very corner of the table a quil and ink balanced on top of each other fighting to stay on the table. A simple breath would knock it with how close to the edge it is. A loud creak of floor boards told me someone was entering the room. I quickly threw the basket onto the table that sat next to the door and backed away ready for whoever was going to enter. 

"Father, I didn't know you bought me a whore." Mathias. Of all people he just HAD to be here.

"Mathias, watch your language infront of me boy." This had to be the king. He stood a good few inches lower than Mathias but he was still tall and proud. His aura was so strong it made you want to bow just from him being in the same house. The king's white beard complimented his greying blonde locks. His hair bounced with volume and health but the tips liked to cling to his pale skin. The king apparently doesn't stay out in the sun as often as his sons so his skin was a lot lighter. His blonde hair made his yellow tinted pale skin even paler. Everything about him screamed light. Even his ocean blue eyes. The blues crashed waves together and made a watery dance that complimented the whole light vibe. His greying hair gave you a false impression of his age, you'd think he was in his 60's, but really he's younger than Isaieth. Isaieth is a wise age of 50 whereas the king was 48.

"It's not my fault. You told me you wanted me to meet someone, how was I to know it'd be a whore." He gave me a glare. What does he have to glare at me for? I didn't do anything.

"She isn't a.... whore. She's Isaieth's daughter. It's her 18th naming day. Now that she's an adult I thought she should meet the family." The king gave Mathias a stern look, a warning of sorts. 

"I do not care for the backstory of whores father. Kennedy is the one you should go to for that." He makes me want to scream. Like physically, all in your face, scream.

"MATHIAS! That is enough!" Mathias gave the king a bored glance. How disrespectful. I know when someone is your family you treat them differently, but no one should treat a king like this. I watched as Mathias rolled his shiny green eyes, the reflection of candle light hitting every spot trying to dance with the movement. Even with hatred towards this asshole, his features seem to always hypnotized me.

"Kennedy has important business right now, he will meet her later. As for you, Mathias. You will be nice to her or all you eat today will be the air that surrounds the barn outside." I breathed an accidental laugh and it caused Mathias to give me an unimpressed side glare. The king turned towards me once more and gave me a teethy smile. He smiled so big and bright it cause his eyes to slam shut and wrinkles formed all over his face. It was so genuine and a little beautiful that it made me return a smile to him. When he opened his eyes to see I was smiling back, his teethy smile turned into that of a proud father.

"Your smile is very cute dear, Isaieth is lucky to have you as his daughter." My smile grew bigger before falling completely. I've always thought of Isaieth as a father but whenever the conversation comes up it saddens me to the core. I have no idea who my actual dad is so when someone speaks about dads I always remember something that doesn't exist. It gives me an empty feeling of confusion. I could tell they both noticed the emotion change because theirs did too. The king let out cough as if to distract from the awkward tension that started to build.

"Well, Natalie. You've grown into your mother's looks. You look just like her." I know he was trying to be nice with that comment but it only made me more sad. My mother left me to get drunk everyday. Looking like her was not an accomplishment to me.

"Thank you." I forced a genuine looking smile to him. If I want to avoid more awkward tension I should play happy untill the conversation ends.

"My assistant, who I believe you met, has your pay for the produce. Rent pay isn't for another few hours so I was hoping you would come with me for a tour of our castle." A tour. Do I want to go on a tour? No, not really. But how bad can a tour be? I'll just be waiting around for a couple hours anyway.

"A tour would be wonderful, your highnesses." The look on Mathias's face said, 'what are you doing?' I don't know if he was questioning my wording to the king or the fact that I bowed after speaking. Maybe both. The king beamed with happiness and even let out a low and raw chuckle. It sounded like Christmas. 

"To start I would like you to meet Kennedy, he's busy, as I said before, outside with the new trainees. So that will be where we start." The king gave Mathias a hard pat on the shoulder before turning away from us. I guess I get to see the training grounds again.

[bosstoaster]

#12, Gen. The Paladins are stranded in a blizzard with no lions, but Shiro has a metal arm and it's making him dangerously cold and so the others try to keep him from getting hypothermia before they're able to get him to safety?? Too specific?? Perhaps?? (But would it be great? Yes)

It’s the 1000 Followers Special!  Based on these prompts.  Prompts are now closed.  Don’t want to see all 35 of these?  Block ‘1000 Followers Special’.  Can’t read on mobile?  These will slowly be posted to AO3 starting in a few days as ‘Hold Up Half the Sky’.  A huge thank you to Xagrok for the beta’ing!

(Also, you should check out @velkynkarma‘s fic, Routine Maintenance)

All in all, the Paladins were well protected by the elements.  Whatever the armor was made out of, it had environmental controls to make it as hospitable to the life wearing it as possible, and it was powerful enough to protect them from the void of space.

However, that didn’t do them nearly as much good when they weren’t wearing it.

Shiro took the blame for this one.  They were stuck on this planet for a couple of days, and Shiro had thought some training with environments outside of the castle would be helpful.  On the castle, they rarely got chances to really work on battling in an area with lots of cover and obstacles.  While Shiro hadn’t noticed a problem with it yet during actual combat, he hadn’t wanted it to become an issue later, if he could help it.  

He’d brought that up to Allura, who had brought it up to the local leader, and they’d been allowed to use a small cabin in the woods just north of the city.  The woods themselves were thick, casting the undergrowth in shadow, and while it had certainly been nippy, it hadn’t been very cold.  So Shiro had given the team a choice if they wanted to wear their armor or not.  They weren’t going to be using their bayards for this exercise.  He wanted them to focus on sneaking around and maneuvering, not on fighting.

Hunk and Pidge had chosen to wear theirs.  Lance and Keith had not.  Shiro hadn’t either, but for a specific reason: his nearly completely black clothing was better for sneaking around in the shadowed forest.  He was determined to keep them on their toes.  Especially Pidge, who got a little too comfortable using her invisibility technology and not her skills.

Except then, the snow had started to fall.  And grew and built until it wasn’t flurries, but a full on snow squall.

They’d only been a mile from the cabin, and with Hunk and Pidge’s helmets they were never lost.

That didn’t make it comfortable.

(Read More Below)

By the time they returned to the cabin, Lance, Keith and Shiro were all shaking hard.  Of them, Lance was probably doing the best, and Shiro suspected that the Blue Lion gave him slightly more resistance to a chill.  Or maybe it was just that Lance just had the thickest coat.

At least they were protected from the wind now.  But this was just a little building.  There didn’t seem to be any kind of environmental controls, meaning it was still quite cold inside.

“I’m going to see if I can make a heater out of anything,” Hunk told them, pulling off his helmet.  “I think there was some kind of heating element for food.”

“G-g-good p-p-”  Shiro shook his head, frustrated.  “I c-c-can-”  He held up his hand and flashed it on, fairly certain that Hunk would understand that he could be a heating element, if needed.

Except when he turned it on, the metal arm hurt.

Shiro screamed before he could stop the sound, and he backed up until he hit a wall, helping to keep his balance.  

It felt like running his hand under hot water when it was cold, multiplied several times over.  Painful tingles shot through him like thousands of tiny needles, and even that split second activation left him throbbing and aching.

“Shiro!”  The shout was close, and when Shiro opened his eyes, he saw Pidge barely a few inches away.  She reached out to touch the arm, then hissed and jerked it back.  “Oh no.”  Her hands moved to where the metal touched skin instead, and she winced.  “That’s not good.”

Moving closer as well, Keith groaned softy.  “We didn’t even think.  It’s too cold. Take my jacket.”  

He started to pull his way out of it, but Shiro held up his hand.  “No.  It won’t fit, for one.  And you need it.”

“We’re going to get into our armor, Shiro,” Lance pointed out gently.  “But you need to warm you up first, I think.  You don’t want to be trapped in yours with a freezing cold piece of metal.  C’mon, I bet my jacket will fit.”

Shiro frowned and shook his head.  Judging by the size of it, Shiro had always assumed the jacket was some kind of gift, or maybe just one Lance had stolen from one of his siblings and never given back.  “It’s fine, I’ll warm up soon.”

“I’ll get started on a heater,” Hunk told them.  “I think that’s the best thing we can do.  You want to help, Pidge?”

Pidge shook her head.  “It’s not really a two person job, and you’re better at mechanics.”  Then she looked back at Shiro.  “Insulating the cold metal is just going to keep it freezing longer.  We’re better off keeping the rest of Shiro warm.  Your armor is definitely a bad idea right now, Lance is right.”

Behind her, Lance gave a little flash of a pleased smile, but it faded away quickly.  They all looked worried as Hunk moved to the kitchen area in search of something to fiddle with.

Hopefully, no one would be upset they were about to broke part of the cabin.

…Alright, yeah, Shiro wasn’t in his right mind if that was what he was worried about.

“You two change,” he told Keith and Lance.  “I’ll feel better when I know you’re not cold anymore.”

Keith snorted.  “Very subtle.”  But when Shiro continued to stare, trying for commanding but probably just coming across begging, he sighed.  “Alright.  Five minutes.”

“Hunk will have you warmed up in a jiffy,” Lance told him, nodding with perfect faith as he slipped out, too.

Shiro smiled.  “I don’t have any doubts as to that,” he called after, then leaned back more heavily against the wall.  Hunk was the man for the job, no doubt, but he could only do so much so fast.

Frankly, Shiro wanted to be left alone to nurse the pain where he didn’t have to hide his expressions and noises.

But he wasn’t going to do that, because Pidge but her hand on his shoulder and pushed down.  “C’mon, sit before you fall over.”  Shiro eyed her, but obediently sat down, still with his back to the wall.  “How comfortable would you be taking off your shirt?”

The question made Shiro freeze.  “Well, it’s still chilly in here,” Shiro replied carefully.  

“Skin to skin contact is best for transferring heat, and we need to keep the skin by the metal warm before it hurts you,” Pidge replied, clipped and professional.

Shiro stared for a moment, and that gave lie to his line about the chill.  No, that wasn’t why he didn’t want to.  But Pidge was right, and Shiro couldn’t afford injury to his metal arm, not when it was his main weapon.  So he sighed and pulled off his shirt, not meeting her eyes.

He knew she saw anyway from the way Pidge’s breathing paused, just for a moment.  Shiro appreciated her trying not to react, but the purposeful lack of any kind of responses was telling anyway.

While he wasn’t looking, there were two thumps of gauntlets being dropped, and then hands touched the skin right by the metal.  He hissed at the contact, because they were burning hot.

