#if only she’d have managed a cheese crown

[jomiddlemarch]

If you're still taking February prompts: "doomed voyage" or "instead of you" for The Hour?

“Should’ve been me, old man, instead of you. Should’ve been me,” Hector muttered, every part of him aching in the torture device the hospital considered a chair, pulled up beside the narrow bed Freddie lay in, far more quietly than Freddie had ever done anything before as far as Hector knew. What did he know, though, he’d cocked it all up, Marnie had filled every surface of their fitted kitchen with various puddings and the icebox was full of trifle setting, more varieties of citrus curd than anyone could ever want, and there was no room left for him at what was supposed to be his home, nor yet the office, where Bel’s eyes were the color of fresh bruises and Lix looked at him with the distaste she’d reserved for weak coffee and a bad lead.

“Don’t be silly,” Freddie whispered, all he could manage. Hector hadn’t thought the other man was awake, the nurses wouldn’t say whether he was sleeping, drugged or in a coma, and Hector hadn’t wanted to ask Bel. It was startling, to hear Freddie’s voice so diminished, as if he’d screamed himself hoarse instead of nearly hemorrhaging to death in Bel’s arms. The drab blanket covered him nearly to the neck and his chest rose and fell only slightly with his breath.

“Silly am I?” Hector said. He had to say something, a little jovial perhaps. The truth certainly, and it was a relief that whatever had happened to Freddie hadn’t taken that ability to see what was real away from him. He might have preferred it, but who among them got what they wanted?

“They’d never have missed with you, you great hulking sod,” Freddie said. “There are a few advantages to being built like a consumptive Romantic poet, as long as one isn’t actually consumptive. Or Romantic.”

“Being a poet isn’t a problem?” Hector asked. Freddie’s color was still terrible, like the whey Marnie sieved out of some failed attempt at cheese-making, and his tenor was still raspy, but there was a gleam in his eyes that said some essential part of him remained inviolate. When Hector left, Bel would be waiting and he’d be able to offer her a real smile before she hurried in, her gloves shoved into the pocket of her scarlet jacket. It made her so pretty, Freddie wouldn’t be reminded of blood when he saw her.

“Wouldn’t know,” Freddie replied. “Gave up after I’d butchered about a dozen sonnets. Absolute rubbish.”

He meant he’d written a crown of sonnets and they’d all been about Bel, Hector would have put money on that. They were probably all shoved into a drawer of Freddie’s desk at the office.  

“Literature’s loss is journalism’s gain,” Hector said. “Though you’re not to rush back—”

“The case—”

“Is being looked into,” Hector said. “It’s not been forgotten. There’ll be other stories for you, when you’re well again.”

“I thought, in the ambulance, it was a hearse, that I’d died already and I’d never get there,” Freddie said. He winced, his mouth making a shape that spoke of dreadful pain. It was unfortunate that the grimace made him unutterably lovely.

“There?”

“Heaven. Hell. Peace. Limbo. Wherever I was supposed to go,” Freddie said. “They wouldn’t let Bel come along, that was the worst. Don’t tell her though.”

“I won’t,” Hector said. Had Freddie meant in the ambulance or into death, Eurydice speaking of Orpheus? Bel already knew how it had hurt him, even before the stupid young nurse named Connie had told her how Freddie had called for her as if his poor heart would break, miss, inconsolable he was.

“You should go home, Hector,” Freddie said. “You don’t need to waste your time here.”

“I’ll waste my time however and wherever I like, Lyon,” Hector said, leaning back in the excruciating chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. It had been the right thing to say. Freddie closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

Bel would knock before she came in. It would be good for her to find them like this. To know he hadn’t left Freddie alone, not this time.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Edge of Seventeen - Chapter Two.

A huge thank you to all of those who have interacted with the first chapter of this, I appreciate you SO much!!

Previous chapters - One

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,253

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Song reference - Feed my Chaos by Lilith Czar - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyMeaoD1p-c

‘Am I the victim?  Am I the criminal?  Am I the angel or diabolical?  The bullet or the gun?  What have I become?  Created in the pain of filth and dust 

Sex and energy  Turn your head off  Chasing reality  Feed my chaos  Bathed in holy light  Crown comes with a cost  Fuel me from the fight  Feed my chaos.’ 

