#i need to do more with bronze clasps and wood so bad

[sanchomps]

i get a lot of people asking or wondering where i got my charms with the heart magnets made!

all of my charms with the magnets and/or specialty/unique clasps are all hand assembled by Me! they're priced a little higher due to more time and cost of sourcing and purchasing the accessories, and added manual labor of putting everything together

Do Not Ask Me About The Scallywags Charms. they're the most pain in the ass to assemble but they turned out So Good

[lepus-arcticus]

52. Interlude

That night, wading through the undergrowth in the boreal chill, Walter Skinner believed. 

He saw it all and he believed; saw the ship slip from its shimmering veil, massive and magnificent in the endless, glittering night; saw the bodies rise; saw light, saw heat, saw his agent rapt and limp in the ecstasy of surrender. 

He saw it all, and he felt anew the awe and terror of Vietnam, the helicopters and the fire and MK-NAOMI, the sputter of an M60, khaki dark with blood. He saw it all, and he felt the quiet peace of inevitability, and then the sick sweetness of wonder, or perhaps the end of wondering. 

He stared into the sky as the tears gathered without falling, stared as the invaders blinked away into an abrupt and infinite void. He stared until there was nothing left but the slow creep of dawn’s mist, the sound of his own ragged breath. Stared until there was nothing left to do but stumble back through the pines to the car, to Mulder’s keys still dangling from the rental keyring in the ignition, to his jacket crumpled in the back seat. 

Walter sees it all, again and again. 

He closes his eyes, and he sees it all, sees nothing but his promise, made in earnest and then helplessly, flagrantly broken. 

-

When the sunrise begins to stain the wood paneling of his office, burning away the homey shadows in a flame of honey and bronze, he swills back the last of his whiskey and makes the trek, coatless, to the steaming coffee cart across the street. He is not drunk. He is never drunk, even after his best efforts, but the cool morning air slaps him sober anyway. 

He stands in line, pays the burly, ageless Serbian woman manning the cart her due, and wrestles a lid onto the paper cup. Black, no sugar, no cream. He stalks back through the wind with his coffee to the Hoover, picturing Scully at home in the great concrete belly of the building, tilting endlessly at her strange and unclassifiable work, reluctant to leave its orbit. 

He glances at his watch as he shoulders past security. He’s still got twenty ‘til their meeting. 

Jesus Christ, she shouldn’t even be here. It’s bad for the baby. She should be resting, goddamn it, should have her feet propped up on a pillow or three, should be eating fucking bonbons with her stubborn head wrapped up in a fluffy towel. She should at least be on desk duty, not running around Idaho brandishing scalpel and SIG-Sauer like some sort of modern day dual-wielding hedge knight. 

As usual, he abstains from the elevator, and takes the stairs back up. The mild exercise helps him squash his chivalrous irritation, helps him put it back into context. Maybe he’s just more of a sexist than he thought he was. Or maybe he just knows his agent. Maybe, that night in the hospital, he looked down into her wet blue eyes and saw rage and fear and unbridled joy as she wept, saw a woman, a lover, a mother. It was a revelation; he hadn’t even seen her cry when her sister was killed. 

She’s a warhorse, that one. She’s Joan of Arc. At the very least, she’s one hell of an agent. 

He guards himself against sentiment; he does not yearn. But in his weaker moments, he allows himself to wonder. He knows that he is no Fox Mulder, no crusader or revolutionary. War’s vicious hand had already beaten the thirst for adventure and glory out of him by the time Dana Scully was ten years old. He’s no longer the kind of man that could inspire the love and loyalty of a woman like her, and maybe he never was. 

But hell, he still believes in doing the right thing; believes in America, even after all he’s seen. He’s got the patience to play the game by the rules, the muscle to bend them. He knows his place, his role in all of this.

Some men are bound for greatness. Some must be content to be good. 

-

Nothing about Dana Scully has ever been cliché, but he can’t help but think that in this newly fertile iteration, she really does glow. Across from him, coolly delivering her account of the events in Burley, she’s pale and dewy, clearly fighting through a bout of morning sickness. He thinks she might be wearing less makeup. Her cheeks are beginning to fill out, her cider hair shines with health. She is beautiful beyond all reason, beyond all sense. When she finishes her narrative, he has to clear his throat in order to speak. 

“And Agent Doggett?” He prompts, watching her face carefully. He likes John Doggett, likes his weary moxie, his work ethic. He recognizes within him the familiar clarity of loneliness. 

Scully purses her lips for a quick moment, the only indication that he’s hit a soft spot. “He’s a good agent, sir,” she clips. “He’s thorough and seems to have a respect for what we—what I—do. But…” 

“But he’s no Mulder,” he finishes for her. 

She blinks, slowly, unevenly, and looks down at her hands, knotted together in her lap. 

“Listen, Agent Scully, I couldn’t very well leave you alone down there,” he says. “Not while you’re… not in your present condition.” He pries off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing that he sounds like the worst kind of man. “Not that you’re…” 

“It’s okay,” she says, saving him. “Thank you.” 

She still won’t meet his gaze. 

“Scully… off the record. We haven’t given up. We’re still working hard to find him,” he says, leaning forward, reaching for some sort of simpatico, some way to scale the wall between them. “Frohike—”

“Frohike can’t do a goddamned thing,” she interrupts, her voice thin and sharp. She lifts her shining eyes to his, trapping him in the vortex of their whirlpool blue. “If Mulder couldn’t bring me back when I was taken, then there’s nothing that any of us can do to bring him back now. We have to wait. I’ve been thinking. It’s the only way. I have to be—” 

“Exactly, Dana. Now is the time for patience.” The use of her first name seems to shock her back into herself. Her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. 

“Your only job right now is to wait,” he continues. “To focus on your work, on your pregnancy. I won’t have you doing anything rash or stupid. That’s Agent Mulder’s job.” 

She can’t restrain a small, sad, girlish smile, and the sheepish pleasure and relief that rushes through him is entirely inappropriate. Juvenile. Undeserved. 

“Which, by the way, is waiting for him when he returns, once he is ready,” he says, forging onward. “Doggett’s position is temporary. I just feel better knowing that there is someone looking out for you, someone you can rely on, to turn to when you need something. John Doggett is a good man. You can count on him.” 

She does not respond. Silence fills the room. 

“I, uh, I have something for you,” he says. He rummages in a drawer, extracts an overstuffed manila envelope, slides it across the desk. She stares at it for a moment before claiming it, drawing it into her lap and unspooling the clasp. 

“The investigation no longer requires these items as evidence,” he says, by way of explanation. 

Scully reaches inside and pulls out a worn leather wallet. A badge. A ring of keys and a lockpick jackknife lashed together with a Liberty Bell keychain. 

She opens the badge and rubs her manicured thumb over Mulder’s photo. It’s an act so intimate and heartfelt that it hurts him to observe it. He studies his own hands instead, large and square and calloused from long, punishing hours in the Gold’s weight room down the block from his condo. 

There’s a soft metallic click. He looks up. 

There is a single key on his desk. 

“This is my apartment key,” Scully says. “Hold it for Mulder until he gets back, will you?” 

She stands, and her waist is still tiny, her secret still safe. She is proud, sweet, noble, peculiar. He is not in love with her, but he could be, if he let himself. “Thank you for looking out for me, Walter.” 

He watches her disappear through the door, back to the basement, back to the shadows. He savours the sound of his name on her lips.

- 

Incrementum

[ginazmemeoir]

so i was inspired by @h00man-bean and here you go with a fic about Kaz and Inej as the Devil and the Reaper.

tagging @h00man-bean @mango-pickle @carmen-riddle @the-fault-in-our-inquilab @momo-all-the-way @gopikanyari @aadyeah @reddish-green-personality @weird-u @holding-infinity-and-a-book @dragonfairy1231 @totallyforgotyouwerehere @a-dragon-under-the-stars @taareginn

I crash into consciousness. The sound of gurgling water and rustling leaves greets me as I stand up. Strange. The last time I was alive, I had arthritis and was confined to a wheelchair. All Nina could do was slow mine and Inej’s death. I remember the last breath I drew, the last thought I had, the last time I saw Inej smile. And then nothing. Just an empty void, just – not being anymore.

I look at myself, flex my toes. It appears as if death has returned my old skin back to me, but it still doesn’t look like mine. This one is clear as if it was tended to by a Grisha tailor daily, as if the man who bore it had never worked a day. I am wearing the suit I stole from Pekka Rollins, decorated with a genuine gold pin showing a crow with a lion’s head in its claws. My cane lies beside me along with my hat. Either I am in a coma and am dying a slow, painful death as many of my enemies wished, or I have woken from a dream and nothing that I know happened, never really happened. I would rather prefer the first. Then, I see Inej.

She stands there in her captain’s uniform, the teal coat Sturmhond gave her, coupled with breeches and boots. I bet her knives are still tucked there. Her skin, still the same gleaming bronze, is now wrinkle free. Her eyes are kohl rimmed, and her ink black hair spill onto her shoulders. She looks at me with confusion, her eyes searching. “Kaz?” she asks. I move toward her, and then run. Funny how a good leg is almost as useful as a grisha crafted cane.

I clasp her hands in mine, her breath caressing me. “Inej,” I whisper “What are we doing here?”

“You’re both dead actually.” says a voice behind me. I turn around to see a Fjerdan merchant approaching us. He wears a blood red coat with gold lapels. His blonde hair is slicked back, and he walks with the cool confidence of someone who just cracked a deal. The only thing differentiating him from a Kerch businessman that I once looted is that he’s surrounded by floating rocks. Inej immediately kneels beside me, and nudges me. “Sorry but I have a bad leg. Also I don’t bow to animated turkeys.” I say as I go and retrieve my cane and hat. The Fjerdan chuckles and replies in heavily accented Kerch, “I suspect that bad leg excuse is of any use to now, Kaz Brekker. Also, please get up Inej, you look extremely out of place bowing to me in a teal coat.” Inej gets up reluctantly, and when she does, she has… tears in her eyes?

“Sankt Demyan of the Rime, thank you for protecting me.” She says, and hands him one of her knives. “Ah. How poetic.” He says, and pockets the knife. That is when I realize that we, in fact are dead. And Inej’s saints, are in fact, real. Great. There goes my ten thousand kruge. Thankfully the rest of the Crows aren’t here or I would have ended up as quite literally, a bankrupt soul.

“How many times have I told you Demyan to let me welcome the visitors? You’re hardly a gracious host, let alone a good gambler,” says a Shu woman, as she walks in behind Demyan, along with a Suli girl. The Suli girl was surrounded by floating rocks as well. She looked at Inej, and smiled at her. “And now, I would like those gold buttons of yours.” Says the Shu woman.

Inej hastened to remove her own lapel, a dragon and a fox, when the woman stops her. “I’m not talking to you Wraith, I’m talking to Demyan. We had bet that Kaz Brekker would kick him in the balls when he first arrived. I however had gone for a scathing insult. So seems like I won.” She says, and takes the gold buttons that Demyan removed (albeit while grumbling) in her slender hands. “Sankta Yeryin of the Mill, and Sankta Marya of the Rock, I- it’s an honour to meet you.” says Inej, and proceeds to bow more times than she has apologized when she was alive. I am shocked to see the way these so called “saints” milk Inej’s “devotion”. She was the closest thing to a saint that people actually had down in the mortal realm, and I would rather have kicked Demyan in the balls than let Inej bow again. But I restrain myself for the sake of my jaan.

Inej gives two more knives to the women, and stands beside me. She looks like a ridiculous schoolgirl, all giddy as if she had met her favourite aunts, and I catch myself falling in love with her all over again as a dead soul. Demyan soon interrupts my thoughts with that sinuous high-pitched voice, and asks, “I see you’re unusually quite today Dirtyhands. What’s the matter?” “I’m sorry, it’s just I’m wrapping my head around the concept of not existing physically anymore. Also I’ve heard you carry your belongings with you to the afterlife, so where’s all my gold?” I reply. Yeryin chuckles, her slit eyes crinkling while Marya looks at me in disbelief. Her voice, booming like a mountain echo, repeats what she, and countless others back in the mortal world, including my wife, thought each day, “Have you no honour Kaz Brekker?” I just shrug and adjust my hat.

“Anyways, ah, back to the topic at hand.” says Demyan, as he walks towards a tree. No wait, the tree. It could easily be as tall as a mountain. Five springs gush forth from its roots, and a heart is suspended from thorns right in front of a tear in it. The heart with the thorns I remember from the most epic heist of my career, involving legends and the Ravkan monarchy. The tree I do not. Inej asks, “Mind me, O great Saint of the Dead, but could you please acquaint us with our surroundings?” Wow. That’s a lot of vocabulary from a woman whose last sentence, in my memories, is complaining how the medicine she gave me smelled like rat fart. “Oh yup that’s Djel. Or rather his ash tree. Quite popular with my countryfolk.” he says cheerfully. “And we’re here in a mountain in the Sikurzoi, in a different plane of existence. For you, are dead.” he continues, with that ridiculous smile of his. Marya then steps forward, her voice slightly less enthusiastic, giving me the feel that this is all probably quite rehearsed for a while now. “You are a long way from home my loves. Kaz Brekker, you died a natural death. Inej Ghafa, you also died a natural death. Both of you were a hundred and thirteen years old, with Inej dying within a year of your death. The form you have now, is the form you chose to be remembered as.” she says. Yeryin huffs past us, her robes billowing, and hands the buttons over to Demyan, raising up her hand to his face and showing a symbol that quite contradicts with the Saint of Hospitality. “I should have expected such from you, you merchant scum.” she says. She then turns to directly address us and says, “Enough introductions though. The real reason you’ve been brought here is for another reason entirely. You see, the souls of the dead…”

I roll my eyes as the Sankta prepares for another lecture about how our “feeble human brains can’t comprehend the world.” I regret having married Inej in this moment in the afterlife though. Dirtyhands would’ve conned them by now and found a way back to the mortal realm. Kaz Brekker on the other hand, sits on the grass like a five-year old listening a story. Inej sits beside me, her coat now lying beside her in a heap and her hair fluttering open. How I wish I could’ve seen her in the open sea like that.

“…are usually brought to the other sides of the tree.” Yeryin says, waving her hands in an elegant motion to summon up a throne made out of the river pebbles and rocks, confirming that the trio were all, in fact, Fabrikators. “There, they are all assessed in context with their deeds on earth. Everything that they’ve gone through, and everything they’ve done is all taken into account by the Saint of The Book.” She then points to a woman, invisible until this point, sitting near the tree. She bends over a desk, poring over a giant ledger and surrounded by thick books. Her thick blonde hair covered her face, her glasses perched on her wide nose, and her fair, plump skin flushed. “The three of us then decide their fate in the afterlife. Those, who we decide are ‘good’, enjoy the fruits of paradise for a while and then return to the making at the heart of this world. Those, who we deem ‘bad’, are impaled on the thorn wood until they are purged of their sins. They then bathe in one of Djel’s springs, and return back to merzost.”

“Yeah but why are you telling us all of this? We get it, we’re dead, so which way are we going?” I ask the Saints. Inej elbows me once again, scolding me with her eyes. I shrug, and stand up with my cane. “Unless you have something else to tell us, I would like to take your leave. Saints.” I start to walk, when I find myself tripping over. I right myself with my cane just in time, and see that my hands and feet are bound by vines, Demyan’s hands raised up. These saints want a taste of Dirtyhands? Fine. I will show them Dirtyhands.

I see Kaz’s demeanour change. He slips into the familiar garb of Dirtyhands, his eyes cold as flint, lips slightly pursed, standing like the King of the Barrel. I get into a fighting stance, my heavy coat no longer obstructing me. I feel the presence of my remaining knives, regretting handing over the rest. I respect my Saints, but nobody, and I repeat nobody, touches my husband and escapes alive.

Marya stands immovable, her eyes gazing at something in the distance. Yeryin clasps her hands, and states, “You came here at our wish Kaz Brekker. You leave with our wish as well. No need to reach for your knives Wraith they won’t serve you here.” I feel a tug inside me, as if someone is yanking on my leash. Before I know, I am pulled back, my breath knocked out of me, and I crash into a wooden chair. Kaz suffers a similar fate beside me, and I can see his anger barely in check. “Why are you doing this to us?” I ask Marya. She glances at me, her eyes tearful, and replies, “Because we’re tired Inej Ghafa. Because you’re now, the new gods of death.”

Great. We’re the subject of a cruel joke by the Saints and are being tortured for our sins. “We don’t want anything to do with you or your jobs. Just release us and march us over to the thorn wood, I’m ready to answer for my crimes.” “Oh you silly girl, we won’t kill our scapegoats, will we? Isn’t that right my fellow sisters?” Demyan says in his ridiculously cheerful manner. That smile takes me back to the West Stave, Heleen bartering over me with the slavers, her sinuous smile each time I resisted her. I eventually did track my slavers, although only Kaz knows of their fate, for he was the one who insisted on having them. Demyan then comes over to us, and the Saint of Death’s face becomes morose. He kneels in front of us, as if pleading with us, and says, “You see, we’re linked directly with humans and grisha. Death. Hospitality. Pathfinder. Our roles were fundamental to the balance of the world, to the smooth passage of souls and justice in the afterlife. However, seeing the Starless One return back to merzost, seeing Juris merge with the Dragonqueen, has made us realize that we thought impossible, was actually just – improbable. You would certainly know about that, wouldn’t you Dirtyhands?” Demyan glances at Kaz, his eyes moist, while Kaz looks at him unflinchingly. Weren’t the Saints destined to perform their duties? Then why are they looking for scapegoats? Demyan comes back to me, his tone rushed as he blurted out his plan. “We long to be free Inej Ghafa. We too long to return back from where we came. We too long to feel.” Yeryin and Marya then float over to us. “A Saint that dispenses justice, must have suffered injustice to be accurate in his judgements. He should be immovable, yet sensitive to the souls he receives. Kaz Brekker, you have shown us the resilience and fury of a Saint.” Yeryin says. Marya then glances at me, and begins, “Jaan, you’re one of my own people, and so I hold a special place for you. The Saint that is the Reaper, who brings over the souls of the dead, must kill without remorse. Must feel for each soul with all of her heart. She must be indiscriminate in her search.” “And you Inej Ghafa have shown us that heart.” Demyan finishes, clasping my hand. “The part is yours, should you keep it. However, remember, you must take it up with free will, for handling the deceased is a far more tedious and draining task than it sounds.”