“Sorry,” Pidge murmured, using her knee to push her gauntlets out of the way.  “Too much?”

“No,” Shiro replied, though his teeth were clenched.  “It’s fine.”

The door opened again, and Lance whistled. “Damn, don’t start the party without me.”  When he came closer, Shiro could see he still had the jacket.  Before he could protest, Lance held up his hand.  “I’m not going to put it on the arm.  Hold out your other hand.”

Shiro did, reluctantly, and Lance threaded his arm through the sleeve, then pulled the hood onto him.  It was warmer than Shiro had thought.  Likely it still had some of Lance’s body heat.  Instinctively, he tucked that arm into his chest.

A moment later, Keith stepped in closer too, and he draped his jacket over Shiro’s front like a blanket.  

“That would be more helpful if it was a real jacket, you know,” Lance pointed out.  “Why do you wear that thing again?”

“Why do you care?” Keith shot back.  “It’s better than nothing.”

“Barely.”

Pidge groaned.  “Enough.  Try to find something more useful to do than bickering, please.”

After a moment, Lance nodded.  “Alright.  Hey, Shiro, scoot up a bit.”

Shiro obeyed, watching him curiously.  Stepping forward, Lance slid behind Shiro’s back, then tugged him back into place.  With how he was leaning, it put the base of Shiro’s head at Lance’s shoulder rather than his nose where it should have been, and so Lance could wrap his arms around him comfortably.  “There.  Ta-da.  You warm the arm, we’ll warm the rest.”

“Lance,” Shiro murmured.  “I’m fine.  As soon as the arm is warmer this won’t be a problem.  This is ridiculous.”

There was no verbal response.  Instead, Lance wrapped his arms tighter around Shiro and his Frankenstein-esque jacket-shirt, like if Shiro wanted him gone he’d have to fight him.

And Shiro couldn’t deny how nice the heat felt.  

A moment later, Keith pressed against his side as well, his arm to Shiro’s chest.  “Just until Hunk is done,” he told him, a hint of something soothing, like Shiro was a spooked horse.

He didn’t feel like one.  Right now, he felt more like a cat in a sunny window.

They kept it up for about ten minutes longer, Pidge and Keith eventually switching places when her hands started to chill, until Hunk came in with some kind of device and a bundle of blankets in his hands.  He paused a the pile of them.  “Huh.  I figured I was being ridiculous for bringing these.”

Shiro stared at them, then down at the ring of paladins around him.  “Oh.”

“You know, normally I’d say you’re a genius, Hunk,” Lance called.  “But I think we were being kind of stupid, actually.”

Hunk considered, then put down the device next to Shiro’s arm.  He flipped it on and it started to glow red, and Shiro could immediately feel heat coming off of it.  Groaning, he closed his eyes.  It was the same kind of painful as activating the arm, just much slower and less intense.  Much better.

“I dunno,” Hunk finally replied, and there was more than a hint of mischief to his voice.  “I think I like yours better.”  Then he moved, grabbing them all in a huge hug.  It smushed them together, with Shiro the squishy center.

It would be a lie to call it pleasant, but Shiro burst into delighted laughter anyway. “That’ll do.”

Even without the heater and the jackets, Shiro would have felt very, very warm right now.

[pinknerdpanda]

Bad Blood - Part 3

Characters: Reader, Roy!Benny, Dean, Sam

Summary: You stop at a small cafe in Louisiana on your way home from hunting with the Winchesters. There is something about the man behind the counter that makes you hungry for more than just the pie.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, Language

Word Count: 1535

A/N: This is Part 3 and I am working on part 4. Beta’d by the always fabulous and wonderful and genius @wheresthekillswitch! *resists singing “You light up my life”* :) Your feedback is so appreciated!

Missed part 1 and need to catch up?  You can read part 1 here. Missed part 2 and need to catch up?  You can read part 2 here.

Tags are below the cut - please send me an ask if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list! :)

Bad Blood

Part 3 Guidry’s Cajun Cafe - Carencro LA “Son of a bitch,” you mutter, head still spinning. “Who the hell is calling me now?”

Roy follows the sound, digging your phone from your purse and glancing at it before handing it to you. His eye go wide and he stops, hand in midair, eyes locked on the ringing device.

“What Roy? What’s the matter?”

“Just exactly how d’ you know Dean Winchester?”

Your thoughts are spiraling out of control, each one cutting a little deeper than the last. Your breath comes out in short huffs and the dizziness, originally brought on by the blood loss is beginning to overwhelm you as your vision starts to grow dim. You vaguely register Roy’s voice calling your name, panic sharpening his tone. His blue eyes, a frantic expression darkening their depths, are the last thing you see before the darkness swallows you completely.

-----

“What the hell’s going on, Benny?” Dean’s rough, whiskey cut voice echos in your ears as you begin to stir and you suck in a deep breath.

“Dean, look! She’s waking up.” Your eyes flutter open as Sam’s large hand goes to move the strands of your hair from your face. His hazel eyes are dark with anger and concern. You try to sit up, pausing as the room begins to tilt slightly.

“Whoa, there, y/n. Easy, tiger.” Dean comes to kneel beside you on the floor, his lips are curled in a grin, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump and you know the smile is for your benefit alone.

“I’m gonna go call Garth and let him know we found her,” Sam stands and you hear the thud of the screen door hitting it’s frame as he exits the cafe.

You glance around, confused, as you lean back against the bar. You are on the floor and you blink hard trying to remember how you got there.

Your gaze falls to Roy and your memories of the evening come rushing back. Heat fills your cheeks and you glance down, surprised to find you are not completely naked. You decide Roy must have put your shirt and underwear on for you. Or maybe it was Sam and Dean?

Sam and Dean.

“What are you doing here, guys?” Your voice sounds like shit in your own ears.

“We were a couple of hours away from town when the Sheriff called hours out of town. He said they found another body, same as the others. Asked us to head back to Baton Rouge and take a look. I tried calling you, but when you didn’t answer, I had Garth track the GPS on your phone.” Dean’s jaw twitches again as he throws a glare back towards Roy. “Benny here was just about to explain what happened. Isn’t that right?”

“Dean. Stop. Who’s Benny?” You don’t mean to sound so pissed, but your head is throbbing and you don’t understand what to make of Dean’s tone.

You hear someone clear their throat and you look up to find Roy’s blue eyes locked on you, his face expressionless.

“He means me, cher.” He’s talking so low, it’s hard to hear him. “My name’s Benny, but roun’ here folks...well...they call me Roy.”

“Wait. Do you know each other?” You shake your head before glancing between Dean and Roy...er...Benny.

“I could ask you the same question.” Dean’s voice is flat, but his words are clipped and he refuses to look at you.

“Yeah well, I asked first Winchester. So spill.”

“Yeah, Benny and I know each other. We, uh, fought together a while back. I didn’t know exactly where he’d ended up after the last time I saw him, but apparently he’s been here, slinging hash and serving gumbo.” Something about the look on Dean’s face makes you wonder how much of what he just said is true. You look back at Benny for confirmation.

“It’s true. Dean and I go way back.” There is a hint of warning in Benny’s tone as he looks hard at Dean, unblinking.

“So is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Dean moves to stand and you can see he is quickly loosing his last shreds of patience.

Too bad. You’re the one on the floor, half naked and probably concussed, being interrogated. Not to mention the fact that Dean is obviously hiding something. If anyone gets to loose their patience tonight, it sure as hell isn’t him.

“What does it look like happened here Dean?” you spit back indignantly.

“It looks to me like Benny here decided not to keep up his end of our deal,” Dean growls. His body is rigid as his eyes lock onto your neck, your cheeks burn and you reach up self consciously, trying to hide the marks Benny left there. Dean’s right hand is dangling conspicuously close to where his machete is usually stowed as he turns back to Benny. “But what I can’t figure out is why.”

“Look, it ain’t like tha’, brotha.” Benny stiffens at Dean’s accusatory tone.

“What’s it like then? You gonna stand there and tell me that she asked you to bite her?” Dean moves until he is inches from Benny’s face, the air between them practically crackling with pent up aggression.

“I did.” Those two small words fall from your lips before you can stop yourself.

“What?” Dean practically whispers as he turns to face you.

“I wanted him to bite me, Dean.”

The silence that fills the room is thick and it feels like an eternity before any one of you even blinks. It’s Dean who breaks first.

“Wanna run that by me again, princess?” His mouth is set in a grim line as he glares down at you.

Anger burns in your eyes, knowing he deliberately used the one nickname you hate, just to piss you off. You open your mouth to speak, but Dean cuts you off.

“So you knew? Knew he was a vampire. And you let him fuck you anyway?” Condescension drips from his lips with every word.  “And not just that. No, that wasn’t enough. No you decided, what? To let the fanger have a little bedtime snack? Do you even realize how many levels of fucked up that is, y/n?”

You stand too quickly, swaying slightly before regaining your footing and narrowing your eyes at Dean.

“Listen here, you little self righteous prick. What part of this is ANY of your damn business anyway? Obviously you knew what he was and you let him live. I thought you were Dean-fucking-Winchester. I was let to believe there was no grey area for you where vamps are involved, and yet here he stands. So why don’t you get down off your damn high horse and back the fuck off.” You didn’t realize your feet had been moving until you find yourself nearly chest to chest with the green-eyed hunter.

The door bursts open and Sam rushes in. “Guys, we have a problem.” You take a step back, turning to Sam as he continues.  “Sheriff called again - they have 2 more vics. Whoever we missed from that nest in Baton Rouge is moving fast. We need to get back there. Now.”

“Wait, Baton Rouge? You been huntin’ vampires there?” Benny moves to stand beside you, his nearness sends a trickle of warmth through your body.

“Not that it concerns you, but yes. We took out a nest there three days ago with y/n.” Dean rubs a hand over his stubbled cheek, obviously trying to regain his composure. “What, you know them?”

“Unfortunately, I do. About a week ago, maybe two, there was a couple of ‘em that came through town. Stopped by the cafe here, tryin’ to get me to join they lil’ operation. The head-honcho over there ‘members me from the old days. They are a dangerous bunch. I can help.”  

Dean frowns as conflicted thoughts play across his face. Sam moves to stand beside his brother, leaning down to whisper in his ear but you are close enough that you can still hear him.

“Dean, you know how I feel about him, but we could use the extra set of hands.”