Angel couldn’t stop listening to it, the original track by Heavenly Creature, entitled Feed my Chaos. They’d only been formed for three and a half months and already, they’d pooled their money together to record a few tracks, gotten themselves a few little shows, and were determined to make a name out there.  He admired Bella’s tenacity and zeal hugely, putting together all of the lyrics she’d been writing over the years and crafting actual songs, good songs, too, confessing to him that she was a hoarder of notebooks, always scribbling down something, never without paper and a pen to record inspiration whenever it hit her. 

Because of their conflicting schedules, Bella busy with college and his life between outlawing and scrap metal heaving keeping him busy, he hadn’t actually managed to see her again as yet, but they chatted regularly via text in the five days that followed their first meet. In fact, whenever Angel wasn’t busy with club duties, his phone appeared to be welded to his hand. 

‘Hey pretty girl. What you up to?’ 

Hearing her message alert, Bella reached for her nightstand to pick her phone up, squeaking with excitement when she saw it was from Angel.  

‘Just chilling at home, playing guitar, writing stuff. You?’ 

‘Hanging at the clubhouse before I hit the gym. You busy this afternoon?’  

‘Nope, I have a half day from college so I’m just gonna sit here with my guitar and stuff myself silly with bagels and cream cheese. Unless you had a more appealing alternative?’ 

Shit. Was that too forward? Was he merely asking what she was doing out of interest, and not leading anywhere with it? Could she unsend the message before he read it? Two little blue ticks next to the Whatsapp box revealed she couldn't, Bella cringing as she softly thudded her head against the top of her acoustic guitar.  

‘Wanna meet me for a few drinks?’  

Phew!  

‘Yeah, that’d be great. If I get on the train, I can probably be in Santo Padre by the time you’re done with the lifting of the heavy things.’ 

“Lifting of the heavy things,” he chuckled quietly, typing out another message.  

‘Alright. Do you know where West Point Social is? It’s a real cool bar, and they do great food too, if you wanted to stay for dinner?’ 

‘I don’t, but I have Google Maps, I’ll find it! Meet you there at say, 3:30pm?’ 

‘Cool, see you then.’  

Placing her guitar down, Bella rushed off her bed towards the large, heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of her room. Everything was vintage and nothing matched, but that was hers and her mother’s taste all over. “What the hell do I wear?” Flinging the door open, all of a panic, she raided the contents, considering a dress but then quickly vetoing that decision, landing on her skin-tight, light blue jeans and a simple cropped white top. She teamed them with her black stiletto heeled boots, her usual abundance of jewellery too, picking up one of her beloved heavy fringed bags, this one dark red and unloading all of her stuff into it before quickly touching up her makeup.  

The train took forty-five minutes to reach Santo Padre from her home of La Jolla, Bella barely making it after purchasing a ticket, running across the platform as fast as her feet would carry her, sliding in between the doors just as they were shutting with a grateful sigh. She would arrive at 2:57pm, looking on her phone and seeing that the bar was a twenty-minute walk from the station, which was doable.  

Her feet disagreed with her two thirds of the way through the walk, but the sight waiting for her at a table on the decking area outside the bar was more than worth it. Fuck. She’d almost forgotten how attractive he was. He was without his kutte, dressed simply in a white vest, dark grey shirt left open and a pair of dark blue jeans, heavy silver jewellery adorning his neck, fingers and wrists. When he saw her, he actually felt a wave of butterflies flutter through him. God, she was so gorgeous, every set of male eyes outside of the bar watching her as she walked, Angel feeling ten feet tall when she arrived with him, standing up to greet her with a hug and a quick kiss.  

“Damn,” he breathed, sitting down again. “You look smokin’!”  

Bella felt herself blush, her insides screaming with excitement. “Thanks. Looking pretty lush over there yourself, too.”  

“Lush? Is that a British-ism?” 

“Yeah, kind of. More Welsh than anything. I picked it up off one of my favourite TV shows, Gavin and Stacy. I doubt you’ll have heard of it,” she spoke, placing her bag down, giving her long hair a little ruffle.  