I look back at Kaz. His eyes are focussed on the ground, his brain coming up with another wild scheme. I look at the Saints with disbelief. All this time, as I, as millions, prayed to them, honouring their martyrdoms with festivals and prayers, the Saints just longed to be human. Kaz finally speaks after what feels like an eternity. “I have a question. Are the Saints willing to answer that?” “But of course. That is the least we can do for you.” says Yeryin.

“You might’ve come across two souls in your eternal career. Jordie, and Pekka Rollins. What fate awaited them?” I ask hesitantly. I am both excited and afraid of the answer the saints hold for me. Marya looks at the Saint of the Book. She rises, and comes towards us, a small register in her hands. She hands it to Marya, and returns back, giving me a not-so subtle side look. Marya searches for the names I asked, clears her throat, and begins. “Pekka Rollins, the leader of the Dimes, a gang in the streets of Ketterdam, was impaled on the thorn wood. He was purged of all his sins, and then chose to return back to merzost. As for Jordie, your brother, he did not choose to stay for long.” I look back at Marya. “His soul… was tormented. Even though he was healed with the waters of Djel, even though we helped his soul discover his unknown gift as a Grisha Tidemaker, he kept searching this garden for you. In the end, he chose to take a single bite of Djel’s fruit, and returned back to merzost, finally at peace.”

Jordie’s fate stuns me into silence. Pekka Rollins snatched our life on Earth, but even in the gardens of paradise my brother kept searching for me. My vision blurs, my brother’s destiny opening a well of sadness in me, his peaceful return to merzost the only respite offered to him. This was the place where Jordie’s soul searched for me. Where he waited and waited for me, until he dissolved back into the heart of the world. And this is where I would choose to stay for eternity, the only place that holds my brother’s peace. I look at Marya, and nod.

Beside me, Inej grasps my hand, and smiles. She then looks down at Demyan, and says, “We will take up the mantel of your duties, O Revered Saints.” I roll my eyes. It’s as if Sturmhond’s vocabulary worms it’s way into Inej’s brain each time she talks to her saints.

The saints all look at each other, then smile and open their arms. “Our powers, are then yours, Wraith and Dirtyhands.” Golden rays, the colour of sundried wheat and barley emit from Yeryin. Ink black waves surge from Demyan while a shower of dirt erupts from Marya. The three slowly disappear, probably to a much better place. The knives Inej gave to them clatter on the ground.

Inej picks up her coat, dusts it off, and shrugs it on. She picks up her knives, touching them to her forehead, and wipes them on her sleeve. “So what do we now?” she asks me. “Well we’re here for eternity, alone, at least till you go off to bring our souls. Let’s have some fun.” I say and suggestively smirk. The Saint of the Book widens her eyes in horror as she looks at us. “Oh keep it in your pants, you perv.” I say, as I give a big shout and run towards the gentle slope along the riverbank, Inej’s soft padded boots following me, as we both tumble into each other and hurtle to the earth.

[darkhymns-fic]

Yearning of a Fool

Vicious has never wanted anything more than what he's already got. But of course, he just had to go and make it harder on himself.

Fandom: Tales of Crestoria Characters/Pairing: Aegis Alver/Vicious, Yuna Azetta Rating: G Mirror Link: AO3

--

The Great Transgressor did not yearn for anything except for the feel of the trigger against his finger.

There was always a rush through Vicious’ heart when he’d hear the tell-tale hum of the Enforcers, electricity crackling through cloaks, uplifted by seething hate alone. They weren’t very smart either, which made them perfect for target practice.

“Would you watch yourself?” spoke a familiar voice. Aegis stood next to him, parrying away a giant hand that tried to reach for his throat with his spear. “You always get entirely too reckless.”

“Hey, if you hate the way I fight, you can always do some babysitting instead and help the others.” Vicious grinned as he vaporized another Enforcer with a blast. Ah, the fireworks that would appear when one died – one of the prettiest sights he ever saw. “Not like I need help!”

Aegis held out his spear, blocking another attack, the hood of the burning Enforcer moving in close – but his blood sin shone bright, and with obvious effort, he shoved it away before stabbing it straight through its empty mass.  One could not withstand the other, and the cloak fell to the ground in a heap. “Compared to the rest of our group, regrettably, I would prefer to have you by my side on the battlefield.”

“Heh, really.” Like he’d buy that. This pretty boy was probably just looking for a chance for him to mess up. But Vicious wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, again shooting away another Enforcer before it could ever get close. Maybe he did it with a bit more style this time, just to show off a little. He only wanted to check if the knight was looking, and so turned his head to see…

But what he saw was Aegis running up to him, hand gripping his shoulder while the other held the spear in front of them both. “Watch out!”

So there had been another enemy, sneakier than the rest, one that had been ready to snatch Vicious from behind. It might have resulted in a few nasty burns, maybe a broken arm that would have taken more than a day to heal. But with Aegis, the Enforcer was sliced clean in half, his weapon out in one hand, while the other continued to grip onto Vicious.

Just as the Enforcer died in a radiant glow, they both fell to the ground.

“H-Hey!” Vicious tried to stand up, but Aegis’ legs were tangled in his own, the spear laid across them both somewhat – the stupid thing was heavy. His own guns had disappeared, leaving his hands bare. “Why’d you do that? You know I can’t die!”

Aegis stiffened. One hand was pressed against Vicious’ chest – lingering, fingers curled against the bronze clasps of the black vest – before he tried to move off him. “Just, repaying a debt. For saving me that day.” Aegis pressed his lips together, eyes looking away. “I can at least do that.”

Something about this was frustrating. Aegis was still somewhat sprawled over him, and already he could see a wide-eyed Kanata in the distance, along with Misella (her own eyes filled with murderous intent as always). “Or are you trying to catch the big bad transgressor during battle?” That must have been it, irking Vicious. “I ain’t going down without a fight, so forget it.”

Aegis grimaced at the accusation, just before he finally stood up completely. “If you do not believe my reasons, then fine! I only…” Aegis clenched his fist, then walked away, his spear vanishing in a wisp of smoke. “Never mind. I won’t bother you on the battlefield anymore.”

“Well, that’s the best fucking news I’ve heard all day!” Vicious yelled, still seated on the ground, his chest burning slightly, almost expecting Aegis to turn around again. But he didn’t.

The Great Transgressor did not yearn for anything, except…

Damn, he was an idiot.

--

Yuna raised an eyebrow. “Have you always been this thick-headed, mon amie?”

Finding the inn later that day, the group needed a rest from that battle, and Vicious had needed a drink badly. But it wasn’t helping his mood like it usually did, clearly.

“The hell you babbling about? If it’s about earlier, I just lost my rhythm.” He threw back his head as he drank, the beer most likely tasting bitter.

Yuna shook her head, sipping out of her own cup that she gently cradled in both hands. She had said it was tea, for her complexion, but she knew Vicious mostly caught onto her little white lies by now. “You certainly lost more than that. I’d ‘ave thought you’d be jumping for joy zat your dear heart didn’t waver when it came to saving you.”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that. It’s weird.” Yuna could tell he regretted confessing to her about his cute crush, but she knew how to spin the truth out of people when she wanted to. “He was just saving my dumb ass, not like it meant anything.”

“You really believe that?”

“What else could it be?!” Vicious threw the mug against the table, splattering the rest of the drink until it dripped into the crevices of the wood. It turned a few heads, but Yuna was used to that herself. “Ya heard what he said. Debt repaid and all that crap.”

Her voice went a pitch softer, losing its amusement. “You do not notice, then, the way he looks at you?”

“Like how? Like he wants to scrape me off his boot?” Vicious shook his head, closed his eyes. “I’m done.”

She didn’t need to see to her side, where Aegis spoke to the innkeeper, probably trying to haggle down their prices, all while sneaking glances towards them – towards Vicious.

Quel dommage. She shook her head. They are both idiots.

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Helot: Desperation

Masterlist

Loki Laufeyson X Plus Size Torrin OFC

Warnings: Gore, panic, past-torture

Summary: What type of discovery does Torrin make when she is allowed to escape the lodge? The better question how does she take the realization she isn’t on earth and the weight of what happened to her comes crashing down on her shattered mind? Loki isn’t as much as an ass, not to Torrin anyway.

A/N: ANGST!

Words:+2,100

Leisurely, Loki wiped his hands on the cloth next to him before taking his time following her out of the lodge through the meadow and into the trees. Torrin was easy to track thanks to the anklet and there wasn’t much damage she could do with her seidr restrained, but her will to fight was a different story.

Casually he followed her through the wooded trail and watched her resolve fall as she realized this was not Midgard. It began to eat of him as she became more erratic and decided it was best to stop her. Evident in her faltering steps that it was wearing her down. The god did cave to his own concern for her when she crested the hill and collapsed to her knees.

This wasn’t earth, the rebuilding of a golden structure before her, the scents, the sounds, it wasn’t earth. The dirt under her feet was even alien just like the god that had been following her at a distance. Siting to her ass in the dirt, Torrin glared at the anklet with it's runes. She was educated, it bound her seidr, kept her controllable.

Controllable? Oh gods, controllable. A flood of emotion swamping her body to send her into a fit of hyperventilation and shivering. Hands gripping out to the dirt to grasp for the rock as she felt a cold collar clasp around her neck. Raising the rock as a cold shackle found the opposite ankle and bringing the rock down on the anklet, it deflected to hit her shin.

It hurt, gods it hurt, but so did the feel of another shackle slip around her opposite wrist as she brought the rock down on the cuff again and again. Then, finally, a shackle closed around the rock wielding wrist. It crushed, it made her drop the rock as she was jerked to her feet a screeching mess that swore her lungs burned with the stench of death.

Peering up into concerned emerald orbs, Torrin couldn’t help but collapse. Her ankle throbbed and ached, pain a new sensation, one she hadn’t felt since she had been taken and enslaved. She used to be stronger, could shoulder any pain, heal with a thought and now look at her, a ruined heap of nothing. Shivering as he fell with her to gingerly take the ruined ankle in his hands.

“No,” she yelped out as pain shot up her leg to the base of her spine as she braced on her hands. Leaning over the opposite knee as she brought it up to lean over it with her head bowed to hide her eyes. She began to utter apologies to the man, the god before her, maybe it would lessen her punishment.

Carefully Loki maneuvered the damaged limb so he could heal it, cursing at her to be still and quit her whining, it wasn’t that bad. Or that was until he listened close to what she was saying. The ankle healed he focused on her posture and how she had begun to rock.

Focusing on how her hands dug at the dirt. Loki could take it no longer. No longer could the god lie to himself; he did care for the quivering celestial for him. Yes, he did see himself in her and yes he loved her. In exasperation he reached out to take her head in his bloodied hands to force her to look at him.

“Calm down love. No one will punish you,” he murmured, noting she was too far into her hysterical state to realize what he was telling her. Gingery Torrin wrapped her dirtied hands around his wrist but wouldn’t dare meet his gaze. The panic-stricken creature before him was trying to calm herself best she could but it didn’t appear to be working.

With a quiet sigh, Loki got to his feet and took her in his arms to start towards the lodge with her cradled against him. Slowly the celestial calmed, her shaking less violent as it was at the crest of the hill. The god deciding it was best to speak to her, maybe to ease her racing thoughts to let her know where she was and why he had placed the cuff on her ankle.

“We are on Vannaheim. One of the 9 realms and now the home of the new Asgard. They are rebuilding the palace just over the ridge, Thor is king,” Loki silently explained as he continued down the path. “The cuff on your ankle is to keep you from hurting yourself. You don’t now where you are and that can prove dangerous for you love. Until you learn the realm, I will keep it in place, but you are free to roam, no one will bother us here at the lodge,” the god explained as he began to step through the meadow.

“No need for you to beg for forgiveness. You are safe here and no one will harm. All I want is for you to keep calm and rest,” he admitted quietly as they entered the lodge, the lay out different this time. The large bed was at the back of the dining area, possibly so he could keep and eye on her and the area was more open.

Inaudibly the door shut behind them and he allowed her to slide to her dirty feet. Without emotion she turned to him and looked at him through her lashes meekly. Carefully he reached out and pushed her disheveled hair out of her face.

“There is a shower just beyond the door, and fresh clothes. Go get cleaned up. Yeah,” he actually bargained as she shook her head she understood and went back to the door at the back of the lodge.

When she emerged clean, Torrin stepped just on the outside of the door looking for Loki. The god was moving about in the kitchen area before he stepped towards her with a cup in his hand. Gingerly she took it as he silently directed her to sit at the small dining table on the opposite end, closest to the door she had ran out of, but she didn’t dare look at it.

Carefully she drunk the hot liquid, it would actually burn her now if she gulped it down to fast. The medicine taste more off putting but she choked it down. Not looking up as he placed a plate of food before her, noticing she wouldn’t touch it until he sat.

Eyes down cast she ate, took her time but startled as he reached out to caress over her clothed forearm. Torrin looked up at him, noting he must have asked a question by the way he looked for an answer.

“Do you remember,” he asked quietly, and she immediately nodded yes.

“All of it,” her voice croaked as he reached up to caress over her cheek, relishing in how she leaned into it.

“How long have you been without pain,” he asked quietly.

“Decades,” she whispered as he turned to face her, ready to catch her or do anything to prevent her from going into hysterics once more. “Everything hurts. My body. My heart. My mind. They broke me. Please spare me, put me down-,” she began to fret, her hands wrapping around the wrist that had placed the hand to her cheek.

Forcefully she grabbed the wrist and placed it on her throat, wrapping his fingers around it herself. A begging pela in electric blue eyes that was asking for him to end her life.

“Do it,” her voice quivered, “you have your chance, I want fight. Be rid of me and go on! You would have ended it on the ship if it wasn’t for Thor! I heard you say so! Do it! Now is no different,” she plead like a broken child, a single tear sliding free.

“No,” the god spoke eerily calm, flexing his fingers to show he wasn’t about to put pressure on her throat.

“No?! I'm a nuisance to you, a troublesome creature that has caused noting but-.”

“You are mine,” he interrupted her quivering rant and she paused, staring at him, the opposite hand now coming up to gingerly pry her fingers from his wrist. “And unfortunately, when I deicide someone is mine, I refuse to let them wither and die, or let them alone in general. So put those thoughts out of your mind lover. I will take care of you, help you to get better.”

With a quiet sigh, Loki’s fingers wrapped her chin to hold her still and place his lips to hers in a tender kiss. When he was sure she would hold the kiss, he released his hold on her chin, reaching out to direct her to her feet and straddle his legs. Pulling her flush to deepen the kiss and she carefully leaned into it as he let her go.

“I want to go home,” she murmured as he laid his forehand to hers, “but I know it want ever be the same.”

“It never is,” Loki hummed as he took her hands in his gingerly, calloused thumbs rubbing over the bare knuckles. “How about you go rest, calm, and I will be close if you need me. We will share a bed if that is what you desire, if not I will leave you alone.”

With a careful nod she moved to get to her feet, reaching to the dishes to take them on her way but gently he stopped her. Another nod and she stepped around him to make her way to the bed, burrowing under the covers to shut her eyes the instant her head hit the pillows.

A quiet shuffle, the creak of the door made her eyes open to realize it had begun to grow dark outside, but the lodge was lit beyond the kitchen area. A slight draft made her shiver and pull the covers and furs closer. The sound of someone speaking, several actually, accompanied Loki’s voice in hushed tones. Picking up on Thor and a woman.

“The guard said they spotted someone this way. I figured it was you,” Thor spoke but was quiet for once having noted how Loki seemed to be trying to keep the lodge calm. The transmission he had gotten didn’t sound as if Torrin was doing to well.

With a nod Loki looked back to the bed and the slightly moving furs that attested to the occupant being awake but not wanting to draw attention.

“We went for a walk,” Loki spoke quietly and left it at that as he hinted they take the seats near the door.

“Who is she,” the Valkyrie spoke up, Thor had told the warrior of the woman they found. The bronze warrior ignoring the two in favor of stepping over to the bed to look over the occupant that stared back. “So, you're a celestial. I haven’t seen one of you in millennia.”

Carefully Torrin eyed the bronze skinned woman who was obviously ignoring Loki who was telling her to leave her be. Electric blue meeting cognac as a slight recognition flitted across the warriors features. Carefully she placed a knee on the furs and leaned over to push the furs away from Torrin’s face, calloused bronzed fingers caressing over her cheek.

Laying her forehead to Torrin’s, the two women shared a quiet moment. One warrior to another, one lone survivor to another as she spoke softly to the woman who shut her eyes and listened to the soothing voice of the Valkyrie.  A careful caress over a warm cheek before she pulled away and stepped back toward the two men who stared at her.

“What? I told her if either one of you tried anything to let me know and I would be glad to help her out,” the Valkyrie spoke as she stepped out of the lodge.

“How is she?”

“Tired. She wants to go home,” Loki admitted as they both took a seat to discuss the rebuilding.

“Maybe soon then. I will try to find a suiting place for her and you of course,” Thor hinted to Loki who nodded, this time he wasn’t going to argue, no point in it.

“Maybe not around your friends, I believe they may have unknowingly had a part of the organization that put her in this predicament.”

“Understood. I will be at the palace, overseeing construction until you can return. Your chambers are ready if you think it may be more comfortable than this lodge.”

With a cautious look towards the now still furs, Loki shook his head no. meeting his brothers gaze he nodded. Maybe the crowded corridors wouldn’t be the best for her until she got through this. “Maybe I will try to get her out of the cabin on walks. Each day we could work closer to the palace,” Loki admitted as Thor shook his head in understanding once more.

“Aye brother. Whatever will work.”

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[whiskynottea]

An interruption in the 1st law of thermodynamics.

Previously Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25

AO3

Many thanks to @katnoenau​ for the beta!!!

Chapter 26. Lallybroch

source

For a seventeen-year-old I had traveled a lot. Each journey was a new adventure, a new discovery. Busy cities filling my eyes with bright colors while their busy bees buzzed in my ears with engines and horns. Quiet rocky mountains begging to be walked. Endless deserts holding millions of stars in the sky atop them. I’ve ridden bumpy roads leading to little villages forgotten by time and men, while dust and flowers filled my senses. I had imprinted in my memory the yellow of the sand - hues changing from daffodil to fire - and the green of the pines - unchanging, always fierce and persistent.

I thought that visiting the Scottish Highlands would be just another destination to cross off my bucket list. The place wouldn’t matter a lot. The most important thing in my mind was that it would – finally – bring me closer to Jamie. Being away from him for a whole week was worse than I thought, even with all the texts and video calls.

But the trip to Lallybroch turned out to be something more than that.