You feel Benny tense beside you. Dean looks at you, narrowing his gaze in thoughtful consideration.

“Fine. Sam you and y/n take her car. Benny, you’re with me. Get dressed. We are leaving now.”

“Excuse me? Who died and made you boss, Dean? I am fully capable of driving myself.” You take a few steps toward Dean and the floor starts to tilt beneath you as your head begins to swim again. You fall forward and Dean reaches out to catch you, grabbing your waist. The feel of his hands on you sends a shockwave throughout your body and you look up at him. His face is a mask of indifference, but you can’t help but notice the way his pupils are threatening to overtake the green of his eyes and how his nostrils flare. He releases you quickly, taking a step backward.

“I think you just answered your own question. But for the record I think you’ve more than proven that you’re not exactly the poster child for sound judgement, so for the rest of this hunt, I will be calling the shots. You gotta problem with that? Tough shit.”  Dean turns on his heel and storms outside.

“I’ll be in the car, please try to hurry.” Sam looks between you and the vampire, before following his brother out the door.

“Well, cher. Looks like things just got interesting.”

Read Part 4 Here

--------

Forever Tags (I love you guys!):

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[ravengirl94]

Angel in Blue Jeans

Summary: Dean falls in love with a cowgirl

Pairing: Dean x Cowgirl!Reader

Word Count: 1,700

Warnings: language

A/N: a little horse-y drabble I wrote recently. It’s sorta based on me (cringing as I wrote that) (I sort of hate myself for this) (gonna go hide) and my favorite horse. That’s why there are specifics like hair and eye color. Sorry. More parts, maybe? I have some ideas for it.

Dean hauled himself out of the impala with a grunt, muscles still protesting from the werewolf hunt a few days ago. The long car ride likely hadn't helped much, but it sounded like a pretty nasty shifter case so he and Sam had high-tailed it across the country to Wyoming. The most recent lead had them pulling onto a large farm to speak with a victim's brother. It was mid-afternoon, the sky a brilliant blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds. The sun was strong, but it was only May, so it wasn't too hot yet. Their work boots kicked up dust as they made their way down a wide path flanked by fencing, heading towards the large barn.

A rapid beating sound was the first thing Dean noticed. It was like thunder, approaching quickly from behind, making him flinch away. A horse flew by on the other side of the fence, a blur of black and white, kicking up a cloud of dust and obscuring his view. When it finally settled enough for him to see, the horse was on the far side of the ring already, still running. But his eyes didn’t linger on that horse, its powerful muscles straining to go, to run, to practically fly over the ground.

The girl on its back caught his entire soul in one fleeting glance.

She had a wild grin on her face, her hair flying out behind her in the breeze. Where anyone else would be terrified by the speed and the possible danger, she was laughing. She maneuvered the horse around the ring easily, proving that despite their speed, she was the one in control. The horse obeyed her every thought, and she hardly had to move where she sat on its back even as it turned this way and that, clearly following unspoken directions. 

It was like time slowed down as Dean watched her, stared as the horse worked around the ring. He stood there, entranced by the partnership, the teamwork, the power of that girl up there getting such a large creature to bend to her will. But it was more than that. It wasn't done by sheer force of will. There was trust there between them, an incredible unbreakable trust that could only be developed between man and beast, girl and horse. Her golden hair shone in the afternoon light, the belt buckle at her waist sparkling in the sun. She performed a number of maneuvers that Dean didn't understand, but whatever the horse did pleased her and she grinned, calling out praise and thumping him on the neck. With another pat, she shook out the reins and had the horse slow down to an easy walk.

"Can I help you?" She called, aiming the horse towards where Sam and Dean stood leaning on the fence.

"Howdy, ma'am," Dean blurted out through a wide grin, unable to help himself. He could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes as he turned away, dropping his face into his hand. But to Dean's surprise and delight, the girl giggled, an amused smile crossing her face, though she shook her head a little like she was embarrassed for him.

"Agents Turner and Bachman," Sam interrupted before Dean could say anything else stupid, flipping open his badge, "federal marshals."

"The sheriff know you're here?" She asked, shifting slightly in the saddle and stopping the horse right next to the fence. Her head tilted a little to the side as she asked, blue eyes squinting in the sunlight beneath her hat.

"Yeah, we've been by the station already," Sam replied again, giving Dean a subtle what is wrong with you glance.

"What's going on?" She asked suspiciously. The horse seemed interested as well, turning his head and reaching out his nose to sniff at them. He was a large animal, primarily white with large black splotches across his body. His head was dark, with a white stripe down his nose, ears pricked forward as he looked right at Dean. "Texas," the girl scolded gently when he got too close. The horse immediately pulled away, clearly understanding the gentle reprimand.

"We're looking for Ray Walker," Sam said, since Dean was too busy leering.

"Ray?" She echoed, those lush pink lips turning down into a frown, "I don't think I've seen him today, but I'll take you up to the barn." Without any visible cue, she moved the horse forward, walking along the path on the other side of the fence. Sam practically shoved Dean along, a stern expression on his face that told Dean his brother was not pleased with him. The girl got there before them and dismounted up by the barn, boots sending up a cloud of dust as she landed with a soft thud. She paused briefly, patting her horse on the neck and leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the nose that made Dean's heart flutter in his chest. Then she took the reins and walked off, away from them towards the large open door. Her jeans glittered in the afternoon light, drawing Dean's gaze down to her back pockets. He froze when he saw the angel wings embroidered there in tiny rhinestones, like heaven was pointing her out as his very own angel in blue jeans.

Dean watched her walk into the barn, taking down the safety chain across the opening to allow the horse through. He glanced up when Sam made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. Sam was scowling, mouth turned down in a frown and that line between his eyebrows tipping Dean off to his brother's aggravation.

"Dude get it together," Sam muttered, shaking his head before following the girl inside. Dean was way too excited that they were on a horse ranch, and that meant cowboys - one of his secret obsessions. There had been a lot of old western movies on the television while he was growing up, especially at Bobby's. Late nights with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood had given him a love for all things western, and now he was on an actual horse ranch, talking to a real cowgirl.

He stepped into the barn, taking off his sunglasses quickly as his eyes struggled to adjust to the relative dimness inside. The girl was pulling off the horse's bridle, only to replace it with a navy blue halter, to which she clipped a couple ropes - one on each side. Those ropes were secured to each wall, keeping the horse in place in the middle of the aisle. Sam and Dean followed, giving the horse a safe distance and trying to stay out of the girl's way. With every step she took, there was a soft jingle, and Dean looked down to find a large pair of spurs attached to her dusty cowboy boots.

"Awesome," he whispered with a grin, elbowing Sam. His brother was not amused, and rolled his eyes yet again.

Dean was distracted from his inappropriate cowgirl thoughts when the horse reached his nose out towards him, turning his head slightly to stare at Dean. It was a big horse, solidly built; nothing like those tall spindly things that did racing. His dark eyes seemed kind and curious as he watched Dean, making him take a careful step forward.

"You can touch him, you know," the girl said, an amused smile on her face, "he won't bite. And if he does, feel free to swat him. He knows better." She said the last part sternly, making the horse's ears swivel towards her. It was obvious he understood at least some of what she said.

Dean wasn't quite so sure about putting his hand near something with such big teeth, but he had to impress the pretty girl. Not to mention he fought monsters for a living, a horse was nothing…

So he stepped closer, the horse watching him with interest and sticking his nose out again. Sam looked on skeptically from nearby where he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The girl raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, pulling the saddle from the horse's back before vanishing through a nearby door. Emboldened by her casual attitude, Dean inched even closer and held out his hand, ready to jerk back at any moment. The horse sniffed at his palm, huffing warm breath and then nudging him, making Dean grin and turn to look at Sam.

"Congratulations Dean, you're petting a horse," Sam dead-panned, "you want a trophy or something?"

"I don’t see you near the big scary animal," Dean muttered, turning back as the horse craned his nose towards Dean's jacket. The horse nudged at him, making Dean flinch. "What… dude buy a guy dinner first…"

"So I just checked with Charlie, the manager, and Ray isn't here today," the girl said, returning and moving to casually pick up one of the horse's feet, "He was supposed to be, but he didn't show up. Is everything okay?" She paused before moving to the next foot, looking at Sam and Dean with concern in her bright blue eyes.

"Ray's brother was found dead yesterday," Dean blurted, making Sam sigh. The girl's mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened.

"Holy shit…" she whispered, leaning to rest her forearm against her horse, "what happened?"

"It's currently an open investigation," Sam informed her, "we just had some routine questions for Ray. Do you happen to have his home address?"

"Um yeah, he lives down on Farmington. Big yellow house, you can't miss it."

"Thanks. We should be going," Sam said pointedly, giving Dean a look before heading back outside into the sunshine. The girl was watching Dean, studying him like she was trying to figure something out. Or maybe she was just waiting for him to say something.

"Listen, uh…" Dean began, reaching into his jacket to pull out a business card. Something made him flip it over and scrawl his cell number on it before holding it out to her. "If you think of something, or you need anything… give me a call."

"What if I don't think of anything?" She asked, eyes looking slightly mischievous.

"Call me," Dean repeated with a grin, "I'm Dean by the way."

"Y/N," she said, returning his smile and patting the horse on the side, "and this is Tex."

"It was nice meeting both of you. See you around," Dean said before hurrying off to catch up with Sam, who was halfway back to the car.

Everything Tags: @avengers4thewin @emoryhemsworth @ashleygee16 @dekahg @eileenlikesyou-maybe @fandommaniacx @deanssweetheart23 @babybrreena @theginamariestaytion @ria132love @docharleythegeekqueen @acreativelydifferentlove @maddieburcham1 @catghigleri @viahalsvy @maui137 @pureawesomeness001 @hbenth @imaginesofdreams @delessapeace-blog @mogaruke

Dean Tags: @summer-binging-spn @amoreagron @angelwingsandsupernaturalthings @supernatural-jackles @be-amaziing @anokhi07 @ruprecht0420 @tornjeansandabrokenheart @karrueda 

[qqueenofhades]

The Dark Horizon: Chapter XXXVII

summary:  AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXVI

The hangings started soon after nine o’clock. From their vantage in the trees, Jack, Anne, and Emma could see the line of prisoners marched out into the square, fettered at wrist and ankle, and up onto the gallows by redcoats with muskets, four at a time. A periwigged lawyer read the indictment, a further few soldiers pulled down the heavy hemp nooses and placed them around the necks of the condemned, and to the accompaniment of a long tattoo of drums, the captain pulled the lever. Four pairs of feet dropped through the trapdoor, four ropes jerked, and four men, if they were lucky, died more or less instantly. Of the three sets already accomplished, at least two of them had strangled slowly, jerking and kicking, until boys from the crowd darted forward and hung onto their legs, in hopes of breaking their necks faster and earning a few pennies for the service. Once they were finally dead by one means or another, they were cut down and piled into a cart, the ropes were restrung, and the process began again. Clearly, the intent was not to leave the corpses up to rot, but rather to impress the efficiency and extent of the operation. That the British army and Governor Woodes Rogers could hang all the pirates they wanted, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. That they were very much going to wish that they had not decided to throw the offer of clemency back in his face. That now, regrettably, they had made him angry. Very angry.