He looked completely nonplussed. “Nope, but maybe I’ll watch it with you sometime.” He sat back, shaking his head, barely able to believe his luck. She was so beautiful! It was making him a little crazy, truth be known. “So, what do you want to drink?” 

“A Coke, please.” 

He leaned forward, making a beckoning gesture with his finger. She reciprocated, leaning closer. “What do you really want to drink?” 

She bit her lip, grinning. “Malibu and Coke, please?” 

He winked, getting up. “I’ll be back.” He didn’t have any qualms about buying her alcohol, even if she was three years under the legal age limit. Besides, she easily passed for twenty-one. While he was inside, Bella took out her cigarettes, lighting up and looking out around the space. Southern California was, as one might imagine, completely different to her native Hammersmith. The vibe, the people, everything was in stark contrast, most of all the weather, London mostly dull and grey, save for the stifling summer months. She realised that after six months in San Diego, though, she knew nothing of hot weather prior to her move.  

“What’s that stuff like, then?” Angel spoke, arriving back and placing her drink down, Bella taking a grateful sip. She was parched after her walk. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried it.” He nodded towards her glass, Bella sliding it across the table to him.  

“Here, try a sip.”  

He picked it up, giving it a cautionary sniff. The face he made prompted her tiny snort laugh, sipping it back all the same. “Oh, Jesus in a fucking side car!”  

There it was again, her booming laugh. “Not a fan?” 

“It’s vile! It tastes like air freshener!” 

“And now many Magic Trees have you been chomping down on to be able to use those as your comparison?” She bobbed her tongue between her teeth playfully, Angel leaning forward in his seat, pointing at her. 

“No shaming my snack habits. They’re low carb.”  

She was in soft fits. “Low carb, all card?” 

“Exactly that,” he confirmed with a nod. “So, how was college?” 

“Boring!” she yelled, maybe a little too loudly. “We had to learn about the basis of chord progression, which is stupid since I know it already! I’ve been playing guitar since I was six!” She suddenly realised her statement came off as a little arrogant, continuing. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like a Johnny know-it-all, but I was just frustrated because I could have been using that time for something else, something brand new to me.” 

He reached for her hand, seeing the sudden worry in her face. “I understand, it’s like, you want to make the most of your time. You’re there to build on what you already know, not go over the same things. Maybe though, just see it as a chance to reminds yourself of those things again and keep them fresh?” She’d never looked at it like that before, and had to admit, he was right. She guessed her headstrong youth had a lot to do with it, Angel getting past his now at thirty-six. Already, she knew that would be a point of fascination about him, the fact he was likely a lot wiser than her in some ways.  

As they sat and chatted, Angel was fascinated by her, learning more about her homeland, the UK a place that by his own admission, he knew very little about at all.  

“I miss it there, I do,” she replied in answer to his question. “I mean, San Diego has everything London does, almost, but what I loved so much about London was the extremities of the cultural diversity. We have so many nationalities of people migrating, and they bring their culture of course, from food to music, it was just such an amazing scene. I always said I wanted to travel, though, so these are my first steps in making sure I don’t stay rooted, that I get out there and see the whole world.” 

“And you hope it’ll be your music that’ll make that happen for you?” he asked, taking another nacho from the huge plate they were sharing.  

“It will be, I’m certain of it. I’m not going to stop until I make something of myself, and music is going to be it.” He loved that about her, how confident she was. She had every reason to be. 

“Well, you damned sure got the talent,” he began, taking a swig of his beer when a particularly spicy piece of jalapeno began sizzling the back of his tongue. “Seriously, I can’t get enough of your music. I usually mostly listen to either old school hip hop or metal, but your stuff, I fucking love. Your voice, Jesus Christ, man! You even impressed Bish, and that ain’t easy to do. He’s very set in his ways over what he likes, but he was stunned when you started singing.” 

Her face was curious, wiping sour cream from her fingers with a napkin. “Who’s Bish?” 

“President of the MC, Bishop Losa,” Angel confirmed, Bella’s eyes widening a little.  

“Does he have a daughter called Hadleigh?”  

Angel nodded, pouring the remaining salsa over the nachos. He always ordered extra, because of the inevitable dry under chip situation. “He does! My beloved ass face!” 