It wasn’t the big skies or the stunning landscapes, the snow covered meadows and munros, enhancing their formidable beauty. It was the peaceful feeling the place gave me as we headed north, making my every breath come easier, fuller. This wasn’t an adventure. It felt like I had already been there and every inch of land was waiting for me to return.

Strangely, it felt like home.

It felt like Jamie.

The magic of the Highlands only increased my anticipation of seeing him. I couldn’t wait to breath the same crisp air with him, to share the same views with our hands intertwined - tree branches made to resist the winter together, waiting for spring to come so they’d burst into life again. Our spring had come in the middle of the Christmas break and the promise of life shared between our lips made me smile during the entire trip to Beauly. Lamb commented on that - of course he would - teasing me and singing to me old romantic songs over the music on the radio. I tolerated him, because I had to, hoping that while at Lallybroch, Jamie’s da would keep him busy enough not to notice our heart eyes.

Once we arrived in Beauly, I saw Lamb concentrate, face scrunched up in thought. I wanted so much to tease him, looking like a little child as he did so, but I didn’t want us to get lost so I kept silent. Brian Fraser had given explicit instructions to Lamb to find Lallybroch, which, apparently, was well out of town. After a few missed turns and two phone calls to Jamie’s da to ask for help, we finally saw the imposing manor in front of us.

“Dear Lord,” Lamb whispered. “This house must be three hundred years old.”

“More or less,” I nodded. The three-story manor was more impressive than I thought it’d be based on Jamie’s descriptions, but it had something homey about it, something that made me feel welcome. It also had Jamie, so I wouldn’t care less if it was a tiny croft.

Jamie appeared at the front door the moment my boot crushed the fluffy snow. He came to greet us with a smile that I guessed was mirroring mine, and he ceremoniously shook Lamb’s hand.

“Welcome to Lallybroch, Mr Beauchamp.”

At least he didn’t lay out a bloody red carpet.

“Thank you for having us, lad.” Lamb smiled back at him and winked at me before taking his suitcase and heading towards the house.

What was that wink?

Jamie was by my side in an instant, and after a quick glance to be sure that Lamb had gotten into the house, his lips found mine. Soft, hot and perfect.

“I missed ye, Sassenach.” He sighed when our eyes locked and I shivered at the feel of his breath on my still wet lips.

“I missed you, too.” I purred. Did I really purr? God! “It felt like a bloody eternity.”

“Aye, I ken. Let’s go inside, or else they’ll start talking.” He made an apologetic face, as if it was his own fault that the rest would comment on our delay and lifted my suitcase. Our hands clasped together tightly as he walked into the house, aching for each other’s touch, trying to recover the days of emptiness.

Lamb was still in the hallway when Jamie and I entered the front door. I could see from the glint in his eyes and his faint smile that he was enchanted by the old manor. Well, it had the one characteristic he loved most than anything else in the world. It was old. Everything old had a special power over Lamb and I smiled at the sight of him looking around amazed, like a small child in a candy shop.

I mimicked him, my gaze falling on the portraits, similar slanted eyes staring soberly out at us, the newcomers. Fraser eyes. Turning my head, I searched for my Fraser’s eyes, to find them looking at me, blue and beautiful and full of life. I’d choose them over the ones in the portraits a million times over.

When we’d moved further into the house, I was convinced that Lallybroch was as impressive on the inside, as it was from the outside.

Like it’s inhabitants, more or less.

It had vintage decorations I’d seen in magazines, but it was natural, unpretentious. The heavy furniture, the thick carpets, the old paintings covering the walls, they didn’t suffocate me. They warmed my heart.

There was a huge Christmas tree full of ornaments and lights next to be fireplace, branches of holly with red fruits making the dark wood coffee table more festive, and little snowmen and Santa Clauses in every corner I could see. I’ve never lived in a home so changed in terms of decoration for Christmas. Lamb and I hardly put the lights on our tiny tree.

Yes, the house was grand and beautiful, but I was more interested in its inhabitants. And one most particularly.

Brian Fraser and Jenny met us in the living room, and as my uncle followed Jamie’s da into his office, Jenny offered to show me to my room.

“I can show Claire her room myself, Janet.” Jamie said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Thank ye, though.” All I could do was shrug apologetically to Jenny – who was smiling with mischief – before Jamie took my hand and almost dragged me up the stairs.

In less than a minute I was pinned against the door of my room, Jamie’s strong hands traveling over my body. Our lips found each other in a lustful dance, taking toll for all the days of absence, threatening to burn us with their heat. It was a feeling bigger than us. A thirst that needed to be quenched, lungs that needed to breathe nothing else but each other, an instinct of survival.

Our hearts were bored of their conventional beating. They needed to bang hard in our chests, pushing the blood flow harder, making us feel alive again.

We couldn’t stop. And we wouldn’t have, if Brian Fraser hadn’t called Jamie to bring some wood in for the fireplace downstairs.

He shouted Jamie’s name twice. And then once more.

As if bringing the bloody wood was a matter of life and death.

--

We sat across from each other at dinner, my eyes locked with his, our lips absently curling up. I was thinking of how beautifully his auburn curls adorned his face, their contrast with the deep blue of his eyes, the bronze skin that smelled like soap and sandalwood when Jenny leaned towards me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Ye better eat something Claire, or else ye’re gonna starve aye? Staring my brother isna verra filling, ye ken.”

I don’t know about filling, but he is bloody delicious.

Get a grip, Claire!

I blushed with Jenny’s remark, but even more with my own thoughts. Tearing my eyes away from Jamie, I fixed them on the untouched piece of shepherd’s pie on my plate. When I gathered up the courage to look at him again, all I could see was a gigantic frown on his face. Shaking my head slightly to dismiss his worry, I grabbed my fork and started eating the pie – one of the best I’d ever had – as if I was on a secret mission and this was the main reason I attended dinner. I spotted each little crumble, trying to lift it with my fork, pressing it against the plate’s porcelain and pushing it around. Anything to keep my attention away from Jamie.

Until he kicked me under the table.

My fork fell on the floor with clatter and I snorted, bending to take it. For my bad luck, it landed on Jamie’s foot and I crouched underneath the table, trying to reach it. When I finally got it, Jamie’s hand trapped mine.

“What?” I whispered, freaking out.

“You okay?” He asked.

I’m okay baby, I’m okay. Stop looking at me with those damn eyes and I’ll be fine!

“Yes.”

“What are you two doing down there, exactly?” Jenny’s face appeared under the tablecloth.

“Nothing,” I replied, hastily returning to my chair.

Seated again, I quickly realized that Jamie’s long legs could easily reach mine. The problem was that he had realized it too. I trapped a wandering foot between both my legs and gave him a cheeky smile. This seemed enough to bring back his relaxed expression, and the tiny smile that gave life to the butterflies residing in my stomach made its appearance. The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully, with Lamb and Brian talking about the first Jacobite rising, asking us how much we knew and filling our poor brains with even more needless details. And Jamie’s foot a prisoner between my ankles.

After finishing dinner we moved to the living room, both adults with tumblers of whisky in hand. Claiming that we were entitled to a drink, both men laughed and served Jamie, Jenny, and me a good amount of whisky - we weren’t children anymore. We stayed up late that night, telling stories around the fireplace, talking about history and tradition, about the previous Fraser generations that made that house a home. A realization hit me then and warmed me to the bone, even more than the sparkling heat from the roaring fire and the alcohol. We weren’t fiction, created by Dickens for a Christmas story. We’d made our own gathering of family and friends, sharing moments around the fireplace and creating memories. The ‘nephew's house’ in the Christmas Carol was real and it was all of us, battered and broken on the edges, finding happiness in front of the fireplace in the old parlour of Lallybroch.

--

It was two o'clock in the morning when I changed into my grey and baby pink pyjamas, tired and slightly intoxicated. Spreading myself out on my bed, I rubbed my face on the stark white pillow with the embroidered light blue flowers. The soft fabric filled my nostrils with the fresh scent of a conditioner most likely named ‘summer breeze’, and I smiled contentedly.

I had just closed my eyes, my body secured under the heavy blankets, when I heard a soft knock on my door. With a grunt I went got of bed and padded to the door, opening it just a bit to see two blue eyes glinting under the hallway light.

“Ye forgot something, Sassenach.” Jamie whispered opening the door a bit more.

“What?”

“My goodnight kiss.”

I smiled and stood on tiptoes to crush my lips to his adorable pout.

“Better?” I asked, biting my lip to stop from kissing him again.

“Aye, much better.” Jamie said, his tongue running across his bottom lip, collecting traces of me. “I’ll leave now, because I swear, Sassenach, ye’re temptation itself hidden in a curly wigged angel’s face.”

“Am I?” I asked and with a hand on the nape of his neck I lowered his face to mine so I could catch the aforementioned bottom lip between my teeth.

Someone cleared his throat from the top of the stairs and I broke the kiss, goggling at Brian Fraser, who was chuckling to himself.  

Oh God.

My startled face conveyed more information to Jamie than I could ever transfer with words and his wide eyes were the last thing I saw before closing the door in his face.

Five minutes later, when my heart found its normal rhythm again, I texted him.

Sassenach (the ridiculous human being had changed my name in the messenger app): Sorry for shutting the door in your face but NKJFNWEJFWJKFN

Jamie: Dinna fash, Sassenach. I think we entertained my Da just fine.

Sassenach: You know what’s the worst part, right?

Jamie: ???

Sassenach: He and Lamb together. I don’t even want to think about it!

Jamie: hahahaha

Mmmm… Options…Name… Change nickname… Scot.

Scot: WHAT? I’m the Scot, now?

Sassenach: Aye!

Scot: I’d rather you’d change that to something sappy, like ‘my one and only love’.

Sassenach: Goodnight, my one and only Scot!

Scot: Sweet dreams, my Sassenach.

Sassenach: Sweet dreams are made of these.

Scot: Who am I to disagree?

Sassenach: I traveled the world and the seven seas.

Scot: Everybody’s looking for something.

Scot: I found what I was looking for.

Sassenach: Saaaaaaappy

Sassenach: I found it, too.

With a smile, I fixed a cocoon of blankets around me and slept in that room, in that house deep in the Highlands that felt like home.

[ellaofoakhill]

Havel of Deeprock

Ella heard a rap on the shop door. “It’s open!” She called. She heard a click, and the tramp of work-boots.

Havel was an earth fairy with a neck nearly as broad as Ella’s waist. It was a rare fairy that approached four inches; Havel topped five.

“Good morning, Master,” he called as he set down his tools. He’d recently made a backpack to carry them, in addition to the bags he had in each hand. He would soon have more tools than Ella could easily lift.

“So, find anything for us tonight?”

“Well, there are some bits of brass the people left in the shed,” Havel said. He started twiddling his thumbs, a sure sign of nerves. “…along with some steel filings.”

“Hmm…” Ella scratched her chin. “Did you find anything in the mines?” Havel had been on a roll recently, with an entire set of copper pots and cooking utensils finished just last week. The scribing he’d done on the knives was impressive; they could hold an edge almost as well as

Ella’s. He’d earned a break from reconnaissance. And most earth fairies liked spending time underground, anyway.

Havel immediately brightened, and pulled out a beeswax tablet he’d written his notes on. “Well, there’s a garnet down North Fire shaft—”

“Spessartine?”

“Grossular, actually.” Ella gave him a thumbs-up. “And we have three large lumps of gabbro, one down East Wood shaft, and two down West Earth.”

“Ooh!” Ella resisted the urge to rub her hands together. “What’s their content?”

“Mid-grade I think,” Havel said. “I’m fairly certain I did the naming right, but you’ll want to check.”

“Of course,” Ella said, “I’m your teacher.” Havel inclined his head. Ella smiled and gave his arm a gentle slap. “Who’s hardest to extract?”

“Hmm…” Havel tapped his stylus against his broad nose. “Probably the lower gabbro in West Earth. It’s partly encased in bedrock, and wedged between a piece of granite, and a piece of limestone.”

“Still not too bad, then.” Ella started gathering her tools.

“Not like the Azurite Incident,” Havel said. Ella groaned.

The trek to the western mine took them far enough around the great panels that Havel wouldn’t feel their iron.

“How has Meline been, Master?” he asked as they reached the pines along the west edge of the yard.

“Quite well,” Ella said. She’d visited Wild Rose the previous night. Meline had shown her the western pasture up to the border of the wood, and they’d gotten into a lengthy—friendly—debate over how to properly harvest and store moonbeams, deep-black, and tree whispers. Meline favoured the crystal resonance technique, where Ella was more inclined toward the silver jar. It had been a fun exchange of ideas.

“How does she like the knife?” Ella smiled. Havel had quickly taken to Meline, and the two got along famously. Meline described him as the most adorable giant she’d ever seen, and he couldn’t get enough of her rosehip preserves. The knife in question had taken Havel a month to make, with a bronze back and a slot into which Meline could fit any of sixteen blades, depending on what she needed it for. There was even a blade with a corundum edge, with red flecks in the glittering material that made it look like it was braided. Meline had given him a kiss on both cheeks, and Havel had turned redder than a tomato.

“Last she told me, she was making good use of it,” Ella said. In addition to their visits back and forth, they were exchanging letters. Mostly they spoke of current doings, but Meline did reveal bits of her past, too. Like how her father had taught her all he knew about brewing when she was young. How her mother and she had served in the War all those millennia ago. And how the pasture had changed a great deal and hardly at all since she moved there eight hundred years past. Ella felt a warm crinkling in her chest when a letter from Meline arrived.

They passed the last of the panels.  Just beyond them, the opening to West Earth shaft was covered by a thick layer of moss overlaying a limestone lid.

They checked safety equipment—helmets, vests, boots, gloves—before entering the mine. One of the higher side-tunnels had clues that a substantial creature had been living there—Ella suspected Thamnophis, though the evidence was old.

At the top of the shaft was the elevator, a cage made of reinforced bronze. Once they were inside, Ella pulled a lever, and the elevator began to drop as, some thirteen feet down, the counterweight rose.

“So where exactly is our gabbro?” Ella said. She tapped her copper helmet and spoke a word of power. It began to glow. They’d arranged crystals along the walls, which caught and reflected the light up and down the shaft.

Havel pulled out his tablet. “Sub-shaft Vy, spoke shaft Honey Yellow.”

“Bit of a haul, then,” Ella said. They’d have to take tunnel Marsh Green, then down Vy, and almost to the end of Honey Yellow.

“A bit,” Havel said.

Ella pulled the lever back when they reached Marsh Green, and got off the elevator. They’d bypassed hardpan and were into parent material. As they’d excavated, they’d shaped the shaft into an arch and lined it with stone, and Havel had used words of power to fuse the stones together. They repeated the process as they dug, every time they removed stone that wouldn’t serve another purpose. Split into blocks, carry blocks, fit blocks into place, fuse, go find new stone, repeat. Now, Havel was learning how to turn sediment into stone. He’d started with hardpan—which was practically stone already—and as his skill had grown, he’d learned how to fuse progressively coarser and finer pieces.

Sub-shaft Vy was unlined, being relatively new. The earth was stable, though, so the odds of the tunnel collapsing before they lined it were small. They descended, until the walls of the shaft changed to bedrock.

Spoke shaft Honey Yellow was named for the colour of its siltstone walls. Veins of granite, dolomite, gneiss, and other stone ran through it as well. They mined that, too, especially the granite, which had quartz crystals excellent for knives and abrasives. And, apparently, there was even the occasional hunk of gabbro.

Havel led the way along the spoke. He took a left, and then a right, and there it was. Ella unspoke the word on her helmet, and its light faded.

“Hmm,” she stepped close. It was indeed wedged between granite and limestone. She set a hand upon it, and spoke a word.

Ella’s normal vision shifted. The yellow limestone went black, and the granite turned a dull, patchy red-orange. Bits of iron in that, then.

Her attention was mostly on the gabbro. It had many clear spots of bright pink-orange, and white, and a few yellow patches, with clouds and rivulets running off in every direction. Typical gabbro. What surprised Ella was not what she saw, but where. The lights extended far back into the stone, and down, and across, almost as far as Ella could see. This wasn’t a chunk of gabbro. It was an entire layer, extending who knew how far.

She blinked, and unspoke the word. She turned to Havel. He was clearly resisting the urge to twiddle his thumbs.

“We could mine just this,” Ella said, “for six thousand years, and never come close to running out.”

 It didn’t take long to mine enough stone to fill their packs. They checked each piece for quality. Havel would carry the substrate, and Ella would carry the useable ore.

They returned the way they’d come. When they came to the place in Marsh Green sub-shaft where the fused stone ended, they stopped, and unloaded Havel’s backpack. As Ella passed him stones, he spoke words of power, fusing each piece to the stone already laid down. When they finished, they split the ore in Ella’s backpack between them, and continued on their way.

“So what’re we gonna do with the metal once we smelt it?” Havel asked as the elevator took them up West Earth shaft. Planning out a new project always got him excited.

“Well, I don’t have it earmarked for anything,” Ella said. She looked sidelong at him. “Did you have any ideas?”

He flushed, rubbing his neck. “Well, uh, I’ve been meaning to try a scale belt. Or maybe a cloak clasp?”

“Oh?” Ella used her most inquiring tone. Havel flushed deeper. She shook her head as they came to the top of the shaft. “Is it for Meline?”

“Um…”

“Havel,” Ella said, struggling to find the gentlest, clearest way to say what needed to be said, “I cannot fault your taste. But… I don’t think Meline feels the same way.”

The elevator stopped. So did Havel. Ella waited. He mumbled something.

“I’m sorry?”

“I know.” his shoulders were sagging. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Ella laid a hand on his elbow. Saying he was far too young for Meline would only twist the knife harder. “Loving feelings for another can hurt, when they are not returned. And hurting is a sign you are alive, Havel. If you need to fight or run a circuit about the estate, or mayb—” Her feet suddenly not touching the ground, Ella found herself crushed in arms bigger around than her thighs, as Havel’s sobs echoed off the shaft walls in a melancholy din. Wriggling so she could free up an arm, she shh’ed him, patting his shoulder as he cried into hers.

Eventually, the tide ebbed, Havel let Ella down—soggier than she had been—and he succumbed to a fit of hiccoughs. She rubbed his back in sympathy.

“Shall we eat cookies and play Jack of Spears tonight?”

“Mhmm.” Havel sniffled, took out his handkerchief and sounded a blast like a foghorn. “Maybe it’s just (hic) as well I didn’t tell her,” Havel said as he put his handkerchief away. “That would’ve made (hic) things more awkward for all of us.”