It could not have escaped anyone, whether the soldiers or the men being hanged, that they had simply had the spectacular bad luck to be caught on the wrong side of events outside their control: they had turned themselves in as pirates in due course, expecting pardons like everyone else, but today that meant a noose around the neck, rather than a parchment in hand. If it was intended to stoke resentment against the diehards who kept fighting and resisting English authority, that their brash and ill-advised actions were forcing their fellows to suffer in retribution, it might have done that very well. Twelve – no, make that sixteen – men had died by the time the executions were temporarily called to a halt at noon, and Anne was pacing relentlessly, white and sick with rage. “Can’t believe I missed the shot on Rogers. Two inches lower, I kill the fucking bastard, not just scalp ‘im. Then none of this would be happening.”

“It’s not your fault,” Rackham said, running a distracted hand through his hair. “They’re punishing us for rescuing Hook, and Charles’ fiery destruction of their blockade, not just Rogers’ injury – though I don’t doubt that’s part of it. This is the catch in the bargain. Either we all should have taken the pardons when we had the chance, or they’ll grind us into dust.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to risk yourselves.” Emma swallowed heavily, trying to look away; even at a distance, the scene was grisly, as the last of the sixteen men had all had lingering, painful ends. She tried to stop her ears to the sound of chopping as they were cut down for the gravedigger’s cart. “If I could have gotten Killian out any other way – ”

“No,” Killian said hoarsely, eyes closed, from where he had been settled in a makeshift hammock between two palms. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to propose we treat with Rogers. But I thought – he was my acquaintance from Bristol, I didn’t realize. . .”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Rackham said, after a moment. “We had to distract him somehow, and at least we got the gold dug up and moved aboard the Jolie Rouge. If you’re able to make it back across the island, we can. . .” He hesitated. Clearly, sailing away with Vane’s treasure aboard their uneasily shared vessel would result in Vane being very angry when he got back from Charlestown (if he got back from Charlestown), and there was nowhere for them to go that was certain, or even very likely, to be safe. They could find some remote island and hope to hide out until the English got bored and went away, but that was signally unlikely. Besides, with such provocation as this, the whiff of decay starting to reek ripe in the hot wind, nobody felt in any mood for running like cowards. It had been intended to frighten or guilt them into surrendering, but it was having decidedly the opposite effect.

“Still, though,” Rackham went on, voicing their dilemma. “Charles has helpfully smashed up half their fleet, yes, but they have at least six ships still in fighting order, and while the Jolie could most likely take out a few more, we’d eventually be overcome. They could hang all of Nassau while we were brawling it out in the harbor, and finish up with us. We need more help.”

“We need Flint and Sam back here.” Emma sat down on the log next to Killian. “Vane might retrieve Flint, and if Sam finds David Nolan – ”

“We’d still need more men,” Rackham completed. “Even if Blackbeard finished up in Antigua and returned as well, we have no army, and no obvious place to acquire one.”

“There might be, though.” Killian sat up slowly, grimacing and wiping his mouth, as Emma regarded him anxiously. “Remember when we were crossing the interior of the island and needed to avoid the plantations? There must be a few hundred – or more – slaves on those. Slaves who have no reason to love their brutal English masters any more than the pirates do, and we already have someone who could talk to them. Lancelot and his men are still on the Jolie. If we send them to approach the slaves, sniff out the possibility of an uprising – ”

Anne, Jack, and Emma all stared at him. “That’s your plan?” It was clear that Rackham couldn’t decide whether to be more impressed or incredulous. “Provoke all of New Providence’s slaves into throwing off their chains and joining forces with us?”

“Do you have any other ideas about where we could find a force of similar size and motivation, in the very short time we have?” Killian’s eyes were fierce. Emma knew that this was personal for him, the former slave, the man so deeply scarred by the experience that it still informed everything he was and did and felt, the boy held in indenture and captivity and the price that Liam had paid to free them. “I realize that I myself am not the most popular individual among them right now, for what I. . . what I did to Ursula, but Lancelot – ”

“That’s a dangerous favor you’re asking,” Rackham said, frowning. “He’s a good quartermaster, I don’t want to hang him out like a hog for slaughter – ”

“He and his men left the Maroons’ island because they wanted to fight their tormentors. Not just hide away in safety.” Killian let out a long sigh. “It was in the bargain we struck. And the alternative is sitting here and continuing to watch the hangings, doing nothing, hoping Flint or Sam or Vane or someone gets back in time to pull our arses out of the fire. I don’t know about you, but after what I went through yesterday thanks to bloody Rogers and Jennings, I’m not inclined to do that. We need to try.”

“Can you make it across the island to the Jolie again?” Emma asked worriedly. They had patched him up as best they could, but he was still in no shape for extended travail, or really much travail at all. “If someone saw us, if the redcoats caught up. . .”

“Then you’ll give me a gun and I’ll die fighting.” Killian continued to hold her gaze. “I’m not in the mood for peaceable surrender, Swan. I doubt you are either.”

“I can try to find us horses,” Anne said. “Riding back’d be faster n’ walking.”

Rackham shot her an anxious glance, as he was clearly not sure that this was the time to risk horse thievery on top of every other outrage they had committed recently, but also forced to admit that likewise, one more thumb of their noses at English authority could hardly make much difference. They were destined to hang one way or the other, so they might as well be sure that they had thoroughly earned it. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Be careful, won’t you?”

Anne gave him a look as if to say that she was offended that he thought she would be anything but, and disappeared without delay into the underbrush. Left to wait until she returned, Jack and Emma did their best to ensure that Killian was ready to travel, which was mostly an academic exercise; either he would or he wouldn’t. They sat tensely, ready to spring up at any sign of trouble, until the sound of clip-clopping presaged the reappearance of Anne, riding one dusty-looking horse and leading another on a short rein. She swung down with a look of grim satisfaction as Rackham, spotting the fresh bloodstains on her coat, rushed over. “You’re not – ?”

“Not mine. Took these off a pair of redcoat messengers. Figured wherever they was going, best they didn’t get there.” Anne smiled sourly. “Cut their throats, so they won’t bring their news one way or the other. There’s this, though.” She thrust a crumpled parchment at Emma, clearly filched from the saddlebags. “What’s it say?”

Emma broke the seal and scanned the slanted, hasty scrawl. “It’s from Rogers,” she said, mouth dry. “A notice that the pirates have broken the king’s peace and nullified the offer of pardons, and that he will be applying appropriate disciplinary measures until Charles Vane’s outrageous actions are fully recompensed. Bloody hell, it’s addressed to Gold. Lord Robert Gold. He says that he has been wounded in the discharge of his duty, but not life-threateningly, and is asking for more reinforcements to be sent from Antigua at once.”

They glanced at each other sidelong as the implications of the letter sank in, and the fact that indeed, on no account could it be allowed to reach its destination. It was clear that Rogers regarded the events of yesterday as tantamount to a declaration of open war by the pirates on the Crown, and as such, would not scruple in doing this the hard way, no matter if he might be personally inclined to a quick and bloodless takeover. Especially since Vane was the main culprit, and as Eleanor was now sleeping with and siding with Rogers and her love-hate relationship with Vane had turned entirely to hate, that added a personal kick in the teeth to the whole thing. In his audience with Killian and Emma, Rogers had told them that he was not necessarily bound to follow Gold’s dictates without question, but obviously there would be tighter cooperation between the two English governors in the wake of one attempted uprising. Trying a second, to rouse the slaves of New Providence to fire and fury, would mean still harsher penalties. If they failed, even the very memory of their existence might be eradicated.

There was another pause as they considered this. Then Killian said, “Well? Are we going?”

“I didn’t steal the horses to look at ‘em.” Anne crossed the clearing and gave him a hand to his feet, a small but significant gesture given the fact that she even as recently as a few days ago had still not trusted him, and from the look on Killian’s face, it was clear that he recognized it. He nodded briefly in thanks, steadying himself on the nearer of the horses, as Emma came to mount it. She then hauled him up behind her, as Jack clambered up behind Anne on the other one. With a final glance around to ensure that their exit was not observed, they cantered off.

Even with horses, the trip back was still a delicate prospect, as they could not be sure how far the English had proceeded in expanding their presence beyond their tenuous foothold in Nassau Town. The colonists in the interior might well be on heightened alert, guarding against any such potential slave revolt as the news of Vane’s memorable exit trickled in, and as Lancelot and the Maroons could not visit all of the plantations at once, garnering their support would by no means be an easy or immediate process. If that did not work, well. . . Emma supposed that they wouldn’t have much choice but to sail away in the Jolie, God knew where, with the Spanish treasure in the hold. In that scenario, Vane’s wrath would be literally the least of their problems.

It was not much less of a chore than last time, but they finally came into sight of the Jolie, anchored where they had left her on the far side of the island, and picked a cautious course down to the beach. They picketed the horses in the mangroves and hailed the ship, which sent the launch out to retrieve them, and there were noticeable murmurs of concern as Killian had to be helped onto the deck. No matter their new career and command under Rackham, these were, after all, largely still his old men who had followed him into piracy to avenge his mistreatment at the hands of Gold and Jennings. They were thus, to say the least, not at all impressed to hear that Jennings (and Rogers) had had the chance for a second extensive go-round. “Jesus. Isn’t that vile bastard ever going to have the fucking good sense to die?”

“Doubtful,” Killian said grimly. “The Devil Himself was never going to be easy to kill.”