Bella almost choked on her drink. “I know her! Well, I kind of know her, we move in the same circle. She’s dating a guy who’s friends with Ian, our drummer. Why’d you call her ass face?”  

“Because Hadleigh Losa is the biggest pranker on earth, she gets it right from her old man, and they prank on each other constantly. One night, she fell asleep at the club, and to get her back for emptying flour into his leaf blower, he drew an ass on her forehead with marker pen. She went fucking insane! Came off with rubbing alcohol, but I swear, I nearly broke a rib from laughing so hard!” 

“He sounds like a fun dad. I remember mine used to be the same. He’d play jokes in my mum all the time, particularly with an airhorn. He used to hide behind doors, under the bed, tables, and one time he even managed to wedge himself in the pantry. She said that was the only thing she didn’t miss after he died, the fact that at any given moment, she was five seconds from pissing her pants in fear at the threat of an airhorn being let off,” she detailed, remembering one time when he’d hid behind the curtains and gotten her, her mum throwing an entire bowl of popcorn in the air. Their old basset hound, Rufus had eaten well that night. “What was your dad like while you grew up?” 

“Stern,” Angel confirmed, thanking the passing waitress when she took their empty bottles and glasses away. “Mom was always the fun one. She was the sweetest woman, I swear. She was like you in so much that she lived and breathed music, so we listened to so much, from traditional Spanish stuff to Janis Joplin and Joan Jett, who she loved.” 

“Oh my god!” Bella cried, holding a hand to her chest. “Those women are two of my biggest idols!”  

“She even got to see Janis, you know. She snuck over the border and hitch hiked all the way up to Hollywood to watch her play at the Hollywood Bowl.”  

Bella’s eyes couldn’t have been more alight. “Bloody hell! Now that’s dedication. She sounds like she was such an incredible person, and you’ve only told me a little about her. I’m so sorry, about what happened to her.”  

Angel nodded, something sharp tingling in his chest. He missed her so much. “Thanks. I know you get it, though, that’s something we have in common, really missing one of our parents. So, tell me about your mom then, or mum, as you call her.” he teased.  

“She’s just terrific, she’s my best friend,” she began, scrunching her nose a little. “And I know that sounds really lame, but she is. She’s so chilled out, a real hippie type, and hugely clever. There literally isn’t a single thing she doesn’t know about plants, and her work is so fascinating, everything she researches in how plants can be used for differing purposes. She specialises in what’s known at phytochemistry.” 

“It sounds really complicated,” Angel confessed, sipping his beer.  

“Oh, it is. Half of what she tells me I’m just sitting there like, ‘what the bloody, buggery fuck, mum?’ over!” He laughed, loving her differing colloquialisms. He heard plenty more of them as they continued to talk, sharing stories from their lives, finding common grounds, detailing their differences, leaning so much about one another that the time flew by.  

It was a first date that went so well that by the time the sun had gone down, Bella had moved around to the other side of the table, sat across his lap, sharing kisses that probably bordered on much too steamy for a public place, but she didn’t care. Neither did he.  

“I hate to put a stop to this,” she sighed, her lips tingling. 

“Then don’t,” Angel interjected, his hand stroking her thigh.  

She laughed softly through her nose, leaning in to kiss him again. He was the best kisser she’d ever experienced, probably because he’d likely kissed hundreds more people than she had, or he was just naturally talented. Either way, she didn’t care. She couldn’t get enough. “I have to, though. My train leaves in forty minutes, and it’ll take me twenty to get back to the station.” 

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “How much later could you stay if I paid for your cab home?” 

Her mouth dropped open immediately. “Angel, that’s at least a sixty-dollar cab ride! I can’t ask you to do that!”  

His hand wandered up and down her back, leaning forward to kiss her cheek a few times. “You ain’t asking, I’m offering. How long?” 

Looking at the time on her phone, she worked it out. She didn’t have a curfew as such, her mum being quite relaxed, but she knew that in order to be fresh for college the next day, she should be home for about midnight. “Two hours?” 

“Done. Your sexy butt is staying exactly where it is,” he confirmed with a nod.  