“Perhaps,” Ella said, hiding a smile; by any measure, Havel was a mature young man. “I could feign a mild ague, if you’d like some time to compose yourself.”

Havel half-smiled. “(hic) No, thank you, Master. I know how (hic) much Miss Meline likes to come here.”

“That she does.” Ella stepped out of the elevator. It was hardly a walk at all up to the hatch. “Across the pasture and the fence, into the people’s yard. Most fey wouldn’t.”

Havel grunted an affirmative. “She loves you a lot, Master.”

Ella felt like Havel had shattered a pane of glass over her head. The past several months flashed before her eyes. Every laugh, every smile, every knowing look sailing so low over Ella’s head it must’ve brushed her hair, every kiss on her cheek or her hand. All clearer than spring water.

Ella had missed all of them.

“Master?” Havel touched her dry shoulder.

Ella jumped, and wiped her eyes. “I love her too,” she almost whispered.

Havel gave a wet chuckle. “You better.” Ella chuckled, too.

They lifted the lid of the shaft and climbed out. “I think you will be ready to meet the Sage soon,” Ella said as they started back.

There was a sound like a warhorn as Havel blew his nose. “Really, Master?” He sounded happier.

“You have shown yourself to be a fairy of uncommon kindness, and you are a superior student,” Ella said. “I think he would be pleased to meet you.”

Havel didn’t skip back to Oakhill, but he wasn’t sagging either. As they drew close to the tree, he pointed. “Master, there’s a bat fluttering by the stable door.”

Ella quirked an eyebrow. There was indeed a large bat flapping about the base of Oakhill. “I wonder what she wants.” Ella called out, and the bat flew in their direction. It was a red bat, bigger than Ella, though not so big as Havel.

She had a letter in her mouth, which she transferred to one claw when she landed. “Lord Ella of Oakhill, yes?”

“I am.” Ella recognized Meline’s writing on the envelope. There was no wax seal. Odd…

“Lady fairy flagged me down as I was waking up this evening. Offered me four cutworms if I’d fly this to you. Mighty generous, if you ask me!”

Ella took the offered letter, pulled it out of the envelope, and read.

“Master?” Havel said. His tone strongly suggested he found this odd, too.

Ella froze as she read the last line. “Havel.”

“Yes?”

“I need to get to Wild Rose with all speed.” She thanked the bat, hardly noticing her anymore. “We need axes. Bring the armour as well, and the log splitter.”

“The armour?”

“There’s plastic involved.” Havel almost tripped over his feet. “I’m taking Coarser, the lance, and the spikes ahead. Come when you have everything, including provisions.” She took the fairy key from around her neck. “Lock up the hall behind you.”

On another night, Havel might’ve goggled at such responsibility. He shook himself, and snapped a crisp bow. He lumbered for the hall.

Ella put two fingers to her mouth and whistled, piercing and clear. She saw the bat was still there. “I’m to return to the young lady with your message.”

“‘I’m coming,’. Give her that message, and I’ll feed you and yours a cutworm every night for the rest of the summer.”

The bat was already in the air. “Maia Squeak at your service, ma’am!” Ella was already running for the hall. She heard a familiar whinny off to the south, and redoubled her pace.

Meline needed her.

[daphnewritings]

Chapter 11: Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff

Summary: Slytherin is losing their lead to Gryffindor and Draco hates it

Warning: I was forced to make Snape aggreable. I apologize. 

Word Count: 3.3k

- Chapter 10 / Chapter 12 - 

It only took another few days for the rest of Slytherin house to once again reach full capacity as the other students returned from home on the Hogwarts Express. Draco, who finished the work he’d put off over break in a matter of hours, got to lazily sit in front of one of the great roaring hearths in the common room while his friends furiously scribbled across rolls of parchment, sometimes breaking the white noise with a muffled curse or the snap of a quill. Eventually, one of them, usually Blaise, would throw their books to the side with a groan and announce that it was time for a break, too which everyone would agree immediately.

The usual plan would be to bundle up in the thickest sweaters they owned, grab their gloves and head outside. The grounds of Hogwarts were still covered in thick drifts of snow that was quickly turning into a layer of ice, which made the snowball fights they had interesting. There was more than a few times that they returned to the castle with odd shaped bruises, and even once, a bloody nose. Since none of them knew any healing magic, they had to take Theo up to the Hospital Wing and explain why, exactly, they looked like they had been brawling in the freezing cold.

They were banned from snowball fights until further notice after that.

Pansy, who had usually sat by under a nearby tree with her own personal fire in a jar to keep her hands warm, hadn’t been nearly as put out as the rest of them. “Honestly, you lot were starting to look a little worse for wear,” she’d said that night while they all sat quietly around their usual table. “Except for Draco maybe. Tell me, how exactly did you avoid every snowball that flew your way, dearest Draco?”

Draco shrugged noncommittally. “Fast reflexes.”

Pansy smiled knowingly at him and let the matter slide. From her spot under the young beech tree, she had definitely seen him deflecting every snowball that came too close to hitting him to the left and right at Crabbe and Goyle. But, on the upside, he really wasn’t lying. He did have fast reflexes after all, especially when it came to protecting the sanctity of his facial structure.

When term started once again, the whole castle was buzzing about the first Quidditch match of the new year. It was Gryffindor against Hufflepuff, which normally wouldn’t give a single person pause, but the fact that it would give Gryffindor the first lead over Slytherin in seven years was casting an ugly pall over the common room. Draco, unable to stand the restless feeling of the impending downfall of the Slytherin Quidditch team’s lead, pushed his way out of the common room late on Tuesday night on the week of the match. He stood in the hallway outside of the entrance to the common room between the two suits of armor and sighed. Deciding that he would have more luck at relaxing in the library, he started the long trek up the various staircases, his latest read tucked under his arm.

Once he finally reached the library, he discovered that the great wooden doors were shut and locked up tight for the night. Cursing Madam Pince’s everchanging hours, he pulled on both of the large bronze door rings with all his might, but still the doors did not budge. He slapped the wood of the door in frustration, and the small bronze dragon heads which held the rings in their snarling jaws growled and sent up puffs of smoke from their miniscule nostrils in warning.

Stepping away, he felt vexed. He could always unlock the doors himself with a simple Alohomora, but he really was not in the mood to be yelled at and sentenced to a week in detention by Pince just because he wanted to find some peace and quiet.

Resolving himself to finding the farthest, darkest corner in the Slytherin common room from the other students, he turned to begin his long trek back to the depths of the castle when he nearly ran into a startled Neville Longbottom.

Hissing, Draco leapt back, stung by the mere presence of another Gryffindor at a time like this. “Sorry, Malfoy, I didn’t mean-” Neville said sheepishly, trying his best to melt into the wall behind him.

Without a second thought, Draco snapped, “Locomotor Mortis!” and watched with dark satisfaction as Neville’s legs snapped together and he crashed forward with much arm waving. Tucking his wand back into his robes, he stepped gingerly over his prone form, Draco continued on his way while Neville tried in vain to roll over onto his back to sit up.

“Wait, Malfoy, you can’t just leave me here!” Neville yelled after him.

“Actually,” Draco called back. “you’ll find that I can!” Feeling better than he had in the past few days, Draco nearly skipped around the corner. A few moments later, he was glad he hadn’t when he came face to face with Severus Snape.

Skidding to a stop before he ran into Snape’s black robed chest, he quickly clasped his hands behind his back, mirroring Snape’s own stance. “Professor,” he puffed, inclining his head politely.

“Draco,” Snape said smoothly, “what are you doing out so late?” His curtain of dark hair swayed slightly as he cocked his head in the direction of the sound of Neville’s scuffling.

“Uh, nothing,” Draco said quickly, resisting the urge to fidget under Snape’s keen eye.

“I’m sure,” Snape said, a small smile curling his thin lips. “How about I walk you back to your common room?”

“I would be delighted, Professor,” Draco nodded.

And with that, they turned away from the sound of Neville struggling and his light curses, Draco careful not to step on the billowing black fabric of Snape’s trailing robes.

“You’re advancing quite well,” Snape proclaimed into the silence of the hall. “I check in from time to time whenever your mother sends me an owl asking about your progress.”

Draco grimaced. “Sorry about that, sir. That must be terribly annoying.”

“Not at all, my boy,” Snape said benignly. “I’m always happy to give the parents of my students good news, especially when I’m also as invested as they are in a particular student’s growth.” Draco saw him out of the corner of his eye raise his hand as if to pat Draco’s shoulder, before he thought better of it and once again hid it in the recesses of his robe.

Draco almost wished he had gone through with it.

“Thank you, sir,” Draco beamed up at him nonetheless. “It gladdens me to hear you say that. To know that the finest teacher at this school is looking out for my best interests only makes me want to prove myself more.”

Snape chuckled at Draco’s flattery. “Well, I’m sure if you were to do that, we would have to bump you up a whole year. I’m honestly running out of extra work for you that fits the first year curriculum.”

“No need to sing my praises, sir,” Draco said, knowing that they both knew that was a lie. Snape could go on all night about Draco’s many triumphs for all Draco cared. He could make the time.

Snape guffawed, “Of course, silly of me to assume that you would be outshining your classmates for the commendations.” Draco snickered and they fell into a more companionable silence than before as they turned away from the doors of the Great Hall and continued down into the lower levels of the castle.

“So,” Snape started awhile later with a sigh, “how is Slytherin house holding up in the face of the upcoming match?”

Draco sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Honestly, sir? It’s quite tense right now.”

“Well, spread the word that they may not have to worry as much over the next coming days.”

“Why’s that, sir?” Draco said as the pair came to a stop before the suits of armor guarding the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Turning to the older man, Draco saw the sly smirk that now furnished his face.

“Madam Hooch is apparently still recovering from a nasty bout of the flu that she came down with over the holiday. I’ve arranged it so that I will be refereeing the match come Saturday morning in her place.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “But sir, you must be joking.”

Snape lifted one shoulder slightly, “Believe what you like.” He inclined his head slightly to Draco as he began to turn back up the hall that they had just traversed. “Good night, Draco,” he said over his shoulder as he swept away.

“Good night, Professor!” Draco called at his receding back. He watched until Snape turned the corner and out of his line of sight before quickly spitting the password at the suit of armor on the right and pushing through the doorway.

He hurried around the perimeter of the upper ring of the common room and rushed down the stairs to where his friends were gathered around their table, ignoring their homework in favor of staring at the closest fire gloomily.

Draco threw himself down into a chair, startling them all out of their reveries as he said in a loud whisper, “You’ll never guess what I just found out.”

><

The day of the match dawned bright as the sun sparked off the slowly melting snow. The Great Hall was so tense that morning during breakfast that it felt like anything could set the houses off. Both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were boisterous, of course, but the death glares that the students of Slytherin were sending in the direction of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were not missed. The only table that seemed calm in the face of the impending match was Ravenclaw, since they hardly had anything to lose since they were secure in their placement of third.

Potter wasn’t allowed to leave alone that morning when he finished the three bites he was able to shove down. Draco could feel the stress emanating from two tables away off of Potter’s small frame as the Weasley twins flanked him. Draco might have felt slightly bad for him.

That is, if he actually cared, which he didn’t.

Snape stood up and began to make his way down the aisles between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables soon after Potter had left. The Slytherin table rose as a wave as he passed and applauded him. He raised his hand to them and inclined his head with a slight smile in acknowledgment. Draco saw that the Gryffindors could barely restrain their glares as he exited the hall, making Draco clap all the harder.

The school flowed out towards the pitch twenty minutes after the Hufflepuff team had left as one from their table, unhindered by the ferocity of the two tables on the opposite sides of the hall. McGonagall had to break up not one, but three scuffles between older Gryffindor and Slytherin students on the walk from the castle to the field of play.

Rather than splitting into separate sections by house like during the first match of the season, it had been agreed the night before in the Slytherin common room that they would disperse throughout the stands, disseminating among the Gryffindors especially. The match may be an easy score for the Gryffindor Quidditch team in the sky, but that didn’t mean it had to be easy for them on the ground.

Shoving past a few disgruntled Gryffindor second years, Draco jabbed Weasley in the back of the head with the butt of his wand as the teams leapt into the air at the sound of Snape’s whistle. “Sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.” As if anyone wouldn’t see him from miles away with that flaming mop on his head, Draco thought to himself as Weasley twisted in his seat with a snarl already plastered across his face, his hand rubbing the back of his skull.

Lee Jordan was back, announcing as he had previously. “And they’re off. With Madam Hooch out with a bad case of the flu, it would seem that Slytherin may still have a chance to foul this one up without one student having to step on the field, if you know what I mean.” The Slytherins spread throughout the crowd gave a joint hiss of displeasure, to which Lee responded with, “Oh, sod off you great bunch of – I was only joking Professor, keep your hair on – now then, back to the game. One of the Weasleys aims a Bludger at – dammit you idiot – Professor Snape awards a penalty to Hufflepuff for the obvious and understandable mix up Weasley made there for mistaking the Professor for a Hufflepuff.”

Draco barely caught a word about the events unfolding in the sky above the raised stands. He was too busy scratching an itch that had been present in his mind since before Christmas when he had tried to rile Potter and Weasley up after that first Quidditch match. With tensions so high right now, and everyone else’s eyes and ears focused on the players flying above, it was the perfect chance to see how far he could truly push one of the thorns in his side before they snapped.

But since Potter obviously wasn’t present, Weasley would have to do.

And Draco so loved needling Weasley. His insecurities and emotions were always so close to the surface, always so easy to poke at to get the reaction he wanted.

And what Draco needed above all else right now was to get his hands dirty.

“Say,” he said loudly, “how long do you think Potter will stay on his broom this time?” He turned to Crabbe and Goyle, who sat on either side of him, “Anyone want to take bets? What about you, Weasley?” Draco leaned forward then as he asked, putting the sharp point of his elbow directly into the soft space between Ron’s shoulder and neck. “I hear there’s good money in betting on Gryffindor fools.” Weasley shook him off roughly and Draco cackled in his ear. He looked down the line of seats to Theo, who had resigned himself to sitting a few seats down, next to Pansy and Blaise after he had figured out the kind of mood Draco was in.

Namely, that Draco was raring for a fight.

Theo wasn’t looking at him, however. He was bent over in his seat, watching with forced excitement as the brooms whooshed about overhead. Draco, feeling slightly put out by the lack of his best friend’s attention on him in the moment, redoubled his efforts to find it elsewhere. As Snape awarded yet another penalty to Hufflepuff for no reason at all to the great outburst of rage from Lee Jordan and the Gryffindors around him, Draco turned to Goyle and said, “You know how I think they pick people to play for the Gryffindor team?”

Goyle grinned and played along willingly. “No, how do they choose, Draco?”

“Well, it’s quite obvious. It’s the ones they feel sorry for! See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasley’s, who’ve got no money – why, Longbottom, you should be on the team!” Draco reached down and slapped Neville lightly on the cheek. “Seeing as you’ve got no spine.”

Crabbe and Goyle both chuckled and Draco smirked down at Neville as he turned around in his seat, his face gone bright red. “I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy!”

All three of the young Slytherins burst into laughter. Draco heard an incredulous snort from a few seats down and didn’t have to look to see that it was Theo, listening in with half an ear while he watched the game. Calming himself, Draco wiped an exaggerated tear from his eye and said, “Ah Longbottom, never mind! I take back what I said. It’s not that you don’t have a spine – it’s that you’ve got no brains!”

Crabbe and Goyle both howled at this, clutching their sides and slapping Draco on the shoulders in appreciation. Draco leaned forward and gripped both of Weasley’s shoulders as he stage whispered to Neville, “Honestly, Longbottom, if brains were gold, you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s really saying something.”

Ron brushed him off once again, growling, “I’m warning you, Malfoy – one more word and I swear - ”

Draco was about to strike back when Granger yelped, “Ron! Harry!” She pointed to where Potter had curved into a steep dive from up above. When he streaked past their section of the stands, Granger leapt to her feet and started dancing from foot to foot nervously as she watched him chase the golden blur of the Snitch.

“My god, Weasley, you’re in luck! Potter has obviously spotted some money on the ground!” Draco shouted over the rising din of the crowd.

And just like that, Ron snapped.

Before Draco could truly register what was happening, he had scrambled up and over the seats, Longbottom right behind him, and wrestled Draco to the ground while Neville took on both Crabbe and Goyle alone.

The two boys rolled under the seats. Twisting around to try to get out from under the other boy, Draco dodged the first fist that flew at his face, but was unlucky with the second. His head knocked backwards against the heavy wood of the stands as knuckles connected with skin, momentarily dazing him. The stars in his vision didn’t blur out the third punch arcing towards his nose though as he whipped his head out of the way. Using Wealsey’s forward momentum against him, Draco drew his legs up under him and bucked him off. He quickly rolled out from under the seats to the sound of Granger shouting, “Ron! Ron?! Where are you? The game’s over, Harry caught the Snitch! We’re in the lead!” A sentiment which sent Draco’s vexation rocketing straight up again as Weasley crawled out from under the stands with a triumphant smile on his face.

Draco decided to fix that for him as he promptly kicked Weasley squarely in the nose when he was still down on all fours. Weasley’s head snapped back as his nose went crack! and he fell backwards onto his back, clutching at his face. Draco felt his anger ebb with the blood that spurted everywhere and started running down the sides of Weasley’s face in thick, crimson rivulets.

Cocking his head to the side, Draco ignored the throbbing on the left side of his face as he considered the red-headed boy on the floor beneath him. Kneeling down besides him he said, “Give Potter my regards, would you?” Deciding he had gotten everything he needed out of this little confrontation, he stood, dusted off his robes and looked up at his friends arrayed around him on the stands. Three of the five were staring at him with expressions of supreme boredom on their face, while the other two were looking at the minimal damage done to their knuckles.

Draco spied a chubby leg thrown over the bench at Crabbe and Goyle’s feet and peered over into the quickly purpling face of Neville Longbottom. He was out cold. “Bloody hell, you didn’t kill him, did you?” Draco asked incredulously. Crabbe and Goyle both shrugged and Draco just shook his head.

“Are you quite finished?” Pansy groused, pulling Draco’s gaze back to her. “I feel like my nose is about to fall off and shatter on the ground any minute now from this damn cold.” Both Blaise and Theo grumbled their agreement into their respective green and silver scarves.

Draco smiled through the pain that made his eyes smart. “I do believe I am, dear Pansy.” He stepped nimbly over the moaning form of Ron Weasley and led the way out of the stands.