Someone muttered that they weren’t sure even the Devil was as bad as Jennings – which, all things considered, Emma was inclined to agree with. News of the ongoing imbroglio in Nassau was likewise not well received. The Jolie’s crew wanted to know what was going to be done. Surely they weren’t just intended to sit and twiddle their thumbs, and as former Navy sailors themselves, they wanted a crack at their own revenge. Emma had wondered if any of them might have second thoughts, consider going back over to their old employers as things were going from bad to worse for the pirates, but as all the men who wanted to return to the Navy had already mutinied and been killed or imprisoned, the only ones left were the diehards who were  determined to cling to their new lives at any cost. Even if they were outnumbered, they had sixty guns. They could assuredly cause a great deal of further trouble in Nassau Harbor, still reeling from Vane’s inaugural volley. Their vote was to proceed to a second attack at once.

Given this atmosphere of heated bloodlust, it was therefore a bit of a finicky matter for Killian to suggest that Lancelot and the Maroons try to recruit help from the interior plantations. There were hisses of disapproval – surely they weren’t just going to wait and see whether a bunch of slaves decided to fight for them? Pirates were dying right now, likely more if the executions had recommenced after their midday lull. Nobody else was around to handle it. Why not them?

“We’ll think about it.” Killian was clearly aware that trying to keep a lid on this for too long would be dangerous, and he glanced at Lancelot. “Do you think there’s any chance?”

“Of persuading the slaves to join us?” The Maroon quartermaster weighed his words carefully. “Some of them might want to fight, yes. But farmhands with threshing knives and pitchforks are no match for trained redcoats with muskets and bayonets. Can you protect them from the wrath of their overseers and the British army together?”

“No,” Killian said simply. “Not if we lose. Then again, we’ll all die if we lose, and what’s the alternative? Dying in bondage?”

“They’ll have family members on other plantations,” Lancelot warned. “The owners do that for exactly this reason: dissuading them from starting revolts. If one plantation rises up, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, sons, daughters on the others will be punished. Hating the same masters isn’t enough on its own for them to fight with the pirates. There’s only one captain that we know and trust as a consistent friend to us, and that, Hook, is not you.”

“Who?” Emma asked, having more than an inkling.

“Sam Bellamy,” Lancelot confirmed. “If I approached the slaves in his name, could swear by what he has done for the Maroons and that he would be a wise choice to ally with. . . well, as I said, it would still be no sure thing, but there might at least be a chance. The obvious difficulty being, of course, that he is not here on Nassau, and we have no idea when he might be again, if at all. And I can hardly ask them to risk their lives for the possibility of his return.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled look. Their odds, already slim, seemed to be whittled thinner at every turn, and since Killian was still not the captain of the Jolie, he did not possess the authority to order and enforce any course of action anyway. As he turned aside to cough, with an unpleasant squelching sound, Emma could see splatters of blood on his sleeve where he pressed it to his mouth. He was bearing up well, because that was Killian for you; his own suffering was unimportant when there was so much else to worry about, and because he had grown so used to squashing it down and foraging bravely onward. It was clear, however, that his working-over by Rogers and Jennings had been dishearteningly thorough, and just as Emma was not entirely repaired from childbirth, Killian was not in much state to be leading any skirmish parties. They could be reasonably certain that Sam would decide to rejoin them once he made contact with David, or even if he didn’t, but as he did not know that the place was occupied by the British, he could sail in with too little caution and wind up as a fat prize for Rogers. Given that Sam had already just escaped hanging by the very skin of his teeth, nobody was in any hurry for him then to be trapped in a similar situation for the second time.

Nonetheless, they could not sit here and do nothing, they could not approach the slaves without Sam, they could not let any of their friends arrive unprepared, they could not stray too far from Nassau, and nor could they permit Rogers’ request for reinforcements, and information in the situation to reach Gold. Therefore, after a rather rancorous caucus, the vote was taken to strike out and try to intercept any of the surviving Navy ships that might be setting sail to Antigua. Anne had killed the messengers, but that alone was no certainty of stopping the news from traveling, and in fact might have provoked another round of retaliatory hangings, if their bodies had been discovered. So the Jolie weighed anchor and moved out from the lee of the island, into the lengthening shadows of evening. They would have to do this carefully, if they did not want to tip off the British as to their presence. Moved into the sea lane south of Nassau, and waited.

A few uneasy hours passed. There was nothing but dark, empty water and the moon rising brilliant overhead. Then someone shouted, a pinprick of lanterns appeared on the horizon, and through the spyglass, they spotted an oncoming frigate, flying full canvas and clearly in a tearing hurry. This, then, would be the target. Had to catch it up and take it down.

The Jolie had snuffed all her own lanterns, so the other ship would have no warning or advance notice of their presence, unless they were watching very hard. Rackham and Killian ordered the guns loaded, as quietly as possible, and directed the men to their stations. Holding, holding, until the frigate was so close that it seemed impossible for them to remain a secret an instant longer. Then, and only then, did they raise their voices to bellow the command in unison. “FIRE!”

The night lit up like an inferno as the full might of the Jolie’s broadside spoke their piece, screaming and hailing into the Navy frigate at nearly point-blank range. There were howls of rage and shock from the other ship, crashes and splinters as they struggled to get to their own guns; they had, of course, had no idea that there was any other pirate vessel remotely nearby now that Vane had buggered off so dramatically. By that time, the Jolie had a second volley prepared, and one of the heavy thirty two-pounders struck a direct hit on the mast. Five minutes later, the ludicrously one-sided battle was over, the frigate slewed and shattered, smoking and gutted, the Union Jack ripped clean through with chain shot and sprawled on the deck. It, however, was not about to be left to peaceably sink. The Jolie drew up directly alongside, and the men threw ropes and grapnels, binding the damaged ship to them. Then they slid down and landed on the deck with whoops and hollers, brandishing pistols and cutlasses, as the stunned Navy sailors did their best to mount any kind of defense. This, likewise, did not last long.

Killian and Emma, neither in much fit state to fight themselves, watched from the deck of the Jolie as the officer who looked to be in command (or else had been abruptly promoted) was forced to his knees at the point of a gun. “What’s your name? What ship is this?”

“Go to hell, pirate scum.”

This answer earned him the crack of a musket butt across the face. “Try again.”

The young officer watched them mutinously, blood trickling into his eyes, as the rest of the Jolie’s crew continued to round up survivors. Finally he spoke with coldly correct decorum. “My name is Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, of HMS Halifax. You brigands have assaulted and destroyed a ship of the Royal Navy and deepened your already unforgivable crimes against – ”

“How many men did that shit Woodes Rogers hang?”

Lieutenant Geoffrey hesitated briefly, but apparently saw no need to hold back with this particular piece of intelligence. “Twenty-four all told,” he spat. “Sixteen in the morning, and eight more before evening. And when he hears of this immensity, I don’t doubt he’ll hang at least as many again.”

“I don’t doubt you’re right.” The Jolie’s men appeared to be enjoying this, even as a faint shiver went through Emma. Lieutenant Geoffrey looked almost hauntingly like Killian had, down to the dark ponytail and searing blue eyes, now standing among the wreck of his ship and life – a man who, if he lived, might choose the same method of revenging himself, from the other side of the coin. Does this ever end, or only go in circles, devouring itself and reborn from the ashes? “Which is why we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t. First, though. We’re going to hang twenty-four of your men, and you get to watch.”

At Emma’s side, Killian made a convulsive movement. He started to say something, then stopped. The similarity could not have escaped him, or the fact that he had no authority, real or imagined, to stop this. His hand tightened white on the railing, as Emma reached over to take automatic hold of his hook. They could not do much more than watch as the ringleader of the Jolie men ordered the others to fashion nooses out of the torn rigging and shrouds of the Halifax, force the Navy sailors into them, and string them up to dangle grotesquely among the hellish glow of the smoldering ship. “We’re Captain Hook’s men,” one of them happily informed the sailor he was in the business of vigorously strangling. “We did Antigua and Jamaica before, you know. Murdered the whole fucking lot of the Navy out here, so the fucking Admiralty had to send you cunts in replacement, and now we’ve done for you too. Funny, eh?”

At that, Killian could no longer hold back. He had of course wanted the loyalty of the Jolie’s crew again, jealously and reflexively tried to pull it back from Rackham, but was clearly being starkly reminded of why he had traded it away in the first place, how he could not go on in this life while building anything remotely real and true and good with Emma. For this, he wanted no part of the credit. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “Bloody hell, you bastards, stop! We don’t need to do it like this!”

Heads turned to look at him still up on the Jolie’s deck, white-faced and furious. There was a brief and evident confusion, as the men clearly saw no good reason why Hook himself would stop them from doing terrible things to the Navy, especially when that had been his raison d’être in the heat and madness of his fall. Rogers had hanged twenty-four pirates; they should be, at the least, perfectly entitled to hang twenty-four Navy sailors in return, as well as repaying Killian’s torture at the hands of Rogers and Jennings. But Emma felt, as deeply as Killian must, how sorely he did not want this to go on, the sordid exchange of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, blood and vengeance and violence on either side until it no longer was clear which of them was in the right, or if there was any call to pride themselves on being better than Jennings in any way. Killian remained where he was, staring down at them, as his gaze locked with Lieutenant Geoffrey’s. “I am Captain Hook,” he said. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.”

“I have, sir.” The lieutenant spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And indeed, what you and your mongrels feel justified in doing to the king’s men, especially since you so foully turned your coat and joined the king’s enemies.”

Killian did not rise to the bait or appear inclined to fight with the young man. “I apologize,” he said, not loudly, but his voice still carrying on the night wind, “for what we’ve done to you.”

“Queer hour for it.” Half the lieutenant’s face was starting to turn black and blue from where he had been clubbed with the musket, but he was still holding onto his dignity for all he was worth.

“So it is, at that.” Killian inclined his head fractionally, then turned to regard the Jolie’s men still on the deck, interrupted from the business of hanging the Halifax’s. Again he said, “Enough.”

“We can’t leave them alive, Captain. Can’t let them tell Gold or Rogers or anyone what we – ”

“Their ship’s destroyed, they’re not going anywhere anyway. It’s a bloody long swim back to Nassau from here, but I suppose they might try. Still, though.” Killian shrugged. “If you do want to cross me, you’re welcome to do it, if you really think that’s wise. Otherwise, you’ll get back on the Jolie now, and await further orders from myself and Captain Rackham.”