“More than happy with this decision.” Her confirmation was delivered with the kind of kisses that made his pulse flip madly, Angel not able to remember a time when he’d been so attracted to someone. It wasn’t just that she was gorgeous either, it was her, all of her. She was smart, talented, funny, and so, so gentle and sweet. He was also revelling in the novelty that as a completely smoking hot eighteen-year-old, she could have any guy she wanted, and she’d seen him and thought ‘yep, that one.’ It wasn’t without its charm.  

The two hours passed much too quickly, Bella feeling a little sad pit in her stomach as the cab pulled up, standing in his arms, kissing him goodbye.  

“You might have to take me with you, because I totally don’t wanna let you go,” he confessed, actually poking out his bottom lip and looking utterly adorable, Bella returning such, making him melt completely. Oh, she was too cute!  

“I don’t want to leave you, either!” she exclaimed, quickly calling to the cab driver that she’d be a couple of minutes, the friendly man replying with ‘okay, darling’ before she turned back to the man she was very reluctant to let go of.  

“We could remedy this, you know,” he began. “I could give the driver my address instead, and you come stay at my place, blow off college tomorrow, or I’ll take you back there early in the morning, if you want?”  

“Erm...” she began, knowing the connotations. She shook her head. “I think I know exactly why you’re asking me back to your place, and it isn’t going to happen. Not this soon anyway.”  

He shrugged. “I can keep my hands to myself.” 

“Yeah, but maybe I can’t. I’m not easy, but with you, bloody hell. I could be, and I’m not screwing it all up by having sex with you right away,” she confessed, Angel respecting her decision. Albeit somewhat begrudgingly. He then realised, though, that such a stance made her very, very different to just about any other woman he’d encountered in recent years, all of them ready to jump into bed with him right away. God. It only made him like her more.  

“No worries, baby. You free this weekend? I’d love to see you again,” he asked, his fingers stroking her lower back in a way that made her tingle all over.  

“Not until Sunday, I’m afraid,” she lamented. “I have rehearsal on Friday night, then on Saturday I’m at work in the day, then on the evening we’re playing a little show at a bar not far from where I live, but yeah, Sunday daytime I can be all yours?” Ahh, yes. Sadly, Saturday daytime was out of bounds for her, Angel remembering her briefly detailing her job as a hair washing girl at a salon close to where she lived in La Jolla.  

“Then I’ll call you on Sunday morning to arrange something. Text me when you get home, alright?”  

She leaned in for another kiss, drinking him in, her heart fluttering madly. “Will do. Thanks for a great night.”  

Getting into the cab, she could barely wait for Sunday, grinning like an idiot for the entire duration of the ride home. He was the first guy in a long time who she really, really liked. In fact, she’d never felt like that before at all, she realised, replaying moments from their date in her head all the way home. 

She was smitten.   

As for Angel, he felt much the same, so much so that after discovering the name of the bar Heavenly Creature were playing at that coming Saturday, he planned to pay her a surprise visit.  

Bella almost felt her heart somersault out of her chest when after taking to the stage, she picked him out in the crowd. She realised then that he was just as into her as she was him, and that? That felt wonderful.  

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Done Pretending

Hi all,

I did a post-Per Manum ... I’ve had the quote ‘you and I are done pretending’ in my head for awhile and finally found a way to use it ... go me!

Anyways, enjoy :)

@today-in-fic

&&&&&&&&&&

He hugged her for what felt like forever, the light fading in the room as he heard her heart break over and over, thudding erratically against his chest, body hitching as a poorly contained sob snuck through her cracking exterior.

She had come so close to kissing him at first, lips stopping at the corner of his mouth, before they traveled over cheek to ear, “I don’t know what to do.”

Whispering back as he tightened his hold on her, “we’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

So, there they stood, until finally, Scully moved her head back, sliding it along his shoulder, “how are you doing?”

“Crappy. You?”

Sad chuckle burbled from her chapping lips, “I meant your back. You’ve been hunched over for,” looking at the clock on the VCR, “a good half hour.”

“Back? What’s a back?”