Pansy allowed the group of boys to pass her by as she met Hermione’s gaze over their passing forms. In a rare moment of solidarity, they both heaved heavy sighs. “Boys.”

< Chapter 10 / Chapter 12 >

[bisummers]

buffy/faith 2k fic: just like on tv

fuffy day ❤ UC Sunnydale college roommate AU @buffylovesfaith

“I am done with men!”

Buffy announced dramatically, as she swung her room’s door wide open. She chucked her keys towards the desk, but wildly misjudged her aim. They ricocheted off her closet’s back wall and got lost somewhere between all her shoes.

“What happened?”

Faith asked, not bothering to look up from her computer. In the four and a half months they had been roommates, this was not the first time she had heard Buffy make such declarations.

She felt her plop onto bed before saying, “I didn’t even get fake Tahiti.”

“… The what?” Faith is looking at Buffy now, her interest slightly piqued.

“You know,” she started, “in TV or in movies when a character breaks a promise they made to someone, they show they care by making a grand gesture. Something that takes a lot of effort, to prove you didn’t really mean to flake.” Buffy sat up on her bed. “Like, for example, a guy promises his girlfriend a trip to Tahiti, but then he has to cancel. So he decorates his apartment like an island and invites her over to have a date in–“

“Fake Tahiti.” Faith finished Buffy’s sentence, nodding understandingly.

“Let me guess, Riley didn’t do anything to make up for missing your last two dates?”

“Three dates,” Buffy clarified, as she took off her boots. “He showed 20 minutes late today just to tell me he had to reschedule. Again. …As if! He was covered in soot, or black paint or something, wearing camouflage like he’d been playing paintball with his buddies.” Buffy stopped to groan as she finished pulling off her last sock.

“He probably forgot about our date and would rather finish his paintball championship than kiss me goodnight. I’m repulsive!”

Buffy was sporting her signature pout now, which Faith had learned meant Buffy was genuinely feeling insecure.

“Well, I say screw him. Screw them all.” Faith walked towards Buffy and sat next to her on the bed. She placed a tentative hand above Buffy’s knee. Her heart skipped a beat at the warmth of her naked thigh.

“Captain Cardboard doesn’t deserve you, and you should know better than to let a guy stand you up more than once anyways.”

Buffy didn’t appear to be listening; her eyes seemed fixated on Faith’s fingers. ‘Or,’ Faith thought, ‘I managed to make her even more insecure by pointing out her mistake and she can’t bear to look at me.’ After a few seconds of silence Faith took a gulp, raised her hand to Buffy’s chin, and softly pulled her face up to make eye contact.

“It’s not about you. I can’t see how any straight man could purposely ignore a catch like you.”

Faith smirked to try and lighten the mood, and she noticed Buffy was faintly blushing. Her eyes had softened; she kept staring at her as if waiting for more of her pep talk. Faith’s brain became muddled with all the thoughts she wanted to express, her lack of clarity made even worse by the proximity of their faces.

“So,” she said, getting up from Buffy’s bed and walking to her side of the room, “dance marathon at the Bronze tonight, B? Take the edge off?”

“Yeah,” Buffy answered with a small smile.  

Before Faith turned around, she could’ve sworn she saw Buffy bite her bottom lip.

‘You are head over heels in love with Buffy Summers.’

Faith thought, as she gazed at her reflection on the blurry bathroom mirror. She had wiped the steam off the glass to better see her face, but a slight fogginess endured. Her feelings, however, remained embarrassingly clear. She had reasoned that by admitting her affections for her roommate – even if just to herself – she would have a better chance to get over said feelings. ‘Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery and whatnot.’

Faith thought she had been doing fairly well with getting over Buffy. Then she went and did something as ill advised as touching her thigh and lifting her chin. She kept replaying the way Buffy’s pouty lips looked when she reached for her face. Every time, Faith’s heart would swell uncomfortably. She stopped fantasizing and started lining her upper eyelids, using her elbows like a clasp to keep her towel in place. Just because she was comfortable with her body did not mean she wanted the dorm’s bathroom to get a show. She heard the clink of something fall from her beauty bag into the sink, but paid no mind. She was psyching herself up, resolved to put her misstep behind her.  Tonight at the Bronze she would focus on Buffy’s feelings and drown her own with a few drinks and some overeager guys. She would make sure Buffy got the good time she deserved and Riley couldn’t give her.

Suddenly, an idea hatched in Faith’s mind. She capped her liner and grabbed her phone, texting her friend Tara before she could lose her nerve.

Buffy was waiting for Faith in their room, using her desk as a vanity to retouch her makeup. Most of her primping and priming had been done for her fruitless date with Riley, so she was pretty much ready for their night out. She was also pretty much fuming about how that had turned out. She was still trying to understand how she had sunk so low and allowed some… man-child to play her for the third time. He was probably running around the woods still, not giving her a single, guilty thought.  ‘I should just date women,’ she thought, and a wave of shame came over her.

She was reminded of the first time she had kissed a girl. She had been 15 years old and new to Sunnydale. Her only friend was a nerdy redhead called Willow, who was now far away in Harvard preparing to rule the world.  Their decision to kiss had been reached after a lot of careful deliberation. She convinced her this would not count as their first kiss; that would be reserved for whatever boy they chose in the future. This was simply practice, so that they would be ready for such an important accomplishment. Ironically, Willow was now living with an admittedly gorgeous girl called Kennedy and Buffy… well, Buffy couldn’t get a date. Turned out their pondering over kissing purity had been in vain.

She remembered the “practice” fondly and a little embarrassedly. She reasoned just because she had puckered up with a lesbian did not mean she was one. If anything made her gay, it was the shiver that went up her spine when Faith cupped her face. ‘I mean, what was that about?’ Buffy thought, feeling a little ridiculous.

So far, the night out at the Bronze had turned into Faith’s own personal nightmare. She had forgotten her wallet, giving Buffy no choice but to cover both of their tabs. However, Buffy didn’t have enough for both of them, so Faith decided she could live the next few hours without liquor.

“Don’t worry about me,” she told Buffy with misleading confidence. “You drown your sorrows to your heart’s content.”

Boy had that been a mistake.

Faith had spent the night too aware of clammy hands and sweaty shirts. Too aware of Buffy’s every sip and increasing regard for guys. With every passing minute it became clearer to her she couldn’t continue the night pretending to be interested in men. Pretending she wasn’t jealous of the way Buffy laughed at their bad jokes. Pretending she wasn’t mesmerized by the sway of her hips and the way the light hit her jaw line when she flipped her head back. She was overwhelmed by an irrational need to punch the surrounding vultures and take Buffy safe into her arms.

Faith excused herself from the dance floor, stole someone’s shot from the bar, and headed out of the Bronze before the tequila’s rightful owner could protest. The shock of cold midnight air hit her hard enough to calm a bit of the fury going on in her head. She could still feel the burn of liquor down her throat; it made her feel in control. With that came a pang of guilt.

“Let’s leave the questioning of my alcoholic tendencies for another night, okay brain?” she muttered while wrapping her arms around herself.

‘Just get through the next hour,’ she thought, giving herself a while before going back inside.

It was an hour later now, and the girls were on the way back to their dorm. Faith had received a text message from Tara 20 minutes ago, confirming the plan had been set in motion and everything was successfully completed. Faith’s hope that tonight wouldn’t be a total disaster was all hanging on her ability to pull off this absurd idea.

“You should be really proud me,” Buffy said, “When I said I was done with men, I meant it. I didn’t give my number to a single one of those boys, not-a-one.”

Buffy was slurring her words just a little bit, but the fresh air from the walk back home had helped to diminish some of the influence. She was still tipsy, but not drunk.

“Yes, B, your act of selfless bravery will not be forgotten,” she teased, trying to juggle a leaning Buffy in one arm while opening the door with the other.

“There we go,” Faith announced as she heard the familiar click of the lock and swung the door ajar.

“Oh my god… Faith.”

Tara’s twinkle lights were hanging from their windows and the cabinets above their desks. There were strings lined full of cardboard shells, fishes, and palm trees hanging from their headboards and the doorframe. Faith’s radio was playing soft luau music while Buffy’s radio played the sound of waves crashing. To Faith’s surprise, Tara had even purchased a bottle of rum and placed it on the nightstand… next to her now empty wallet. Tara had truly gone all out. When Faith had confided in her about her feelings for Buffy she hadn’t exactly expected dissent, but she had not considered she would have received such fervent support either.

Buffy, she realized, was no longer holding on to her arm, but was twirling dazedly in the middle of the room, taking everything in.

“Is this–“

“Fake Tahiti,” Faith confirmed. “Or what I assume is a wildly inaccurate yet very loving rendition of it.”

Buffy’s rising smile could have lit up a stadium.

“How did you do this?” Buffy asked, breathless, turning towards Faith.

“Tara did most of it. I gave her my keys before I came back from the shower so she could use her last birthday decorations to spruce up the place.”

Buffy was laughing now; she had just noticed her stuffed pig Mr. Gordo was wearing a fake lei.  Faith questioned how it was possible to like someone so much so damn fast.

“Why?” Buffy questioned, inching closer, making eye contact. Her face was full of innocent curiosity. Faith had not expected that question.

“Because… I just like to see you smile.”

The words stumbled out of her mouth, truer and more candidly that she had ever spoken. Her entire body was on edge, the uncertainty of how Buffy would react lingered in between them like a fog.

Buffy looked to the floor as if deliberating, nodded her head, and kissed Faith straight on the mouth.

Both her hands rose gently but firmly to the sides of Faith’s neck as she put more pressure on the kiss. Buffy stopped after a moment, nothing but electrons between their lips. Faith stood there – eyes still closed – for what felt like an eternity, praying to whatever god would listen that she had not just hallucinated. When she realized it was real, Faith held onto Buffy’s back, pushed her forwards, and returned the kiss with unrestrained enthusiasm.

As they kissed, they both felt a weight being lifted – as if they had finally reached the finish line of a marathon they had been running for weeks.  

[eponymous-rose]

Fic: Everything (Anything) True [Scanlan | 3200 words | T]

[AO3 | FFN | More Fic]

Scanlan's a master of deception. Turns out reality is a moving target when the words you sing keep changing it.

Everything (Anything) True

This much is true: his mother's grave marker, grown over with flowering vines, is in a quiet, wooded place dappled by sunlight. In the summer, the peace is broken only by the murmur of wind through the leaves.

"So what I'm saying is that I think you're gonna be pretty useless at this," Dranzel says, glaring from underneath the wide brim of his hat.

Scanlan sets his drink down on the table and props himself on a chair, crossing his legs underneath him to get enough height to see over the edge of the table. Time was, Dranzel's formidable glower would've made him seriously consider retiring to the countryside to sing to nice, harmless farm animals and help improve crops in a place where nobody ever heard of half-orc violinists. Now he just rests his chin in the palm of his hand and grins until Dranzel, with a snort, smirks back.

"This just isn't my wheelhouse," Scanlan says. "No shame in that, it takes all kinds. I'm awfully good at the music side of things, and you know it. Didn't think I was signing on for thievery."

"We're supplementing our income," Dranzel says, smile dropping away again. "I know you're quick with words. Figured you'd be good with your hands, too."

Scanlan waggles his fingers. "I don't get many complaints."

Not so much as a flicker of a grin. Ouch. "Well, you're getting one now. You're gonna get your fool face smashed in if you try and lift a purse. You're quite possibly the least subtle person I've ever known."

"I am," Scanlan says, "extremely subtle."

"Your hat has seven feathers in it," Dranzel says. "Three of them are glowing."

"Well, you can't expect me to sacrifice fashion on the altar of subtlety, can you?" Scanlan pulls off the cap, though, and pokes at the novelty enchanted feathers to douse their glow before replacing it on his head.

Dranzel sighs, long and drawn-out, and rubs his forehead with the heavily callused palm of one hand. He's got the same look he did when he had to tell the group about their third, fifth, and seventh drummers' untimely demises. "Look. Shorthalt. I'm not gonna pretend this is a totally normal troupe of performers, okay? We're having some financial problems, and if you want to join us full-time, I need to know you can pull your weight. I'm sorry. I hope you find somewhere you can make your mark, but raw talent isn't gonna pay the bills."

Scanlan scratches at the scruff on his chin, settling back in his chair. "Pick one."

Dranzel takes his hand away from his face to tap a finger on the table. Scanlan watches his face shift from curiosity to wariness to resignation. "One what?"

With a wave of his hand, Scanlan encompasses the busy tavern. "Any poor sod in this place. I'll take their purse."

"I'm not gonna come bail you out when you get thrown in the stockade. And I'm sure as hell not gonna risk my neck if someone pulls a blade instead."

"I know, I know." Well, he's pretty sure Dranzel's half-faking the hardass routine. "You know what? I'll figure something out. Wait here."

He hops down off his chair, forestalling the stunned beginnings of a protest, and meanders cheerfully to the bar; people are packed in tightly enough that even he has to shoulder his way through from time to time. It takes him a moment to spy a likely mark: an elven woman with close-cropped black hair, perched on a barstool, completely engrossed in her mug of ale. Her purse is dangling from her belt, weighted down by a solid mass of coin, and Scanlan glances back across the room to see Dranzel straining his neck to watch. Scanlan winks.

"Hey," he says, softly. "Don't turn around."

The elven woman promptly turns and looks at him, very nearly overbalancing on her seat.

"Okay," Scanlan says, as she scans the crowd and eventually thinks to look down to his level. "We'll work on the whole following-instructions thing." He lowers his voice even further; taken in, she leans in closer. "Listen, I need you not to react to what I'm about to say."

The elf squints at him. "What?"

"I think there's a thief in this tavern. No, don't look around," Scanlan says, but the woman's already straightening up in her seat, one hand clasping her purse. "He's very good, and very well known to the authorities."

"Didn't get my coin," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"That's exactly how he operates," Scanlan says, making a show of scanning the crowd. "Takes just enough from every person's purse that they're unlikely to miss the surplus."

This time, the woman's brow furrows, and she hunches away from him untrustingly to open her purse, counting out the coins. "No, see, seventeen silver and three copper. That seems about right."

Scanlan schools his facial expression to one of mingled sympathy and pity, smile straining at the corners under the weight of its recipient's misfortune. "I'm so sorry to ask this, but are you absolutely certain there isn't a coin or two missing?"

He watches her brow wrinkle further as she visibly revisits every drink she's paid for this evening. The number's high enough that she comes up with the obvious answer. "I... now that you mention it, I guess I'm not sure. Why wouldn't he just take everything?"

Scanlan makes a point of lowering his voice again; this time, the humans seated to either side of his immediate quarry lean in a little as well, unconsciously. "Because that keeps him from being suspected, which keeps him from getting caught. I work for the city, and I've been on his trail for years. I think he's damned close to getting enough money to split town for good, and we need to stall him as completely as we can."

She stares at him doubtfully. "You don't look that official."

Okay, so maybe Dranzel has a point about the hat. "Exactly. I'm incognito. You think anybody's going to suspect someone who looks like me as law enforcement? Barkeep's been kind enough to let me scope things out tonight." Summoning his best grin, he waves to the scrawny halfling behind the counter, who pauses midway through washing a mug to smile back in good-natured confusion. "And I approached you because I suspect you're a regular here. Somebody the people trust."

The elven woman flushes, pleased. "I suppose I am, at that. It really is a bit of a shithole, though, to be perfectly honest. What can I do to help?"

Five minutes later, he wanders back to Dranzel's table. "Didn't see you take her purse," Dranzel says, leaning back in his chair. "What did you have to talk about all this time?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Life, wealth, happiness." Scanlan perches back on his own chair and, resisting the urge to turn around and watch the fruits of his labor, starts working on finishing up his mug of ale.

Dranzel crosses his arms and watches in silence. As he does, the permanent sneer at the corner of his mouth worries its way into something a little more tight-lipped, a little closer to his breaking-the-bad-news expression. "Look," he says, shifting the silence at last, "I understand that you're on your own, now, and I'm not unsympathetic—"

"Excuse me."

Scanlan suppresses the urge to do a victory dance on the table right then and there. Instead, ignoring Dranzel's stunned expression, he turns to grin at the elven woman. "Right on time. I assume you were as careful as we discussed?"

"Absolutely I was." She starts to lift something onto the table, then hesitates.

He waves away her concerned glance at Dranzel. "A colleague. My business partner, in fact."

She glances over her shoulder, gnawing uncertainly on her bottom lip, then seems to come to a decision. Blocking the motion from the view of the rest of the tavern as best she can, she lifts a heaping sack of coin onto the table; it's heavy enough that she actually strains with the effort. "And here's the list," she says, placing a sheet of parchment, covered with lines of neat scrawled writing, on top of the gold. "Every person's name and the contents of their coin purse carefully documented."

"Nicely done," says Scanlan, kicking the gawping Dranzel under the table to get him to shut his mouth. "We'll keep these funds in a safe down at the stockade for everyone to pick up tomorrow. Our man will have no money to leave town tonight, which should give our team enough time to pick him up."

The elf crosses her arms, glancing furtively over her shoulder. "And as we agreed?"

"Of course," says Scanlan, reaching blindly into the bag to pull out a heaping handful of silver and bronze coins. "All yours. Sometimes a little bit of money goes missing down at the stockade. We have petty cash to help account for that kind of loss. Get yourself out of this shithole, if that's what you want."

"Gladly," the elf says, with a genuine grin. "Gonna go visit family out east, I think. Pleasure doing business with you."

"Um," says Dranzel, watching her elbow her way through the crowd and out the door. "What, uh."

"Well, hide the money," Scanlan says, and, taking pity on Dranzel's terrified expression, adds, "I just told her there was a thief around and convinced her it was in her best interest to help us gather funds from her friends to keep in a safe place until this all blows over."

"You robbed the entire tavern?"

"Not the whole thing. Just the people she was particularly well-acquainted with."

Dranzel finally drags the sack of money back under the table and out of sight, then rubs at his forehead. "I... how in the hells did you lie like that?"

"I say things and they happen." Scanlan shrugs. "It wasn't a lie, really, from her point of view. She was fed up with this place and helping me meant she got to leave. I didn't need her to believe me so much as I needed her to enjoy the idea of the lie better than the truth. Convincing her friends got easier when she was making the extra effort."

"There must be a small fortune in here," Dranzel says, softly, glancing down at the bag in his lap.

"Just so you know, you looked really weird saying that to your crotch. Not very subtle."