More glances were exchanged. The moment hung from a tenuous thread. Killian had already been disastrously mutinied upon once before, after all, and he could well be inviting it again. But after a very long moment, slowly, his men – if grudgingly – did as ordered. They left off from their grisly work, climbed the ropes from the Halifax back onto the Jolie, and cut the lines loose, backing water. Without the Jolie’s support, the smaller ship quickly began to list and veer, too damaged to sail but not quite ravaged enough to sink. It was there that it was left, as if for the fates to decide how to play with it. The Jolie put up her canvas again, taking the wind a few leagues south and east until they were well out of sight, and the night was dark and calm again.

Killian blew out a long, ragged breath, as Emma could feel both Jack and Anne watching them. She was unsure whether they concurred with the decision or not. Rackham was not innately bloodthirsty, preferring to talk his way out of tight corners rather than fight, and while Anne had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary, she was not of a temperament for the unnecessary. All she said, however, was, “You sure of that? They tell someone, and we’ll – ”

“Their ship isn’t going anywhere, and we’re far enough away from Nassau that Rogers and his ilk will assume they’re on their way to Antigua to warn Gold.” Killian looked at her calmly. “I was not interested in being the justification for another massacre. The war does not hang on whether or not we killed them.”

Anne considered this for a moment, still inscrutable. Then she jerked her head once and turned away, heading for the cabin, as Jack paused, then followed her. Killian and Emma themselves made their way down to a berth below, crawling in together with a mutual sigh of pain and devoutly grateful to stop moving. Fearful of hurting him further, but still wanting to be close to him, Emma nestled her head onto his chest, and he moved his hand up to stroke her hair. Into the quiet, she said, “You did the right thing.”

“I did what was before me. No more. No less.” He shifted with a sigh, looking up at the low ceiling. “I don’t know if there’s anything that’s right any more.”

Emma didn’t answer, keeping her head on his chest, resting her hand on his stomach as if to be sure that he was still solid, had not been broken or dissolved in the ether. There was not much more either of them could manage in their respective enfeebled states, but they nuzzled together nonetheless, arms around each other, and fell asleep.

They were woken early the next morning by the sound of thumps and shouts and general industrious clamor from above, which briefly led them to fear that they had been boarded or ambushed unawares in the night, until they glanced out the porthole, saw the familiar shape of another ship, and then practically fell out of the berth in their haste to jump out and sprint topside. They emerged into a warm, salty summer morning, and thus saw possibly the most wonderful sight of their whole lives: the Whydah anchored alongside, and Sam Bellamy, deeply sun-browned and salt-lashed black hair spilling out of its untidy ponytail, leaning against the railing of the Jolie in intent conversation with Jack. At Killian and Emma’s entrance, he looked up, then grinned. “Miss me, eh?”

Both of them rushed as fast as was physically possible across the boards, and he hugged them each with one arm, holding tightly. He kissed Emma’s head, then Killian’s, and stepped them back to have a proper look. “I heard what that bastard did to you, Killian. Are you – ?”

“Aye. Better now. Fine.” Killian hugged him again. “Did you find Nolan? What’s going on? Did Jack tell you about the idea with Lancelot and the others, that you could – ”

“One thing at a time. Aye, I managed to cross paths with the Windsor, and – well.” Sam pulled a wrinkled parchment out of his pocket, sealed with the golden wax and signet of Lord Robert Gold’s personal correspondence. “David gave me this. Something he was supposed to carry for Gold, but. . .well. He was persuaded that I could make better use of it. He also apparently refused the posting to Nassau with the rest of the fleet, said he should most properly return to Boston and resume his station there. I don’t know if he’ll fight for us, but he won’t fight against us.”

Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as this was at least better news than the worst. The Windsor matched the Jolie in guns, after all, and could have given them considerable difficulty if David Nolan decided that no matter what, he was honor-bound to follow the Navy’s orders. “What’s the letter?” Killian said instead. “Have you had a look?”

“Aye. It makes no bloody sense – it’s in some kind of cipher. Not surprising, since Gold knows his mail might be intercepted and read by anyone before it makes it to its destination. Have a crack, though, if you think you might be able to make some sense of it.”

“I will at that,” Killian said distractedly, taking the parchment as Sam handed it over. “Did you hear of what’s. . . going on in Nassau? Aside from my misfortunes, that is?”

Sam’s lips tightened. “Aye,” he said again. “And that Vane gutted half of the Navy’s power there, but there’s still far too much left for comfort, and that Woodes Rogers has made himself a most dangerous enemy. As for the plan you mentioned with Lancelot, well, I’ll need to speak with him. Could be we can pull something together, but it’ll be dangerous.”

“Not surprising, surely. On your sailing, have you. . . had any news of Charlestown?”

Sam hesitated. “Nothing definite,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment. “There was a packet boat, though, we caught it up late last night, shortly before we ran across you. Said that Lord Peter Ashe had some pirate lord or other in his custody, and he meant to make an. . . example.”

“Flint?” Emma said urgently. “Vane left just a few days ago, he can’t have made it all the way to the Carolinas yet, unless he had a truly legendary wind at his back. Do they have Flint?”

“Christ, I hope not. But I was having a hard time thinking of who else it might be, and – wait. Did you say that Vane was going to Charlestown too? To save Flint, or kill him himself?”

“The former. I hope. We told him that the pirates had to join together, put aside old rivalries, that he needed to get to Flint and he was the only chance we had.” Emma’s stomach did an unpleasant somersault. “Did they say anything about a woman? Anything about Miranda?”

“No,” Sam said. “Nothing.”

“So they could still be alive, or they could both be dead.” Killian’s face was grim. “Or she’s dead, and they’re saving Flint for a spectacle. Jesus.”

“Vane might be able to get to him in time,” Emma said, more as an attempt to convince herself than anything. “But if Miranda – ”

She stopped. She did not want to think about a world without Miranda, the one blow that she had always known that neither she nor Flint would be able to bear. That so soon after giving up her daughter, losing her mother as well was utterly, unthinkably, unfathomably cruel. “Miranda has to be all right,” she said, in a sheer and simple statement that she rejected any circumstance whatsoever in which she wasn’t. “She has to be.”

Sam and Killian glanced at each other silently, as if trying to gird themselves, and her, for the fact that Miranda might well not be. Killian said, “Love – ”

Emma shook her head, as if to say that she did not want to hear otherwise, and he stopped. A heavy silence hung over the three of them, until Killian cleared his throat. “I’ll. . . have a look at this, then. Gold’s letter.”

They nodded distractedly, and he headed toward the cabin, limping, as Sam’s eyes followed him with concern. “It was worse than he’s letting on, wasn’t it?”

“I – don’t know exactly, Rogers and Jennings had him to themselves for most of the day, they threw me out.” Emma swallowed, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of guilt that she should have done more, done better. “I don’t think it was pleasant, though, no.”

Sam crunched a fist and hit the deck railing. “So it’s just trading off which one of us gets to be hurt the most by those bastards? Me, you, Killian, his brother, now Flint and Miranda? Bloody hell. I’m sorry you two had to go through that alone.”

Emma put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it would have made much difference,” she said quietly. “Killian didn’t talk to protect you and the others. If you’d been there, they would just have hurt you too, and you’ve had enough, Sam. You’ve had enough.”

He managed a lopsided smile. “I’d prefer to be hurt myself,” he said. “Rather than letting it happen to either of you. That’s easier to bear.”

They stood there in silence for several moments, looking back toward the Whydah. Then Emma said, “How’s Charlie?”

“Taking to the whole thing like a duck to water.” Sam raised a dark eyebrow. “Natural, really. Still, I can’t help but feel, doubtless like you, that a lad like him should have a better future than piracy – especially if Rogers is now hanging them by the wagonload. I tried to tell him he should go back to Virginia and resume his studies, but he doesn’t want to hear it now. He’s had a taste of this life, and he doesn’t want to give it up.”

Emma doubted that Charles Swan, invigorated by the thrilling experience of the very vocation he had once blamed her for partaking in, would be in any sort of temper to listen to his elder sister on this – the same paradox that Killian had faced in trying to call off the Jolie’s men from butchering the Halifax, the seeming inevitability of stopping the turn of the wheel and the repetition of the cycle. Still, though, Killian had tried, so she supposed she could not do any less with Charlie, as soon as she got a chance. She started to say something else, then stopped.

“How are you?” Sam asked, softer. “After – everything?”

“I’m. . . I’m fine.” Emma knew it sounded trite the instant it was out of her mouth, but even now, she didn’t think she could face up to admitting the weight of everything. Of the small, dull, impossible pain of missing Henry and Geneva, sometimes ignored but never vanquished, and the way her body seemed to feel the lingering wound, slow to heal or bounce back or be like it was before, knowing it couldn’t be. It was her turn to do her best brave smile for Sam. “Promise.”

He raised the other eyebrow, but knew her too well to press for anything more. Instead, he put a hand over hers on the railing, squeezed hard, and they stood there like that, not speaking, until they were at length interrupted by the reemergence of a flustered-looking Killian. “Here,” he said. “I might have found something.”

Emma and Sam turned around to bend over the parchment with him. As promised, most of it was an elaborate, crabbed cipher that they had little chance of decoding without the key, but the part that had attracted Killian’s interest was the small seal that Gold had inked at the bottom. It was a five-pointed star in a circle, with the Latin words camera stellata squeezed in tiny script around the boundary. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to a Mr Plouton, which sent a jolt like a lightning bolt through Emma. “Plouton – isn’t that the man who – ”

“Yes.” Killian’s lips were thin. “Gold’s friend, the crooked assurance agent from Bristol. The one that Liam made that infernal bargain with for our freedom. Sink the Benjamin Gunn for him, and he’d pay off our bonds and commissions. He was there at Gold’s mansion the night Liam and I were accused, when Jennings cut off my hand. So they’re more than business partners profiting off the misery and desperation of others. They’re fellow members in – this. Camera stellata. Star Chamber.”

“Star Chamber?” Sam blinked. “As in the Court of Star Chamber? Can’t be. It was disbanded. Over fifty years ago.”

“Wasn’t that the court started exactly in order to convict the rich and powerful of the crimes that a lower judiciary couldn’t hold them to account for?” Emma was not well versed on English law, but that name was sufficiently infamous that it did not take an expert to recognize. “Isn’t that an ironic organization for him to be a member of?”

“No,” Sam said. “Given that the Star Chamber became, especially under the Stuarts, an entity unto itself that could arbitrarily destroy anyone it pleased, a vessel for the personal tyranny of the monarch. King Charles the First used it in the eleven years he ruled without Parliament, a good deal of the reason they chopped the bastard’s head off and stuck Cromwell in there instead. As I said, though, it was disestablished by the Commonwealth – or it should have been. If Gold and Plouton have started it again, I doubt it answers either to King George or to the tattered, defeated remnants of the Jacobite cause.”