Pulling away, she stayed connected through fisted bunches of his sweater, not willing to give up contact completely but knowing he needed to stand upright or he’d never do it again. He took this correctly as a hint to stop playing the Hunchback of Notre Dame and slowly, he straightened out. His face showed every damn cartilage crack and screaming muscle and Scully couldn’t help but give him a frowning smile in sympathy, “would you go sit down, please?”

Mulder continued his stretch beyond vertical, leaning back as far as he could. twisting side to side, “if you were just, maybe, four, five inches taller or we had a set of steps or something, this would be so much easier.”

“Steps?”

“Yeah,” finally standing, wince clear on his face as his muscles finally began to calm, “I go down two steps, you stay at the top and I can hug you for a half-hour without dying.” Taking her by the hand, “come on. Let’s go find some stairs.”

“Mulder …”

“What? I’m not done with you yet. I need another hour at least.”

She loved him for trying, “how about we just order some pizza and sit down?”

Quickly taking her face in his hands, he kissed her forehead once again before she could swat his hands away, “make sure to order one of those useless veggie-tarian ones for yourself. I won’t say a word.”

Exhausted by her life, she gave him a sigh fitting someone much larger than her 5’ 3” stature, “screw vegetables. Tonight is extra cheese and as much sausage and pepperoni as they can pack on … and three-cheesy bread with at least four of those Ranch cups.”

Amused and terrified at the same time, “salad?”

“If you want me to throw bits of lettuce at you, sure, but otherwise I’m not touching it tonight.”

“You’re scary sometimes. I like it.”

Conversation gave her the distraction she needed to change into pajamas, toss Mulder some of his own from the stash she had managed to accumulate over the years, then listen to him order an obscene amount of greasy food. She made tea, a big kettle of it, knowing Mulder would consume at least half as well as all her ice cubes making it iced. She started a load of laundry and watered her last living plant. She calculated her half of the pizza bill and had a short argument with her partner when he refused to take her money.

Slow night for the pizza industry, their food arrived in under 30 minutes and once they were settled on the couch, steaming plates in hand, “are we taking tomorrow off?”

“Why?”

Mulder gave her a look, “this is food coma territory we are about to venture into. Just saying.”

And suddenly she started crying again, plate shaking in her hand, cheesy avalanche threating her lap. Taking the plate, Mulder set everything down on the coffee table and pulled her close once more, swiftly twisting so he was leaned against the arm of the sofa, Scully snuggled against his chest, sobbing into his t-shirt and kneading cotton between her fingers.

He didn’t know what to say so he cried with her, quiet but steady, until again, Scully was back down to random sniffles, "our pizza’s cold now.”

Mulder kissed the crown of her head, keeping his lips on her as he responded, “thank God you have an oven. Five minutes at 350 and we’ll never know it wasn’t fresh from Senor Jack’s House of Cheese.”

One long sniff later, Scully pushed herself up, using the back of her hand to wipe her nose, then, realizing what she’d done, “that was disgusting. Sorry.”

“Disgusting is what you did to my shirt.”

Glancing down at the large wet spot spread from collar to mid-chest, sternum to shoulder, “sorry.”

Tilting his head to look at her, wanting her to see the remnants of his own crying jag, tear streaks, bloodshot eyes, “don’t apologize. I’m not going to.”

She hadn’t realized he was crying as well and that filled her eyes once again, but blinking rapidly, she didn’t let the tears fall this time, “what was that about 350 degrees?”

He gave her possibly the saddest smile she’d ever seen, “are we going to talk about this at all? I’m not pushing, I swear, I just want to know.” Seeing her muscles tense to stand, he snagged the arm of her t-shirt, “It doesn’t have to be tonight but I’d like to at some point.”

“Can I maybe say tomorrow but reserve the right to change my mind?”

Still holding her in place, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Her gaze drifted from enveloping green eyes to full mouth, before struggling north again, watching intently as he studied her, pupils expanding and contracting, trying to figure her out. She gave him a wannabe smile, corner of her mouth turning up a microscopic notch before she managed, “I’m sorry, too.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Pizza re-heated, crust still crispy, cheese melty as ever, they ate while watching Jeopardy, then Wheel of Fortune. At eight, stuffed to the gills and both yawning, Mulder switched off the TV, asking into the darkness, “are we secure enough in our sense of self that we can go to sleep at 8pm and not feel really, really, and I mean, really old?”