"Point taken." Dranzel shakes his head, then grins, broadly. "Well, I'm glad. Didn't want to have to give you up for something as small as money, you know. We're all family here, and there's no question you'll be able to pull your weight." He reaches out to flick at the feathers on Scanlan's cap until they're glowing again. "'I say things and they happen,' huh? Welcome aboard, Shorthalt."

This much is true: his mother's grave marker is in a busy, crowded city cemetery, one identical stone amid rows and rows of nameless dead. Sometimes he can't recall which one is hers.

As it turns out, big knock-down drag-out heroic fights sometimes get a little... violent.

Grog and Tiberius are pulled out of the fight early, drawn into the forest in hotheaded pursuit of three members of the bandit gang. By the time the rest of the group figures out that their heavy hitters are temporarily out of play, the second wave of bandits swarm down from some sort of treetop lookout and attack in earnest.

Basically, long story short, somebody with an unfairly large club wallops Scanlan in his left temple and things go real quiet for a while.

He wakes up gasping in the snow, right arm numb from being pinned beneath him at an odd angle, and tries to suppress his shivering with an effort, holding as still as he can until he's entirely certain nobody's standing above him debating whether or not to finish him off. Thus reassured, he rolls onto his back, rubs at the matted blood in his hair, and stares up into a swirl of white: the blizzard promised by the heavy clouds that were dogging their tracks all day.

"Ow," he says, softly, into the storm.

Getting to his feet is an exercise in ignoring nausea and the spinning of a world already gone a little wavery with all the snow, but he manages on his fourth or fifth try to stand shivering and squinting in the storm, rubbing his arms. "Hey," he says, experimentally, and the wind tears the word from his mouth. He takes a breath, imbuing his voice with a little arcane weight. "Hey! Anyone?"

A pause, an ominous silence, and then a ragged cough, somewhere off to his right. As good a direction as any. Probably not too far, if he can hear it over the howl of wind. He starts walking.

He nearly falls over Vex's body.

For a horrible second he's pretty sure she's a corpse, pale against a shocking smear of red in the snow, but her face is tensed up in pain and he can hear her breathing, quick and uneven. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

It takes an effort to bend down beside her, and then a greater effort not to throw up at the combination of his throbbing head and the heavy stench the wind whips back in his face: the too-familiar stink of lots and lots of blood. As near as he can tell—and looking closely isn't exactly helping him keep his stomach right now—someone's managed to stab down from above right behind her clavicle and into her chest cavity. No sign of the weapon, but enough of the bandits were carrying longswords that it doesn't take a real stretch of the imagination to picture one of them catching an archer off-guard.

He touches her forehead, a little helplessly, and jolts back when her eyes shoot open. "Scanlan?" she wheezes.

"Oi," he says, and then just sort of stops having anything interesting to say because watching a friend die in the snow wasn't exactly on his to-do list today. He grabs her hand instead to hold it between his, cold and heavy.

"Shit," she says, which about sums it up. "Pike?"

"No, I—" Scanlan squints into another blast of wind and snow. "I can't find anyone. I think we're it. I'm out of potions, I don't—"

"Vax?" Her voice, this time, is very soft.

And, you know what, fuck it. Healing's a thing he's seen people do, and it's not like he hasn't made stranger things happen just by singing.

So he sings something he's pretty sure his old troupe used to croon whenever they wanted their audience in a particularly teary-eyed daze that might make them a little more susceptible to misplacing their valuables, but he tells himself it's something that goes back further, that it's a song his mother would sing to him in a fine, clear, bell-like voice. He tells himself it's soothing in the way that Pike's smile is soothing, that it knits bone and muscle and sinew like Pike's spells do, that it encompasses that same terror at being drawn out of peace and into pain, that same relief at her warmth and nearness and comfort. He tells himself all of these things, and he believes them.

He isn't even surprised, really, when he feels the familiar jolt of arcane energy firing along every nerve ending, setting up strange resonances that hum and crackle until the song comes to a familiar end.

When he finally looks down at her, feeling hollowed-out and shaky, Vex is staring back at him. The horrific wound has begun to seal, the blood slowing to a trickle. "Huh," he says, and turns away from her to be noisily sick in the snow.

Even above the howl of the blizzard, he hears her sit up behind him, coughing with a lot more strength than she'd had moments ago. "What in the absolute fuck, Scanlan," she says, but there's a laugh in her voice. "How did you do that?"

"I can do many things," he says, which would've sounded a lot more mysterious if he weren't busy trying to clean out his mouth with fresh snow. "Just do me a favor and stop almost dying, okay? That was messed up."

Vex stays quiet long enough to trick him into turning around and meeting her eyes; she smiles pure relief at him. "Nice song, though."

Scanlan sighs, heavily. "It was sort of nice, wasn't it?"

They sit and shiver in a weirdly companionable silence until Vax finds them, melting from the shadows like some sort of ghost, and anyway the important thing is that Scanlan only shrieks the one time and definitely doesn't try to tackle him when he appears out of nowhere. After that, things happen quickly: tearful reunions, joining the rest of the party hunkered down to wait out the storm in a particularly pleasant and not at all damp and terrible cavern, enduring the squabbles about who'd fucked up the worst now that everyone was safe. Scanlan bows out of the conversation as soon as possible to find a quiet corner of the cave, curling into his bedroll with his face to the wall and the new melody wavering through his mind.

Pike sits next to him, after a while; even without looking, he'd know it was her. Mostly because nobody else's armor clanks quite so loudly. "Hey, you. Vex told me what happened."

He picks at a bit of dirt ground into the edge of his bedroll. "Rough fight. You weren't with us when we got separated, and I guess we had to make do."

"That's amazing, though." The grin in her voice makes him roll onto his back to see the real thing, finally meeting her eyes. "D'you think you could do it again?"

He doesn't need to think about it. "Definitely. I got the hang of it. There's a line of counterpoint I could probably incorporate to improve it, given a little time."

"Okay! Mine definitely doesn't work the same way, but that's great."

Pike's smile broadens, then, and Scanlan says, slowly and deliberately, "I'm in love with you, you know." The words feel strange, not quite right, but they also feel reality-shaping in the same way the song had.

"Well, all right," Pike says, her grin unfaltering. "You hit your head pretty hard. Get some rest, maybe?"

Scanlan curls back to face the wall, listening to her footsteps fade away, moving back to the others, and can't quite keep from humming softly under his breath, singing himself to sleep.

This much is true: his mother's grave maker is a worn-down stone he scooped up in his desperate flight from the goblins, the weight of remembrance in his pocket.

"I love you," he says. "If nothing else, believe that I'm going to make this right."

"If you've taught me anything, Father, it's that saying something doesn't make it happen."

This much is true: his mother has no grave marker at all, and most days he tries to forget.

[anavoliselenu]

freedom ch 19

5 years later

JUSTIN POV

"Justin, I don't know why you always wait to do these things." Emmett spoke to me angrily over the phone.

"Because I keep forgetting."

"If I ever forgot my anniversary, Rosalie would chop my balls off."

"Yeah, well, can you just make the reservations? They like you better at the restaurant."

"Fine, but I'm not babysitting."

"I've got that covered." I spun around in my chair. "Thanks so fucking much."

I put the phone down and ran my hands through my hair, a habit that wouldn't ever set me free.

It was only eleven in the morning, and I already felt like I had been through a full day. Papers were strewn across my large desk and my computer screen flicked with documents of all kinds.

"Okay, Justin, dinner reservations made," I said to myself, checking things off of my mental list. "What next?"

A small giggle interrupted my thoughts. I sat up a little straighter, listening for it again. Maybe I was going crazy.

I smiled slightly when I saw ten small digits curl around the edge of my desk. A shock of dark brown hair followed, and then bright green eyes. The head ducked down quickly, giggling again.

"Who might that be?" I tapped my pen against the wood.

"Shhhhh." Another voice was added to the first.

"Oh, two of them?" I got up from my chair and walked slowly around the desk, being sure my feet made heavy sounds.

Their giggling got louder as they ran away from me.

"You'll never catch us!" Sophia darted across the room, her long brown hair flowing as she ran. Roman chased after her, but he wasn't as fast. I snatched him up by his ankle and held him in the air.

"And what exactly are you two doing?" I asked.

"We're bored. Take us to the zoo." He smiled. "Please."

"You know I can't do that." I swung him from side to side, his arms flinging around. His shirt fell down, revealing his stomach, which I poked. "I have work to do."

"You always have work to do." Sophia skipped out of the bathroom, dancing around in a light blue, summery dress.

I set Roman down on the floor. His pale face had turned a tomato red, and he swayed from side-to-side, trying to get his bearings.

"Mama says we're here so you can relax. You're not relaxing," Sophia said, very matter-of-factually.

"Well, your mother forgets that I can't take breaks like she can." I sat back down in my chair. They came over to me, looking just as identical as the day they were born. Everything about them was the same. It was eerily shocking at times.

"But you promised you would take us," Roman pouted.

"Did I?" I put my glasses on. "As I recall, you didn't want to visit the zoo because you were afraid of the tigers."

"No, that was Sophia," he protested.

"Was not!" she shouted. "I'm not afraid, Daddy."

They began to argue in their language, which I would never be able to understand. They talked so fast that it was impossible to catch. When the argument got physical, I lifted Roman up and placed him on the other side of the desk.

"She started it." He crossed his arms. His face became crinkled, a trait that the kids picked up from Selena.

"I will take you guys out to do something fun tomorrow. You mother and I are having dinner tonight."

"Oh, can we come?" Sophia climbed into my lap.

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" Roman asked.

"Because we need a night away. You are driving us crazy," I joked, even though it was true. At some times, I thought I might literally go insane. No one said raising kids was easy, but I didn't think it would be this hard either. Selena was the only thing that kept me smiling through most of it.

"You can help Katy Nana make a cake," I said, hoping to cheer them up. They weren't allowed to have sweets often, so it was a treat.

"Really?" Sophia's green eyes shone. "Let's go find her, Roman."

She jumped from my lap and clasped hands with her brother, all thoughts of an argument forgotten. They began to charge out of the room.

"Dove è tua madre" I called after them, asking where their mother was.

"Outside!"

I sighed and collapsed further into my chair. Maybe I could take a small break? I deserved one after the morning I'd had.

Fuck it...

I got up from my seat and stretched out my aching muscles. With less than four hours of sleep last night, my body was not happy with me at the moment.

Over the years, I had cut back a lot on my workload at Bieber, Inc. I realized that I needed to make a decision. I couldn't run a crime family and a business at the same time. I was starting to waste away.

Bieber Inc. was managed by Alec and Jane. Jane, now a Bieber herself, was the most organized person I knew, and I couldn't think of anyone better to take over my role as CFO. Of course, I was still consulted on everything, but I almost never went into the office. It wasn't necessary. Alec kept everything from falling apart while I stayed at home working on... other aspects of my life.

Crime was still a heavy part of the Bieber family, even after the "the Trial of the Century", as many news outlets called it.

After my arrest, I was brought before a judge where a laundry list of allegations was brought against me, the most heinous being the murder of a police officer. I plead guilty to almost half of them, just because I didn't feel like fighting the charges. The murder was a different case within itself.

The trial lasted about a year, and there wasn't any possible way for me to get out of it. I was detained in a facility, away from my family for the entire duration. I lived in a padded cell and missed some of the most important moments in my life, up to that point: The twins' first steps, their first words, Alec and Jane's wedding; the adoption of Rose and Emmett's first child. Roman and Sophia didn't even know me when I came home. That's what hurt the most.

Selena, as always, was a savior. She did everything she could to help me during that year and it was her testimony that probably set me free. It brought everyone in the courtroom to tears, and I had never heard anything so heartfelt. The jury was so impressed, I don't they would have committed me if I had killed one of their own children. Plus, there was minimal evidence as to my crimes. That helped a lot.

I owed IsaSelena Bieber my life.

"And yet, you forgot our anniversary," I scolded myself, shaking my head.

I took the stairs two at a time and glided into the front foyer on the newly polished hardwood floors before going outside. We were at the lake house, and the sun was brightly shining, making the air unseasonably hot for an April morning.

It was impossible for us to live in Chicago all year round these days. It was just... too much for the family. Whenever life got a little heavy, I would move us out of the city, just for a little bit until things cooled off. This was one of those times. The kids were being homeschooled right now so they weren't missing anything and they just thought of it as a mini-vacation. That's all they needed to know.

Beyond that, I found myself a lot less stressed and able to actually breathe these days. Life was a lot better, I had to admit.

I rounded the house and began to hear the soft waves of the lake lapping at the rocky shore. I saw Selena down the beach, holding the hands of our one year old as he walked on the sand. He was still a little wobbly up on two legs.

Santino spotted me first and literally began bouncing on his feet. His smile was infectious, and I squatted down so that he could walk towards me. Selena let him go, and he stumbled into my arms before I lifted him up.

"You're getting so good." I kissed his chubby cheeks.

His hair was the strangest color I had ever seen: a bronze that wasn't quite as light as mine, but a brown not as dark as Selena's. And his eyes weren't of either of us. They were Carlisle's bright blue. We thought they would change as the months went on, but never did.

"Santino has had quite the morning." Selena walked up to me, carrying their shoes. "He found his first fish and tried to eat it."

"Well, he's a growing boy. Always hungry."

"I feed him enough." She pulled me down by my arm until our lips touched. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a long time."

"I know." I sat on the sand, pulling Santino into my lap. Selena followed and scooted up next to me.

Five years had done nothing to her. She looked almost the same as the ever. No lines on her face or signs of aging. Well, I didn't see any, but she assured me they were there. And her body... I won't even begin to discuss that subject or my mind might go to very inappropriate places.

"Happy anniversary," I whispered to her, bouncing Santino on my lap.

Selena froze. "Oh, is it?"

"Yes."

"Justin, I am so sorry. I forgot." She looked nearly panicked. "I've just been so busy trying to get the kids..."

"Selena, don't worry about it," I chuckled, interrupting her before she pulled her hair out. I didn't think she needed to know that I forgot as well. "We've all been busy."

"But that's no excuse. I feel so bad." She covered her mouth as if she was in shock.

"Honestly, it's not that big of a deal. I think the law allows us to forget a maximum of two anniversaries throughout our life."

She giggled at my horrible attempt at a joke. "Well, thank you, and happy anniversary."

"I've made reservations for us in town for dinner."

Selena nodded. "That sounds nice."

Santino began to reach for his mother, and I handed him over as he started making gurgling noises. I never thought that I would have even one child, let alone three. But Santino was certainly a surprise, just like the twins. I had a far better reaction this time around.

I wasn't as confused and could comprehend this pregnancy more rationally. Selena was over the moon, and when Santino was born, I had never seen her cry so much. She promised me they were happy tears.

We never really talked about how many kids we wanted or when we should stop, but I figured we weren't stopping any time soon. Selena was such a good mother, it would be a waste to not let have more. I was fine with that... I think. I was sure I could handle more.

"You're smiling again," Selena pointed out.

"Am I?" I looked out to the lake. It was so peaceful here.

"You do that a lot more often nowadays."

"I have more to smile about than I used to," I told her truthfully.

She was about to say something else, but we were interrupted by Roman who ran towards us on the beach. "Daddy, Uncle Alec is here!"

I checked my watch. Damn.

"Come on, let's get you two inside. I don't want him getting too much sun." I took Santino from Selena and helped her up. She held my hand as we walked back towards the house.

Alec was waiting in the family room, playing some kind of game with Roman and Sophia sitting on his lap. They were best buddies, all three of them. He was just as much a kid now as he always had, even being five years older and a married man.

"What did you bring us?" Sophia rubbed her palm over Alec's cheek. You could almost see him melt on the sofa.

"Bring you? I just saw you squirts last week. Actually, I usually see you every damn day," Alec replied.

Roman and Sophia gasped.

"You said a bad word, Alec. You owe them money for the swear jar." Selena sat in one of the comfy chairs, placing Santino on the floor, who began crawling around.

"Damn." Alec pulled out his wallet.

"That's another one," Roman pointed out. "We're going to be rich."

Alec gave them each a fifty dollar bill. "Spend it wisely. Buy a car or a prostitute."

"What's a prostitute?" Sophia asked.

I had to stop this before it got out of hand. I lifted her off of Alec's lap. "You two go upstairs and practice your piano."

Sophia took off, her question forgotten, but Roman rolled his eyes and acted as if his feet were made of lead. He knew better than to say anything.

"You really need to watch your mouth." I hit Alec across the back of his head. "They're like sponges. They soak up everything and I don't want to have a conversation about hookers with my daughter."

"I can't help it." He shrugged innocently. "You made me this way."

"You most certainly can help it." Selena shook her head. "You need to be setting an example."

"What the hell are you doing here anyway? We left the city to get away from you guys." I sat on the arm of the chair that Selena was in.

"Yeah, well, they're all coming here for the weekend anyway. I thought I'd get a jump on it. Besides, we have some work to do." Alec kicked his feet up on the coffee table.

I sighed heavily, "Can't you all just stay away from us for one weekend? It is our anniversary after all."

"Shit, is it?" He sat up straighter. "Then I'll have to get you something nice."

"Thank you in advance." Selena picked Santino up from the floor. "If you'll excuse me, it's time for a feeding and then a nap."

"I wish," Alec groaned. "The life of a baby must be nice."

Selena left a long, lingering kiss on my lips before leaving the room.

"Why are you here?" I sank into the chair. "It better be for a good reason."

"I just need your verbal confirmation to kill a guy," he answered bluntly.

"A guy? Who?"

"One of your drug runners is running a little too wild. He's 'misplaced' more than ten kilos in the past year and I think it's time for him to go. Emmett, Jasper, and I have already voted on the matter. We just need your say-so to get on a plane to Argentina."

I took off my glasses. "Keep it quiet and for God's sake, do not get caught up in some kind of fight. If you miss your opportunity come straight home. It's not worth it."

"I wish you could come with us. It would make things so much easier."

"You know I can't do that. They watch me like I'm some kind of animal," I said angrily, thinking about my caged existence.

"Remember what your therapist said, do your breathing exercises," Alec warned.

I inhaled and counted before exhaling out my frustration. "I'm fine."

"We'll let you know when it's done." Alec stood up and stretched. "I think I might take a nap myself. Little Santino isn't the only one who needs a break."

I helped Selena get out of the low-sinking Ferrari after I pulled up to the valet. One black stiletto heeled foot at a time she floated out of the car, as much grace as a dancer or gymnast. A far departure from the Selena from so long ago. Her dress, one of my favorites, was red, V-necked, capped sleeved, and tight.