“So this would be it, then.” Killian looked almost feverish. “The answer to the question of who Gold is truly loyal to, and what he’s doing all this for. It’s not England, it’s not the Jacobites, it’s not Rogers and the army, it’s not the Navy, or even the Spanish. It’s none of that. It’s a shadowy secret society that thought it had the power and the right to overthrow even the mightiest people in the world, and answer to nobody in doing it.”

“Fitting,” Sam muttered.

“Aye.” Killian smoothed the parchment. “This is high treason. As Sam said, the Star Chamber was outlawed over half a century ago, and was well hated before it was. So we – what? Hand this over to Rogers as proof that he should be fighting Gold instead, order him deposed and dragged back to England in chains? I’m bloody well not going near him again.”

“I could, then,” Sam suggested. “If someone had to.”

“No,” Killian and Emma said together. “Absolutely not.”

“Very well. I can’t say I was terribly enthused by the idea either. I could give it back to David Nolan, though he might have set out for Boston already, but by the sound of things, I’m needed here to help Lancelot with rousing the slaves. Still. David is the only Navy captain with enough standing to make this accusation, the proven desire to listen to us, the power to arrest Gold, and get him back to London for trial. We need to tell him, not Rogers.”

“Emma and I could go,” Killian said slowly. “You stay here, Sam, with the Jolie, and we take the Whydah after David. If you’d agree, of course, but you’d need the firepower of the Jolie, and the Whydah’s considerably faster. Where’s Lord Archibald Hamilton, by the way?”

“He stayed on the Windsor. Found it a more congenial atmosphere than a pirate ship, even mine.” Sam looked wry. “David isn’t in a hurry to hand him in for being a Jacobite, so I suppose he sees it as his best option of winning back his position if this should all happen to blow over. I’d be willing to lend you the Whydah, aye, if that’s what you want to do. But are you sure we shouldn’t better stay here together, rather than splitting up again? Yes, if we can topple Gold, that’s the head of the snake, but the battle here on Nassau – ”

“If we don’t topple Gold now, we might never have the chance again.” Killian tightened his grip on the railing. “I hear you about not parting ways again so soon, believe me, but nothing is going to come of sitting on this, especially if David is still nearby. It can’t be that long of a voyage to catch him up and give this back. Any news of what Blackbeard might have done to Antigua?”

“No. I caught the Windsor at sea, we didn’t get near Antigua.” Sam glanced at him. “Meaning that if Blackbeard managed to sack it after all, Gold might be dead anyway, without us having to run this risk? Could be, but I doubt it. There were several ships left behind to guard it – the Navy is going to take absolutely no chances with a second incident like yours. If anything, Blackbeard could have sailed into a trap, expecting easy pickings, and met them all waiting for him.”

“Shit.” Killian ran a hand through his hair. “So that’s it, then? A quick voyage to overtake Nolan, hand this off, and then we return here. If Flint and Miranda don’ t – ” He stopped. “Well. We’ll have to fight with the two of us, then. It’s all we can do.”

“I suppose.” Sam didn’t look particularly more enthused, but also couldn’t demur. “All right. I’ll take you over to the Whydah and inform them of the arrangement. No sense, I suppose, in wasting time.”

That part, at least, was more or less straightforward. Killian and Emma boarded the Whydah, checked the charts against the last position where Sam said he and David had crossed paths, and determined they could most likely make it, assuming the wind cooperated, in a day or two. Sam, meanwhile, would stay with Jack and Anne on the Jolie, and confer with Lancelot as to whether there was any possibility of making contact with the slaves in the interior. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was the best they had, and now that it was decided on, they did not want to waste time dithering. With a final warning to the other to be careful, as if that would make any real difference, they raised canvas and set out.

The Whydah’s crew knew their business, and did not need Killian and Emma breathing down their necks, so they gracefully retired. Emma went to talk to Charlie and Killian went into the cabin, more thankful than he wanted to admit to lie down on the bed and not move. He ached all over, pummeled and bruised and raw, and as much as he had done his best not to make Emma and Sam worry, he still felt as if he might abruptly fly apart if a single thread snapped. It hurt to breathe too deeply, it hurt to close his eyes. He couldn’t pay undue heed to his own suffering when so much else was at stake, not yet, and he was still not convinced that he did not deserve it. The offenses on his account remained well outstanding, and what he had done last night was not, to his mind, terribly efficacious in settling the debt. There was still too much. Too much.

Killian dozed uneasily, too uncomfortable to slip under into real sleep, as the day whiled interminably away. They sailed hard, making up time on a strong nor’western, and as the Whydah was also faster than the Windsor, it seemed reasonably likely that they could overtake her soon if she was still bound for Boston. At some point he heard Emma come in, and wondered if he should wake up to talk to her, but that likewise seemed a considerable difficulty. She lay down next to him, quietly so as not to disturb him, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he should ask her to marry him. There was, as Blackbeard had asked him once, no chance he would meet someone he liked better, they already had a daughter, and perhaps Emma would want that, that promise, for whatever it could be worth. But they had watched Flint and Miranda married a few weeks ago, then promptly thrown into the maelstrom of Peter Ashe’s betrayal, and there was no surety that either of them were still alive. Asking Emma, with that as a precedent, and Killian’s own sense that he was nowhere near through atoning for his crimes and could not presume to have such happiness until he was, seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Eventually, sheer exhaustion must have dragged him under like a boulder around his ankle, because he woke in darkness with someone knocking on the door. “Captains? We think  we’ve sighted the Windsor. You’ll be needed.”

Gritty-eyed and sore to the bone, but at least devoutly grateful that something had bloody worked right for once, Killian pried himself upright with a tremendous effort of will. Emma sat up beside him, yawning and tousled, and he smiled at her quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before they made themselves more or less presentable and trudged out onto the deck. The night was clear, calm, and lucent with stars, and when he peered through the spyglass and agreed that it was indeed the Windsor, the crew moved to hail her. Killian thought of his last encounter with a Navy vessel, the sight of the burning Halifax and the men dangling in the rigging, and grimaced, pushing it away. He’d better bloody hope David Nolan did not know about that, or he might lose whatever slender tether of loyalty was binding him to assist, or at least not openly hinder, the pirates’ cause. Most of it must be because of Sam, anyway.

In either case, it was time for the moment of truth. As David appeared on the Windsor’s deck, somewhat confused to see the Whydah again and clearly expecting Sam, Killian stepped forward instead. “Captain Nolan?”

David blinked. “Killian Jones?”

“Aye. We’ve come to return something to you. You gave it to Sam the other day, and I, well, I had a look at it. If you can put off going back to Boston, there’s something for you to do.” Killian dug in his coat and produced Gold’s letter. He was aware that this was a fairly thin piece of evidence on its own, but David could swear that Gold had handed it to him personally, and given the Star Chamber’s notorious association with the Stuarts, and flagrant despotism and abuse of power, the Hanover regime would not require much more proof of duplicity. “This?”

“I gave that to Sam, yes.” David looked wary. “Did you get anything out of it?”

“I did. That’s this.” Killian removed a second piece of folded parchment, in which he had written out as much of an indictment and explanation of Gold’s crimes as he could. The English authorities would care more about the possibility of association with the Jacobites, but even as venal and corrupt as the system might be, it would not stand for everything Gold (and Plouton)had done in the name of seizing power, wealth, and absolute authority for themselves. If David could just get this to Antigua, it meant the end of Lord Robert Gold at long bloody last, and Killian could do nothing more than pray that he would, at this final juncture, be willing.

David considered him for a moment. Then he said, “We picked up a ship’s boat earlier. Survivors from a frigate attacked last night, so they said, by pirates. HMS Halifax. Do you know of them?”

Killian hesitated only briefly. “Yes. The Jolie Rouge attacked – we attacked them. The men. . . treated the captured Halifax sailors dishonorably, and in my name. I have no excuses.”

“It was a Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey who had command.” David was still looking at him closely. “He said that you ordered them to stop.”

“I. . .” Killian wasn’t sure if this was a trap or not, but nor could he lie. “I did, yes.”

“Even though there had been pirates hanged on Nassau by Governor Rogers?”

“When we were in Antigua, and you approached us to offer a bargain in saving Sam,” Killian said. “You requested that we not destroy St. John’s, and so we – Sam, Flint, and I – prevented Vane and Blackbeard from it. I have not changed my mind so much, between then and now, that I am any more eager to return to my old habits. I do not ask for praise, believe me. I know it is barely sufficient. But please. Take the letter to Antigua. Whether or not you care for me.”

“Lieutenant Geoffrey was surprised, in fact. That you would.” David continued to look at him. “He had been assured that Captain Hook was a monster, and indeed when his vessel fell under the Jolie Rouge’s attack, saw every reason to believe it so. So to hear this is. . . not what we expected, admittedly. Sam trusts you, as well. I admit I am not entirely sure why, but he does.”

“I know it’s a good deal I’m asking of you,” Killian admitted. “But Gold’s a traitor no matter what creed either of us believe in, and I know you’re not afraid of standing up to defy the Admiralty, to do what is right no matter what the law says. You did it to save Sam from Hume, and you did it again on Antigua to help us save him. I know you’re a good man. I don’t know what I am, but if you don’t help us, no one else can.”

“For a. . . for a pirate.” David smiled wanly. “You’ve grown on me a bit, I suppose.” He hesitated an instant longer, then said, “Fine. I’ll take the letter.”

Killian let out a barely-muffled heave of relief. “Thank you.”

David nodded. It seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say, however, and after a moment he finally said, half in a rush, “Your cause. Your. . . I suppose they must be your friends. That was the other news we had. About Charlestown.”

Killian distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. “What? What about Charlestown?”

“I’m sorry.” David, at last, could no longer quite hold his gaze. “They had Captain Flint prisoner. They – well, I don’t know what happened exactly, but it’s so. He and his wife are dead.”

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

Liam Jones had not intended to sail for Charlestown. Indeed, it was the last place he had ever planned to go anywhere near, well aware of what was about to befall it and not wanting any delay in reaching Paris, and safety. He also saw no reason to test the veracity of his pardon while they were still anywhere close to someone who could dispute it, and wanted to be far away from the Caribbean, and the Americas in general, before the hammer fell. And indeed, they had made it several days out, doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, before the wind had abruptly turned contrary, stalled or slacked, and left them in the doldrums for several more. Liam was edgy, as he did not want Geneva fed from the nanny-goat longer than she had to be. The best thing to do, after all, was to engage a human wet nurse for her as soon as possible, and if the goat stopped giving milk before then, it would be, clearly, a dangerous situation. At least the weather had more or less held up, but they needed bloody wind.