“Well, I’m secure enough to know that we’re both going to need a handful of Tums before any kind of sleep can happen.”

“We are fucking old, Scully.” Standing up, “back in a minute.” He was indeed back in a minute, a little less, actually, pillow, comforter, and bottle of Tums in his hands, “catch.”

Snagging the bottle from the air, she chewed three before shaking the same amount out for him, holding them up to his now empty hands, “three for the old man.”

With a grin, glad some semblance of her sense of humor remained, “you should probably just leave the bottle on the table.”

She did, then stood, opting to clean up in the morning. Eyeing the bedding Mulder had dumped on the couch, she hesitated, her thoughts race-stumbling over one another, squishing their way to an undistinguishable mess. Fingered the corner of the deep-blue comforter, she had words fighting on the tip of her tongue, which she inexplicably ignored as she told him a soft ‘good night’ and skirted by him down the hall.

Mulder’s eyes shut, breath in, breath out, his own words fighting for freedom, to be called after her, to be spoken like they should have been hours, years, centuries, before. Instead, he waited, hearing her brush her teeth, wash something, face, hands, he wasn’t sure, then, not hearing the bedroom door shut, he instead heard the creak of her bed.

Finally opening his eyes again, he took in the shadowed living room, dimly lit kitchen, detritus of dinner for two, and turning on his heel, moved to walk down the hall. He made it three steps before he saw her come out of her bedroom door, stopping when she saw him.

He didn’t care anymore, “why do we keep doing this?”

The denial response automatic at this point, “doing what?”

Mulder took the deepest breath he could, holding it for a second before long, drawn-out exhale, “this. All of this. You there, me here, all of it.”

Her clenched fists fought down the denial this time, “it’s how we survive.”

“It’s shitty survival and getting shittier by the minute.” Tilting his head, he let his eyes bore into her, watching the flush on her skin crawl from small spots on her cheeks down her neck, and around past her ears, the hall nightlight providing everything he needed to read her clearly, “I’m done pretending, Scully. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Her voice nearly failed her, she formed the words, which cracked as they came out, “what are we pretending?”

One pathetic chuckle later, head still shaking, “Pretending I don’t want to sleep next to you instead of on this couch. Pretending you don’t want me to sleep next to you instead of on this couch. Pretending that the only reason I’d like you to stand on some stairs is so I can hug you without dying. Pretending I haven’t wanted to be with you since three minutes after I met you. Pretending that I’m not dying just as much as you are about our child not being inside you right now. Take your damn pick.”

“Mulder …”

About to start bawling all over again, he bit his cheek, realizing his confessions had escaped the confines of his mind, “what?”

“Why are you still standing over there?”

His legs wouldn’t budge, rooting to the spot, needing a question answered before he moved his life forward, “are we done pretending?”

Eyebrows scrunching, lips a tight line of fear, she nodded, “I think we need to be.”

His muscles remember the act of walking and seven strides later, he was in front of her, “you need a place with steps in it.”

“How about we worry about steps later?” Smiling the smile of someone who’d been through the proverbial wringer several times in one day, she reached out, took his hand, “maybe we’ll start with forgetting about you sleeping on the couch.”

Because he was Mulder, he looked over his shoulder to do one last front door lock check before letting her lead him into her bedroom, “you got another non-crusty shirt for me?”

Ticking them off on her fingers, “I’ve got Power Puff girls, Brady Bunch, Tetris, or the one with the Easter Peeps.”

“This feels like a Tetris kinda night.”

“If that’s not a metaphor for our lives, I don’t know what is.”

“They get lined up eventually, Scully. I promise.”

Exhaustion hit her like a freight train and handing him the shirt, “I need some sleep, Mulder. Can we worry about our puzzling lives tomorrow?”

Exchanging one shirt for the other, he headed to the opposite side of the bed, pulling comforter back, “as long as we can order some more pizza while doing it.”

She gave him a curt nod that made him smile, then silence settled while they did, shifting, pulling covers, straightening pillows, giggling once on Scully’s part when Mulder’s cold feet hit hers. Once quiet, comfortable, Scully slowly reached across the expanse between, 14 inches feeling like a mile, stopping when her fingers reached his cheek, “I love that you wanted this child just as much as I did.”