"We could have just stayed at home. I wouldn't mind," Selena said.

"No, no. Of course not."

There were only a few nice restaurants in this small town, but this was one of the better ones.

I dropped the keys reluctantly in the valet's hands and glared at him. I think he got my point without words.

The place was fairly small and intimate, candlelit with soft music playing throughout. It was nice enough outside that I requested a table on the patio and we were situated in a secluded corner.

"This is wonderful." Selena picked up the wine list as soon as she sat down.

"Just something small for our anniversary."

"Six years and counting." She sighed. "You've put me through a hell of a lot."

I had to physically stop myself from hanging my head. She was so forgiving and patient and... perfect.

"If you were any lesser women, my ass would have been on the curb," I admitted. "Thank you for putting up with me."

"Thank you for dealing with my horrible pregnancy mood swings."

I laughed and nodded. "True. You get as bad as me when you're pregnant."

We spent dinner just talking. Sometimes there would be lulls in the conversation, but it was never awkward or forced. It felt really nice to eat without kids. I forgot what silence sounded like. By the time our second bottle of wine was finished, I was more than a little horny.

I decided to call back to the house and tell Katy Nana that we wouldn't be home tonight. Selena and I walked towards the nearest hotel. Fortunately, this town had a great selection of nice places to stay for the night due to all the tourists.

As soon as the door closed to our room, the clothes started coming off.

"Justin, slow down. You're going to rip my arms off." She stumbled away from me as my hands fumbled with her bra.

"Selena, come back." I groaned, feeling cold with her being all the way across the room.

"Did you bring any condoms?" She stepped out of her heels.

"What? No, of course I didn't." I fell on the bed, trying to get my belt off.

"Damn it, Justin. I can't get pregnant again. Not right now."

"But you're on birth control," I pointed out.

"I've missed a couple of days. I forgot. I don't want to chance it."

"I'll pull out."

Selena gave me a look that said, Really? She didn't believe me in the slightest.

"You don't have the self-control for that." She had since disregarded all of her clothes and climbed on top of me. The lace of her underwear rubbed against my exposed stomach as my shirt rode up my body.

"I can do it. Don't make me go without tonight."

She began kissing my neck, teasing me with her lips.

"We used to fuck every day," I sighed in pleasure. "Now we have sex maybe twice a week."

"That is not true and you know it." She laughed against my skin. "You bend me over any sturdy structure you can find. Sometimes I can't even walk when I leave your office. It's quite embarrassing, actually."

"Well, fine, but we don't fuck as much as we used to. I miss it."

"You miss the fucking?"

"I miss the constant fucking. And more than that, the connection." I was speaking seriously now, but she was distracting me as her tiny hands began pulling my pants away.

"Physical or emotional connection?"

"Both," I gurgled out.

"That's what tonight is about."

"Thank you, God."

My clothes were slowly removed by her torturous hands that teased me so horribly.

She climbed up my body, sexy as hell, and leaned forward. I felt her breath wash over my face as my own stopped entirely. In fact, my whole body shut down… my heart, lungs… even my thoughts froze in that moment as I waited for Selena's lips to touch mine again. My self-control was gone.

Her soft lips descended and my body kick-started into a hot-blooded frenzy. Her kiss was hesitant at first, a mere brush of warm lips, but when I moaned in response, my fingers went into her hair, locking her into me.

Her teeth grated against my bottom lip, then my tongue, and I opened to welcome her, my hands trailing up her thighs. Her ass sat high in the air and I pulled down to meet my waist. She yelped in surprise at the contact, but I wouldn't let go.

My whole body reacted to the touch of her against me. She gasped lightly as my hardened erection nestled between her legs.

"I need you now." She pulled at my hair.

"Not yet. It's been too long." I flipped us over skillfully so that she was staring up at me with erotic eyes.

I smirked and bent down to trail my tongue along her neck, planting wet, nibbling kisses from her shoulder, up to her ear, then back again.

"God. You're killing me," she groaned.

I lifted her hands above her head, tightening my hold so that she couldn't get away once I started my torturing. I pushed a knee between her legs to force them apart slightly. I reached between us and stroked her continuously.

I covered her mouth with mine, swallowing her cries as she rode out her orgasm.

I didn't let her arms go as I pushed my dick inside.

"Jesus," I said through gritted teeth. I pulled out slowly, then pushed back in fully, and we groaned in unison. I had to stay still for a second to get myself acclimated.

"I don't think," I said as I pulled out again, "that I can go slow." I thrust a little harder and my eyes rolled back in my head.

"I don't need slow, Justin. I need you. Now."

I lifted one of her legs onto my waist, deepening my angle.

"Shit," she grunted. "So good. It's so good."

I could only moan in response as I thrust powerfully into her again and again… each pounding taking us higher and higher.

"I'm going to…" I muttered, my eyes clenched tight and sweat glistening on my forehead. "Fuck. I'm gonna…"

My work was quick, really quick because I didn't have the time to lavish her right now. I just needed to get the fucking out of the way early in the night. We could make love later.

We both let the coil go in our bodies, almost bringing the walls down with our shouts. I was sure we were scaring the tenants next door.

I collapsed on top of her, sweaty body against sweaty body. Her small limbs clung to me, forcing us to get tangled within the messy sheets.

"I didn't pull out," I said apologetically.

She laughed quietly, "I know. I wouldn't want you to. It felt too good."

I smiled against her skin and kissed anywhere I could reach. "Here's to another five years of the same."

Five years later

SELENA POV

The blaring alarm clock jerked my mind out of peaceful sleep and I rolled over, into Justin's chest. He groaned and shifted under the sheets, his naked body brushing mine. We always slept nude nowadays. It just felt better that way.

"Selena, get the kids up." He yawned.

"No, I did it last time. You go." I pushed him.

He grumbled into a pillow. After a few silent minutes, I realized that he really wasn't getting up. I huffed and blinked my eyes awake. I nearly fell onto the floor, still tired from being up most of the night.

I grabbed my soft, silk robe from the bed post and tucked it around my body.

It was going to be a hot day. The month of June had been unseasonably stuffy here in Chicago, but it rained last night so I hoped it cooled off a little.

Today, the entire family was going to the wedding of one of Justin's cousins, John. The entire family. There would be a lot of Italian people crammed onto the luscious back lawn of the country club, and of course there was going to be drama. I could feel it in my bones.

But before I could even begin to think about the wedding, I had to get the kids up, which was a chore in itself.

I walked up the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the first door.

"Come in," Roman's voice said loud and clear.

I peeked my head in. "Just coming to see if you were awake."

"Of course." His ten-year old self stood in front of the mirror, and he fixed his tie. His shoes were shined and his shirt was neatly pressed.

He looked more like Justin every day. I could always count on him to be the most prepared of all my children. His grades were exceptional, his room was always pristine, his goals were always set, and it scared me sometimes how smart he was. He retained facts and could spit them out during any conversation. On top of all that, Roman was likable. His smile was blinding and he had a draw to him that made people just feel relaxed. I couldn't explain it.

Esme warned me that Justin was the same way, so I should watch out as Roman got older.

"Do I look okay?" He turned around and tried to fix his hair. It was just as unruly as Justin's as well, but with my dark coloring.

"You look so handsome. Just like your father."

"Really?" His green eyes shined. "I think so too."

I laughed at his youthful energy. "Why don't you go downstairs and help Katy Nana with breakfast?"

"Okay, Mom. I will in a little bit." He went over to his bed, preparing to make it up.

Everything in his room had to be just right, not a book or pencil out of place. It worried me out motivated Roman was at some times. I felt like he was growing up way too fast. But Justin encouraged his independence. I just hoped that Roman would just take a little time to be a kid. He was only ten, after all.

I shut the door and left him to his morning routine before crossing the hall to Sophia's room. It was painted in light pastel colors of nothing in particular, but the walls were covered in posters. She was sprawled out in bed, her hair falling out of the ponytail she slept in.

I shook her body. "Sophia, it's time to get up."

She groaned.

"Sophia, we have to get to the wedding on time."

"But I don't wanna go," her sweet voice whined. "Please don't make me go."

"But we bought you that cute blue dress and your new shoes. Don't you want to wear them?"

She sighed dramatically, "I suppose."

Sophia was the little drama queen of the family, quite the actress. She enjoyed being the center of attention, but we made sure she wasn't spoiled. That was the one thing I couldn't tolerate. She realized that value of handwork and made rather good grades like her brother. Sophia enjoyed dressing up and shopping and dancing, nothing like me at her age, but she had a sense of humor that knocked me on my ass sometimes. The things her vivid mind came up with could only come from her.

"I'll be back in ten minutes. Be up and have your teeth brushed," I warned.

"Okay!" She pulled the covers over her face.

Next on my list was Santino. He was a six year old tornado of destruction. Like me, he was uncoordinated and clumsy, which did not bode well for his adventurous spirit. He would get into everything and we had to watch him like hawks.

His room was a mess, clothes everywhere, and I tripped over three toy cars on my way to his bed. He was going to be cleaning this place up when we got home. I didn't realize how bad it was.

Santino looked nothing like my other children, nor did he look like Justin or me. He had dirty blonde hair that lightened in the sun and his eyes were clear blue. He was Carlilse's clone down to the bone structure and attitude. They even walked similarly. Of course, those two were best beds and Carlisle encouraged Santino's mischievous ways. He thought it was cute. I begged to differ. I was always worried about him.

He climbed a tall tree in the back yard last week and fell, so his arm was currently in a cast. He thought that meant he didn't have to attend the wedding, but I assured him that wasn't the case.

"Santino, wake up!" I had to be forceful with him or he would sleep the whole day. I ripped the covers from his body.

He rolled away from me and pretended not to hear me.

"I'll send your dad in here," I threatened him.

"Okay, okay." He dragged himself to the bathroom.

I went to his closet and picked out his small custom Armani suit. I laid it on his bed. "I'll be back to help you after I get everyone else ready, sweetheart."

I continued down the hall where my next little girl was sleeping peacefully.

Milania was four and the sweetest child I could have hoped for. She never fussed and rarely cried, even as a baby. She would cling to me like her life depended on it and had us all wrapped around her tiny fingers.

She looked like a cherub in bed with her small mouth opened and eyelids flickering, dreaming of ponies or candy or rainbows. I'm sure that's what she dreamed about because that's all she talked about. Her hair was a soft color like Justin's but a lot curlier, like mine.

"Baby, it's time to get up." I kissed her cheek.

"Mama?" Her hands grabbed for me. I lifted her out of bed and placed her on my hip. "We can go to the wedding today?"

"Yes, and you can wear your princess dress."

"Okay." She yawned. It took her longer to wake up than the rest of them, so I carried her around with me.

"You can help me wake up the boys," I whispered to her.

She nodded her head in the crook of my neck.

Giovanni and Dante, my other set of twins and my youngest, had just turned two. Like Roman and Sophia, they were connected in a way that I would never understand. It was strange because they fought like they hated each other, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. We tried to separate them; they refused to be far away from each other. They even slept in the same bed.

"Boys, time to get up." I turned on the lights in their large room. It was filled with all kinds of toys and areas to play. They liked to roll around on the floor so they needed space.

"Mrs. Selena, I can handle the twins." Carmela appeared out of nowhere and rushed towards the crib. "You go get ready."

"Are you sure? I don't mind feeding and changing them first."

"No, no. It's fine. I can do it all."

"Thank you." I hugged her and rushed out of the room. We were already running late.

On my way down the stairs, I heard Justin trying to rip Santino out of bed, and they were fighting loudly. I didn't even want to deal with that. I grabbed Milania's dress from her room. She could get ready with me.

"Are you up, baby?" I asked, setting her on the bed.

"I'm hungry, Mommy."

"You can have your yogurt after you get dressed." That probably wasn't the best of ideas, but it would take longer for us to get ready if she ate first.

I took my shower last night, so that I didn't even have to worry about it this morning. I chose a bright yellow dress out of the closet and a pair of bright red pumps that would match the then red belt of the outfit.

"That's pretty, Mommy."

"Thank you, Milania."

"I want to wear shoes like yours." She crawled over the blankets and pillows until she reached the footboard.

"You would break your poor ankles. You can't wear these yet."

"When can I?"

"When you're older."

"That's your answer for everything." She looked at me disapprovingly.

"You have more growing to do," I said simply.

"I hate early mornings." Justin came into the room, his hair disheveled and his face red.

"You don't have to get them up for school. This is what I go through every day," I said, zipping up my dress.

"Papa!" Milania shouted, holding up her arms.

"Bambina, you look wide eyed and beautiful this morning." He scooped her off of the bed.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and they lost themselves in their own little world. It warmed my heart so much to see Justin this way. He reserved his warm and fuzzy side for the kids, but no one would know that from his exterior.

They chatted on the bed in rapid Italian and Milania made sure to fill her father in on her dreams. Justin seemed genuinely interested. He kept her distracted while I did her hair and slipped on her dress. It was quick and easy work, which was unusual for her.

An hour later, we were all downstairs; Justin, myself, and our six kids.

Alice and Jasper were still childless, by choice. They just weren't ready, as they told us every time we hounded them for details. Alec and Jane were, likewise, childless. Although, I thought they were in the process. They were very secretive about things, though, so we didn't really know what was going on there.

"Mama, why can't I be the flower girl?" Milania asked, slowly and delicately bring a spoon full of yogurt to her mouth.

"Because you were already a flower girl last year, remember?" Justin said to her.

"And you said I did a good job."

"You did, sweetheart, but they just didn't want the same one," I explained.

She seemed to understand, going back to her breakfast.

I continued to slowly feed Giovani and Dante small pieces of fruit. They were still in their precious little pajamas since they weren't going to the wedding.

"Santino, leave Francis alone," I shouted at my son, who was poking our dog on the floor.

"He doesn't do anything anymore. Make him play with me," he whined.

Francis huffed, his fat cheeks puffing up with air.

"He's a million years old. It's only a matter of days before he drops dead," Justin said unemotionally, typing on his phone.

I hit him in the arm for being so insensitive.

"What's wrong with Fanny?" Sophia asked.

"Nothing, sweetheart. He's just sleepy. Leave him alone, Santino."

"Fine. I'll go play with Bosco." He pouted and walked away from the table, his toast only half finished.

"Do you have the wedding gifts?" I asked Justin as we packed up the kids into the car. It was a giant production to go anywhere nowadays. Diaper bags and car seats and bottles. We needed to start getting ready at least half an hour early to do anything.

"Yup." He patted the front pocket of his navy blue suit.

I stood back to look at him just a second. He was leaning over to buckle in Milania and as smooth as ever. I swear the Bieber men didn't seem to age. Justin was still the same man he was ten years ago, just a little wiser and more calm. His body was rock solid. His hair was still lustrous and his voice still sent tingles all over my skin.

I don't know how he did it because some days I wanted to just rip my hair out, but he was always my steady rock. No matter what the situation, he had a solution and plan to execute.

"Stop staring at my ass." Justin shut the door of the car with the ends of his lips pulled up slightly.

"I wasn't," I said too quickly.

He took my hand and pulled me towards him. "Mrs. Bieber, you're a terrible liar."

"I can't help it. You're so damn sexy." I blushed.

"You're still hot over me?"

"Always."

His head bent down until his lips met mine. Our hands started to roam and I trailed my nails over his hard chest and pulled at his shirt, hoping that I didn't mess it up too badly.

A throat cleared and I broke away from Justin to see Roman glaring at us, his window rolled down.

"What?" Justin said rather harshly.

"I don't want to rush anybody, but we're already ten minutes late."

"Later," I promised my husband with a final soft kiss and ran around to my side of the car.

We were off and racing towards the country club. I kept the kids from killing each other in the back on our way. Roman and Santino were especially feisty today. Those two were just total opposites in every way, and it proved to be quite challenging having them in close vicinities. They didn't get along too well, but Carlisle said that Justin and Emmett were the same growing up.

We pulled up to the venue and a valet took Justin's keys.

"You're going to behave yourself?" Justin asked Santino, fixing his tie.

"Yes, Dad." He rolled his eyes.

"I mean it. If you do anything to fuck this up, I'll send you to military school."

"Justin, don't say things like that," I whispered to him.

"Well, it's true." He looked sternly at Santino. If that boy messed up, there would be hell to pay.

Justin had a parenting style that I could only describe as... strange. I thought that as time went on, he would become more accustomed to having kids, but he never really did. On his good days, he could be the most loving and caring father in the world. But on his bad days, the kids knew to stay away. Justin, of course, loved all of our children, but he was incredibly strict and talked to the kids as if they were adults. I had to rein him in on multiple occasions when I felt he went a little too far.

Santino stayed near me as we walked into the country club. Roman and Sophia immediately found some family friends from school and went off to speak with them. The whole wedding was outside so there were tents set up around the lawn and soft lanterns that hung delicately in the sky.

It was cocktail hour and people were milling around the grass, dressed in their finest clothes. This wedding was kind of a big deal and with Justin being the head of the family, he paid for everything. I didn't know his cousin too well, but I had met her a few times and she seemed kind of shocked that Justin was willing to fund her entire wedding, but he assured her it wasn't a big deal. He did it for a lot of family members.

Alice, of course, was in charge of designing the day and making sure the bride felt special.

"Fucking finally!" I heard Rosalie's voice as we entered one of the tents with a bar.

I don't think I would ever get she or Justin to keep their language in check around the children.

"Hi, sweetheart." Rose stole Milania from my arms and swung her around. They both giggled and smiled at each other.

"You look so pretty," Milania told her.

"So do you. I love your dress."

"Mama, just bought it for me. She says I look like a princess."

"Of course you do."

"Mama, I'm going to go see Grandma." Milania squirmed out of Rose's arms.

"Okay, but don't get your dress dirty."

I saw Carlisle and Esme nearly beam until their cheeks burst as Milania ran towards them from across the tent. I knew they would occupy her for the rest of the night.

"Santino, go find your Uncle Jasper. He has a present for you," Rosalie said, ruffling up his hair.

"Really? What is it?"

"I can't tell you. That's why it's called a present."

Santino took off and disappeared into the crowd of people.

Now that the kids were all taken care of Rose let loose. She turned on me with her hands on her hips. "I've been waiting her for over an hour. What the hell took you guys so long?"

"We have kids. It takes a long time to do anything."

"Don't lecture me." Her still perfectly beautiful face scrunched up in anger. "I have kids too, but I can still be on time. I had no one to talk to since Alice is running around with her head cut off."