Still. Charlestown had not figured in any way in his calculations, and likely never would, if it was not for the tender ship that had crossed their path the other evening. They were not far off from Bermuda, which lay almost directly due east of the Carolinas in the Atlantic, when they spotted it. Tenders were supply ships usually found close to harbors and ports, not intended for sustained open-sea travel, and that was why this one caught Liam’s attention. He frowned, ordered her to be hailed, and when they had drawn near enough for conversation, noted that the ship looked as if it had been driven pell-mell away from – well, something terrible, as fast as humanely possible. The captain likewise only insisted that he had no choice, he had to get away. “Pirates. Pirates burned it. Killed Lord Peter Ashe, sacked it, would have done God knows what other horrible things to me and my men if we hadn’t fled! Madness. Madness!”

“Charlestown was sacked?” Liam was certain he could not be hearing correctly. “By who?”

“There was one Ashe had prisoner – Flint, I think – and then another turned up. Some bleeding madman called Vane. They took the city to pieces, between them. Not sure which of them killed Ashe, but one of them did. Sailed away only once the lot of it was on fire.”

“Charlestown.” Liam knew he sounded foolish repeating it, but he was staggered. He hadn’t precisely expected Flint to sail in and make fond reparations with his old friend Ashe, magnanimously forgive him for the betrayal, but something on this scale suggested that the calamity was far greater than anyone had planned for. “Did you hear anything about a woman? Miranda Barlow? She would have been with Flint.”

The captain gave him a very strange look, as clearly the proper response was not to ask about whichever harlot the pirate had with him, but to commiserate about the ordeal they had suffered and agree that the outrage was indefensible. “No idea. Heard there was a woman shot in the Governor’s house, aye, but couldn’t say who. We weren’t interested in waiting about for details, not when the bloody place was burning to the ground.”

Liam and Regina exchanged a long and troubled look. Neither of them were certain how to ask for more details, which the captain clearly did not possess, without giving away their position on the whole thing. Once the two ships had drawn apart, Regina said, low-voiced, “He could be mistaken. About her.”

“He could be.” Liam grimaced. “I don’t know that we should wager that he is.”

Regina’s lips went thin. She would never admit out loud to caring about anyone, but Liam could see well enough that she was worried about Miranda. He felt the same, as the two of them had not survived Jamaica, Jennings, storm, shipwreck, and being set adrift with her only to feel that this was any sort of just ending for her. If she was already dead, there was of course nothing they could do, but Liam was not altogether sure that they could simply sail away without knowing for certain. He knew as well that Miranda and Emma were very close, and that as this was Geneva’s grandmother for all intents and purposes, they still had a duty to their family. He looked at Regina again. “Is there any way it would be worth it?”

She glanced down. “Geneva isn’t feeding well from the goat’s milk,” she said after a moment. “It’s keeping her alive, but she isn’t gaining weight or growing, and she cries half the time. She still could get to Paris if the wind cooperated, but. . . if nothing else, there would be a wet nurse in Charlestown. It wouldn’t be that long of a voyage from here.”

“Aye.” Liam had certainly noticed the baby’s inconsolable crying, as had most of the ship; it was not that large, after all, and it was hard to shut the noise out. “But if it’s been sacked, it can’t be terribly safe. Or – ”

“If it already has been sacked,” Regina pointed out, with a certain acerbic edge in her voice, “there’s hardly very much that anyone can do to it again, can they? You could pull off one of your usual heroic actions and rescue some poor woman who needs to get away from the city and can provide milk for a newborn as payment. And at least know what happened for certain, instead of relying on whatever he’s telling us. Or if not.” She shrugged. “By all means.”

Liam gave her a cold look. The two of them had grown decidedly fond of each other in a way that went much deeper than mere sex, but he knew that meant that if for any reason he decided against it, Regina would bash him over the head, tie him in the hold, and ensure they went anyway. This seemed an easier way for all concerned, and he was not sure any of them wanted to risk a crossing without being sure of Geneva’s welfare. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll go.”

That was how, therefore, he found himself making bearings for Charlestown, against all odds. The Jolly Roger was fast and light, and the wind, as if in a sign that they were indeed supposed to be going in one direction and not the other, strong at their backs, which sped the journey. It was clear as well that Geneva had all but stopped taking the goat’s milk, which sharpened the urgency to make it in haste, and Liam worried himself to distraction about what he could remotely tell Killian and Emma if their daughter died in his care. It was, therefore, with something perversely close to relief that he finally breathed the first distinct whiff of soot and smoke and char in the wind, drew around the headland, and beheld the scorched and scarred waterfront of Charlestown. It was as comprehensively destroyed as Kingston had been, when he and Regina had arrived there on their search for Killian the first time.

“Jesus,” Liam muttered reflexively. Flint and Vane had undoubtedly been very thorough and very angry, and after a brief discussion, he, Regina, and Will decided to risk rowing ashore. Will would find a wet nurse and bring her back to the ship with all dispatch, while Liam and Regina would do their best to sort truth from rumor. The sun was going down as they launched the boat, made it across the harbor inlet, and dragged it up on the sand. It was heaped with broken planks, fallen stone, and rotting bodies. The smell was like a punch in the face.

Will, gagging slightly, pulled his shirt up to breathe through the fabric, not that that did much to help, and hurried up toward the city, while Liam and Regina did their best to start combing through the wreckage. They didn’t want to find Miranda here, or anywhere in this abattoir, but now that they were here, they could not leave without knowing for certain. It was quickly getting dark, so they lit a torch and Regina held it overhead while Liam dug through the mess. It looked as if this was where the Charlestown citizens had dragged out the snapped debris and detritus from the burned streets, and whatever corpses had not been claimed for proper Christian burial. Liam’s gorge rose in his throat as he kept working. Hopefully Will had had better luck than they had, would be back by now, would have found –

Oh, bloody hell.

He shifted aside a shattered heap of rubble, and his breath shriveled in his throat.

Miranda had been shot glancingly along the skull, as if someone had been aiming for the middle of her forehead, but she had been shoved aside in just the nick of time. The blood was crusted and red-brown down her face and shoulder, and her dress was filthy, stained with rubbish and offal, as if people had thrown things at her. Perhaps her body had been carried out for triumphant display, to prove that this was what became of pirates and those who fraternized with them, and both Liam and Regina uttered small, choked sounds at the sight of her. She certainly looked quite dead, but on some mad whim, Liam held the buckle of his sword close to her lips, hoping to see a mist. Nothing.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing Miranda’s hair aside to inspect the wound. It was serious, but he couldn’t conclude decisively that it had been fatal. She hadn’t started to rot either, so there had to be some tiny spark left, somewhere. Maybe. Maybe. He found himself whirling on Regina. “Your vodou medicines, your potions. Whatever the Maroons did to me – they saved me, I was as good as dead too, and they did some ritual to bring me back, when Killian went down and pulled me out. You have something, you can do that. Can’t you?”

“I don’t – ” Regina looked shaken. “I’m not sure.”

“Miranda survived being shot once before, when it should have killed her. Asleep, but alive, for weeks.” Liam was, as well-attested, extremely stubborn. “Didn’t she?”

“As far as I know, yes, but – ”

“We have to try. We have to try.” Liam shouldered aside the wreckage and lifted Miranda carefully in his arms; she was as light and insubstantial as a wraith. “Come on.”

They made it back out to the Jolly, whereupon they reconnoitered with Will, who had in fact just returned with a wet nurse. Geneva was suckling vigorously, since the poor child had after all been more or less slowly starving, and with a hearty sigh of relief, Liam kicked open the cabin door and carried Miranda inside. Regina fetched her potions and drugs, which he had been extremely dubious of when she thought she could control Jennings with them, but were the only hope they presently had. She burned something in a bowl, which filled the cabin with soporific, stupefying smoke and made Liam think he heard bells, then muttered something under her breath, concentrating intensely. He wasn’t quite sure that this was how Merlin and the Maroons had done it, but then, he had been unconscious for most of that, so he wasn’t exactly in a place to judge. And he wouldn’t quibble with bloody anything, if it worked.

This went on well into the night. Regina had tried everything she could think of, in some cases twice, and still nothing. At last she sat back on her heels, flushed and upset, hair falling in her face. “I can’t do anything else. I – I’m sorry, Liam. I think she’s gone.”

Liam passed a hand over his face, telling himself that he could at least comfort himself, however coldly, with the knowledge that they had done everything they could. But he still did not want, could not simply take this as an answer. “Killian saved me! It’s possible!”

“It might be,” Regina said. “But I’m not Merlin. I don’t know everything he does. I doubt she’s make it on a return voyage to the Maroons’ island, or that they would necessarily agree to another full vodou ritual. It’s difficult, and it’s dangerous. Or – ”

At that moment, a slight wind passed through the cabin, though the windows were closed, making the candles flicker and gutter. It was cool and sourceless and strange, and it made Liam think, briefly and incongruously, of drums. He blinked as if only just waking up, had to check to see if he was still standing and not lying down, not sleeping. He glanced at Regina to see if she had felt it, and found her looking just as unsettled. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Regina swept her tangled hair out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this place is swarming with ghosts. Or worse things.”

Liam wasn’t sure how to respond to that, as the practical, logical, rational side of him wanted to insist that there was no such thing as ghosts, but given that he had some experience with vodou magic and indeed owed his life to it, he supposed he shouldn’t be too hasty in throwing those particular stones. He opened his mouth, but didn’t remember what he was going to say. He was interrupted instead by a harried knock on the door. “Captain. Captain!”

He turned with a start. “Aye?”

One of the crewmen ducked inside. “Captain. We’ve spotted a ship.”

“Flint? Vane?” Liam hoped they weren’t returning with the intention of making another pass over the flattened city, though if it was Flint, he could at least – well, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem particularly well-omened in any case. “Or no, not a pirate. Someone sent to examine the damage? See how bad it is, report back?”

“Aye. Imagine so.”

“Who?”

Instead of answering, the man simply stared at him, with an utterly foreboding expression.

“Oh,” Liam Jones said. “Fucking hell.”