She and Emmett had two kids now. Both adopted, but they couldn't be happier. I just don't think it was in Rosalie's cards to get pregnant. It took her a long time to handle that fact, but she was okay with it now.

"Does it always have to be about you?" Justin sighed, taking a sip of some amber liquid, which miraculously appeared in his hand. He also brought one for me, which I took without question.

"I like talking about myself, so shoot me," she replied.

"If you weren't married to my brother, I would. Believe me."

"Okay, okay." I broke them up. "Rose, let's go sit down."

I squinted my eyes at Justin as we walked away. Those two still hated each other. If either of them had the maturity to let their decade-long feud go, it was Justin, but he wasn't doing a very good job at the moment. He promised me he would at least try. That was all I could ask for.

It felt nice to just sit back and talk to Rosalie without children around. I always kept tabs on them under the tent, but relaxed a little.

"This wedding is going to be shit," she complained to me, picking up a cloth napkin and inspecting it.

"Why are you always so negative?"

"Someone has to be." She shrugged.

"You've only gotten worse with age." I took a sip of my drink.

After another half an hour, we were joined by Jasper and Emmett. Alice was busy with the bride inside, so I doubted I would be seeing her tonight. Alec and Jane weren't even attending the wedding because they were on one of their romantic getaways. They would take off without warning and wouldn't return sometimes for a month.

I looked around the tents and saw a lot of our family; aunts, uncles, grandparents, nieces, and nephews. I loved it when we Biebers were together like this.

Of course, there always had to be something to get us off track.

I spotted two men in suits and sunglasses on the other side of the lawn. They looked incredibly out of place.

I sighed to myself, taking a large sip of my drink.

"What is it?" Justin whispered.

"Probably nothing." I didn't want to draw any attention to something that might just be my paranoia.

I didn't expect Justin to give up his life in the mob completely, but he had to take it slow. He had kids now and I needed him around for a couple more decades. But to give Justin credit, he had been dealing in more... legitimate areas of business in the past few years.

"Who the hell is that?" Jasper craned his neck trying to take a look at the two men I had spotted seconds before. They looked rather hostile and obviously not here for the wedding.

Justin did not seem pleased and I felt his body stiffen. I rubbed my hand across his back, letting him know to calm down. He knew there was trouble ahead, but I prayed he wouldn't do anything too drastic.

"Remember that there are kids around." I whispered to him.

He would never do anything if our children were in jeopardy. At some point, we would tell them what their father did, but they knew he wasn't just another ordinary man. We never hid our life from them, but did everything we could to protect them.

"I'll just be a second." Justin kissed my temple and then got up from the seat, fixing his navy blue suit jacket. Emmett and Jasper both followed him across the lawn.

"Where's Daddy going?" Milania ran over to me. "I want to show him something."

"He'll be back soon." I smoothed out the hair falling into her face.

"Is everything okay?" She asked, her voice so sweet and innocent.

"Come on, let's get ready for the wedding," Rose said, getting up and taking her hand.

I quickly found the rest of my kids and got to our assigned seats right up front. I needed them close; although, Santino protested about having to sit next to me instead of his grandparents, but he quieted down when he saw the unwavering look on my face. I left a seat on the end of our row open for Justin.

The wedding area was beautiful. Decorated all in white with ribbons and bright green flowers.

"Where's Dad?" Roman asked while we got situated.

"He's busy, sweetheart."

Roman's face told me that he wanted to ask more questions, but he didn't.

Justin returned just as the ceremony was beginning. The bride looked beautiful in her white dress and she walked down the aisle with her father on her arm.

As we sat down, I looked Justin over. He was trying to hide his hands from me.

"What happened?" I whispered to him during the ceremony.

"Nothing. Pay attention."

"Justin, don't lie to me." I unfolded his hands so that I could see them. His knuckles were raw and bloodied. The skin was peeling away and he tried to pull away.

"Don't make a big deal out of this."

I mumbled to myself and picked up my purse, pulling out a disinfecting wipe, "You're lucky I didn't bring my needle and thread. I would stitch your fucking knuckles up right here."

Justin pulled his hands away and slung his arm behind my chair, pulling me close. "Stop obsessing over things you can't change."

"What things?"

"I don't know. Whatever has you pissed," he whispered into my ear. "Just think happy things. We're at a wedding, with our family. Do you remember our wedding?"

"Stop trying to distract me. I'm still mad."

He held a firm grasp onto my shoulder. "Do you remember our wedding?"

I sighed, "Yes. Of course."

"Tell me what you remember?"

"You were nervous as hell," I laughed quietly.

"I was not."

"You might not have looked it, but I could tell. I know you too well."

"You certainly do, Mrs. Bieber." He kissed the side of my head.

The first time I laid eyes on Justin, I was eighteen years old. That was so long ago, but our love only grew stronger. I couldn't see him not being in my life. It just didn't make any sense to me. I could never conceive that thought. We had been through so much together and I would always love him.

Of course, all those years together weren't easy. Hell no. With six kids, and I was sure there would be at least one more before it was all said and done, it was hard.

There were times that I wanted to kill Justin, chop him up, and then bury him in the backyard. We sometimes fought like we hated each other, but that was us. That was Justin and Selena. Stubborn. Aggressive. Loud. Sometimes unreasonable. But always in love.

And that's how it would always be.

[shirlleycoyle]

The Installation

Nothing highlights the egregious growth of inequality in the nation quite like pharmaceutical executives becoming vastly wealthy by selling addictive drugs to the poor. What if this repulsive ongoing travesty took on a physical dimension, that we could see, feel, *smell*? That’s what writer, artist, and acclaimed experimental musician Terence Hannum imagines in today’s horrifying Terraform dispatch. Enjoy. -the Ed.

i.

The outer light of the descending sun transforms the evening inwards as it sinks below the overlapping crests of hills, casting the affluent landscape in a dull blue. I’m driving away from the city, and the sky above me is highlighted with a thin smear of pale orange, like dirty blood toward the horizon. I pass the beltway and traverse old pastures converted to large plots for oversize mansions, private schools, small horse barns and large garages full of upscale cars that overlap each other from behind the hills. I follow the smear, past the large maintained yards of athletes, old money, and new bankers.

The company van follows the curves on the winding two-lane road. NPR plays economic news on the radio when my boss calls me on the Bluetooth.

“How was the last job?” Larry inquires.

“Easy, just a few pictures, an arrangement in the family room. They seemed happy. Did you get the picture?” I ask and follow the GPS right up a tree lined street and towards an open iron gate.

“Yeah. They have another project we’ll be on soon,” He says, eating something.

“Ok, and this one is just an uncrate and install?”

“Yep, it’s a famous piece though, so get pics.”

“Is this the Chuck Close?” I ask watching the evenly planted trees that line the windy drive up to the large, earthtone, starter castle.

“Yep, it’s Chuck from the auction news. Brett is a guy in venture capital, you’ve been here before.”

“Those large Frank Stella pieces?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah he has a great collection,” I say thinking of the epic paper collages we installed in the hallway to his son’s room.

“If it comes up you should thank him for me, I made a nice mint on a stock tip in pharmaceuticals he gave me a bit ago.”

“Really?”

“Yep, just on a small recommendation. He must’ve made a killing.”

“Congrats.”

“I should have some champagne sent or something. But what do you send a guy like that?”

I pull up the black drive and swing around the curve circling a modern fountain of hard minimal cement. The doors to the garage are open displaying the hoods of a black Tesla, red Porsche, two large SUVs, and in the last bay a crumpled hulk of a vehicle. Behind the wreck a large wooden crate looms.

“Was he in an accident?” I ask.

“I don’t know, his assistant rescheduled a bit ago. There was a death in the family, or something.”

I put the van in park and stare at the bronze paint and buckled fenders in the garage light like broken gold.

“Yeah, it’s like a whole car, hope he’s ok.”

“Well, go knock and see what he needs. If he wants us to reschedule we can.”

“Ok.”

We hang up and I turn the ignition, then go in the back of the Sprinter to grab my pack, two large moving blankets, and my ladder.

Outside the van, it smells like fire and the landscape is eerily quiet. I watch the brake lights of fleeing traffic through the trees down below. A whinnying cry pierces the silence. Setting down the ladder I walk across the slate patio to the side of the large home to peer over the metal fence. Through the black gazebo and beyond the large built-in stainless steel grill, three black horses silhouetted in the dusk run at top speed, bucking in the cold dark field as if hunted. They neigh, buck, turn, and speed to the edge of their enclosure, and then repeat.

“Hello,” I say inside the large glass walled atrium of the foyer. A curving reclaimed wood staircase twists in front of me up into the second floor of the home where a Chihuly glass sculpture fills the atrium with its bright orange and yellow blown glass tendrils.

“Hello,” I say a second time stepping inside the home. It smells of something pungent like trash left in the can too long. It fills the house. A stack of Amazon boxes rest by the door, piled to my waist. I slip off my shoes by the door and, laying down a blanket, set the ladder on it so as not to scratch the ash colored hardwood floors that cross the space with wide beams.

Bass seeps up from the basement through the house. Perhaps Brett is downstairs watching a movie on the home theatre system. I pick up my phone to call his number.

“I didn’t hear you,” He says startling me and crossing the large living area to the front room. His black Under Armor track suit is open as he clasps a lit cigar in his pale hand. His large head is even more alien, shaved bald and glistening with sweat. A dark colored wine bottle protrudes from the oversized pocket of his jacket.

“Hey, Brett, I’m here to install the painting,” I say watching his shaved head shine under the lights. He has put on weight since I was last here.

“That’s today?” He stops and stares at me, puffs on the cigar between his wan lips. He has no shirt on underneath the zip-up and his chest is pale and skeletal.

“Yes, but I can call Gwendolyn and we can reschedule, if it is a bad time,” I say. His black eyes dart around the room, back outside at my truck as if anticipating something. A cloud of cologne hits me; wood, some musk of amber – expensive but it does not hide the stench of the home and his body odor.

“No, no, no, no, no. She doesn’t work for me anymore. She left. Like everyone,” He says gripping the wine bottle from his pocket and tossing it back with a large swig. He smacks his lips and says, “I lost them.”

“Well, where would you like the piece?” I ask. He extends the bottle to me and stares at the walls, “No thank you.”

“Here,” He states and slides the bottle back into his pocket wiping his arms wide on the large blank wall of the front room.

“And the piece is in the garage now?”

“Yes,” he says and puffs on the Padron cigar releasing a gray plume into the home. “Just in from Christie’s.”

“Ok, I can go uncrate it—”

“Or Sotheby’s. Maybe it’s Christie’s.”

“I can get some dimensions and then tape it off for your approval,” I say and pull the straps on my pack.

“This way.” He says and walks across the gray boards to the large wide opening of the dark kitchen where dishes, dirty pots, and bags of trash are piled. Flies alight into the air as we pass by, disturbed by our movement through the fetid atmosphere. Even in the dark light, I can see the surfaces squirm with living creatures. I turn to him to ask a question but in the dim shadow his skin has the look of something flayed, wet, and slick like he is not himself.

He stops in the mud room and turns toward me. In the light of the mud room, the designer Edison light bulbs surging orange light around us. The stacks of bills lean on the granite desk top built in like a contemporary sculpture. His face looks normal, haggard, but normal.

“Do you want some cigars?” He points to an open box of Padron cigars on top of other plastic wrapped boxes of cigars.

“No. Maybe later. Thank you.”

“Ok,” He opens the door into the garage and unholstering his wine from his pocket he takes another swig and walks past me, “I’ll be out back.”

“Were you in an accident?” I ask. He stops and doesn’t turn to me.

“Yes.” He answers but does not turn to face me, then vanishes, leaving me with smoke and decay.

ii.

Every art crate is different, some follow around each piece through every sale and transaction accruing markings which show their trajectory through time. From collector to museum, from collector to auction house, from gallery to collector. Some are reused from other works. All are different on the inside; with wooden supports, foam protection barriers, hexacomb dividers, lined with luxurious felt. This crate opened like a freshly laid crypt. I barely had to pry with the crowbar. The well-constructed plywood gave way in a clean pull.

I take the cover off and lay it against the crate. Within, I can see the Close painting behind the layers of plastic, suspended in the crate between foam lined barriers, displaying a large blurry face. Then I remove the screws holding it in place from behind and gently excise the piece from the crate, one corner at a time.

I look over the wrecked vehicle as it stands in a shallow pool of its mechanical viscera. I can see it was once a regal Maserati painted a deep bronze, now buckled and cleaved. Its inside now outside, eviscerated in a collision, resting in its own waste. A light breeze moves the trees outside like an erratic invisible hand.

I slide the wrapped piece on linen blankets through the mudroom before standing it up in the dark kitchen. Grabbing both sides, I hold my breath and make my way to the bright front room ignoring the piles of rotten food, insects, and detritus.

Once in the front room, the stairway curves and disappears into the dark hallways above. I set the painting against the wall with some fabric to keep it from marring the ash gray paint job, set up the ladder, climb a few steps where I measure the center of the wall, and raise the median height a bit to compensate for the console table hugging the wall between the unlit sconces. The floor still vibrates from the bass below, shaking a glass somewhere in the house.

It always amazes me how an oil painting, no matter its age, can smell fresh. I peel away the thick plastic allowing the waft of deep oil paint to emerge from the enclosure taking over the smell of rot in the house. Then, climbing the ladder, I tape off the edges; top, bottom, left, and right. The wall feels strange and warm beneath my hands. I climb down and step back to look at the blue tape outline balanced between the modern sconces. The blue outline looks perfectly centered.

“Brett?” I call out through the large living area but I don’t see him in the dimly lit room full of empty shelves. I walk to the back doors out to the large sweeping patio where a raging fire burns in the fire pit of severe unfinished concrete. I open the door.

“Do you want to take a look?” I say to him not stepping outside in my socks. Brett faces away from me, towards the fire and beyond, the large yard where the final impressions of the horse’s silhouettes race around their enclosure. He tosses an armload of clothing into the fire sending towering traces of embers up and over the patio.

“Brett?” I say again opening the door. He hoists a lacrosse stick into the blaze.

“What?”

“Do you want to see where the piece will be?”

The fire which again spits out loose burning orange sparks that flicker out.

“I trust you,” He says not turning to me.

“Ok, I just centered it on the sconces and above the console table, ok?” He doesn’t answer but empties the dark bottle into his upturned face and lets it fall to the ground. It bounces once before shattering across the slick flagstones.

“I’ll be in the wine cellar,” Brett says stomping into the house as I watch the unbridled mares chase ghosts behind the pyre.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Larry wanted to thank you,” he stops at the door and turns to me. “The stock tip?”

“Oh,” Brett pauses, he wipes his face, “That is great for him. I’m glad he did well,” he says continuing inside the home while the fire burns.

iii.

I climb the ladder and check my marks with the laser level. Then go to hammer the hooks in. With each hammer-stroke the wall gives opening a wide aperture into the interior wall of the home.

“Shit,” I say to myself and I touch the crumpled drywall as maggots fall from the hole. I stumble down the ladder and stare at the opening. More larvae crawl from the maw and tumble down the wall onto the floor in a continuous stream.

“Brett,” I call down the dark stairs into the large basement. I take step down feeling the bass move the floor. I descend into the space. I call out again into the red tinted basement.

The walls breathe as a sinew of the interior, broken only by collections of flies that hold fast to the dead surface. I cover my face to avoid the stench. A large flat-screen is on the financial news but muted, emitting bass frequencies like a car passing a house late at night. I walk towards the glass wall of the modern wine cellar where Brett sits in the dim darkness surrounded by deep red bottles backlit in the shadow of fleshy light.

“Brett, we have a problem,” I say opening the crypt and lowering my shirt from my face, it smells like fermentation and decay. He says nothing but finishes a bottle of wine, discarding the glass into a pile of other empty bottles.

“I’m not a monster, you know?” Brett says to me with his voice deep.

“No, of course not,” I say holding myself close to the glass door afraid to offend him.

“You want this Pomerol?” He asks, not looking at me.

“No, thank you. I’ll be ok.”

“Take a bottle—”

“I’m concerned about the structure of the home.”

“You should take some. It’s the best.”, he says uncorking another bottle from his vintage.

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“Have you ever lost something?”, he asks me. I can feel his eyes on me even though all I see of his eyes are black sockets.

“Of course—”

“Something you cannot get back?”, he asks me while taking a long pull on the bottle. “I can’t end. No matter what I try. I am destined to suffer.”

“I don’t think I get what—”

He holds up his hand to me to stop my reply and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his crusty jacket.

“I sold it all and lost him,” He says to me.

“That wall up there is compromised,” I say pulling back my hair from my face. “I don’t think I can hang it. It’s full of—”

“I killed him.”

“I’m sorry?” I ask. “Who? Killed who?”

“My son,” Brett stands and runs his hands over the wall of bottles as if saying farewell. A swarm of flies lift off of him and obstruct the light, “Glad Larry made some money. Glad something good came out of it. He’s a good guy.”

I open the door behind me feeling the bass and the stench rise up within me.

“I am not a monster,” He pleads to me, or maybe himself, coming closer to me and revealing his flayed face in the red light; a rotten visage of vermin and decay barely concealing the blood congealed face and skull beneath. “It was an opportunity of a lifetime.”

I turn away toward the putrid staircase and faintly hear his plea as the walls leak a putrescent wake, “Help me.”

iv.

I left it all behind; the ladder, the fabric cloths, the tools, everything. I left it all in the house. My shoes. The famous Chuck Close resting against the wall. Everything.

Speeding down the drive in the van the mansion recedes in the darkness of night which each estate fights off by lighting every tree and every façade, every gate lit beautifully like the exteriors of luxurious abattoirs designed to ward off an outer dark within themselves as much as the world.

NPR plays quietly on the radio, stuck in a financial show reciting the massive acquisition of a pharmaceutical company and its new owners halting productions and adjusting prices.

The phone rings interrupting the broadcast.

“I spoke to Gwendolyn,” Larry says annoyed. I turn on to the main road away from the house. There is no traffic at this hour.

“I’m going to have to go back another time.”

“She was fired. It was his son?”

“What?”

“So, you didn’t get a picture?” He asks.

“No. I didn’t get a picture,” the home gets smaller in my mirrors. “I didn’t get the piece up.”

Larry sighs.

“His son was the death. Complications with his illness. Brett blames himself, the company stopped production of some medication, kind of sent him on this spiral. Anyway, I’ll reschedule,” Larry says disappointed. “It’s a mess.”

I don’t answer. I drive into the outer dark, pressing the gas through my socks, determined that I will never return to these false lights.

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