His hand drifted across the same expanse, palm on her cheek, closing the circle between them, “I fell in love with the idea of him the moment you asked me.”

Fingers to his lips and endlessly tracing, “I fell in love with the idea of him three minutes after I met you.”

“I love you.”

Scooting forward, she breathed her ‘I love you’ back, running firmly into his chest, arm up and over his side in a hug.

Tetris, my ass. They’d fit together perfectly from the beginning.

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 20

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on, on Mayans M.C., are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

20.

The next morning, Nina was looking out the window, at a green truck that had just pulled up by the curb. “I think it’s him!”. “You’re really excited, huh, ma'…?”, Angel chuckled at her. Nina turned to look at him, and nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think he’d like some coffee? We should make him some coffee…”, she said. “Ooh! Maybe some cheese! Go to the store an get some. Hurry!”. Angel came up behind Nina, and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her away from the window. “He’s not royalty”, he said. “To me, he’s pretty fucking close right now!”, Nina retorted. “I can’t wait until every one of those little assholes are dead and gone!”. Angel laughingly pressed a kiss to her temple, and went to open up for the exterminator. Nina felt a sudden urge to straighten her hair, and brush invisible lint of her clothes, before he came through the door.

As Angel showed the exterminator around the house, Nina followed close behind; adding to the conversation whenever it made sense – and sometimes even when it didn’t. She realized she was beginning to go stir-crazy from only spending time at either the clubhouse or Angel’s house; and she hadn’t talked to a person that didn’t have anything to do with the Mayans in days. Before that, she’d been kept under strict surveillance by SAMCRO, who were worried she’d hurt herself; and even before that, it had been the first lockdown at the scrapyard.

Crouched on the kitchen floor, and looking under the sink, the exterminator looked up at them, and sighed. “Yup. Roaches”, he said. “Is this a rental or do you own the house?”. “I’m the owner”, Angel muttered. Nina realized she hadn’t known either until now. The thought of having a stable home for a potential future family made her heart skip a beat – in spite of the roaches. “Too bad… You could charge the owner otherwise”, the exterminator. “That reminds me of a joke! A man walks in to an insect shop, and asks for a box full of roaches. The man behind the counter asks the costumer what he needs it for. Well, I’m moving, and the owner of my apartment told me to leave the place as I’d found it!”. He laughed loudly at his own joke, and Nina bit her lip to keep from grinning; while Angel simply raised a brow. The exterminator looked at Nina. “You liked that, huh…? Listen to this one: My girlfriend stepped on a butterfly the other day, so I told her; No butter for a week! Then she saw a cockroach, and stomped on that as well. I told her; Nice try!”. He roared with laughter, and Nina snorted out a snigger.

Angel went to stand half way in front of Nina, and looked at the exterminator. “What’s this gonna cost me?”, he grunted. “No price on peace of mind, right?”, the exterminator said, before catching on to Angel’s glum expression. “250 $... If you take care of the clean-up yourself, I’ll cut it down to an even deuce”. Nina winced at the thought of having to clean up an unspecified amount of dead bugs, and Angel sighed. “Just take care of it”, he muttered. “Will do. But I’ll need you to clear out of here for the rest of the day. And open the windows when you get home”. Angel grunted in confirmation, and took Nina’s hand; pulling her with him. She hardly had a chance to grab her borrowed helmet, before he dragged her out of the front door.

Once out by the bike, Nina stopped dead in her tracks. The weather was beautiful, and perfect for a day at the park, or a ride anywhere other than what at the moment felt like the suffocating closedness of the clubhouse. She looked deep into Angel’s darker than usual eyes. “Take me out for breakfast…”, she said. “Querida, you know how it is. We shouldn’t even be out in the open like this", Angel said.

“But I’m going crazy!”, Nina pleaded. “I only ever see you, or the people in the clubhouse… I feel like I’m under house arrest, even though you keep telling me I did nothing wrong". Angel got on his bike, and shook his head. “We’ll go out when all this is over", he said. “And when is that? You haven’t found the snitch yet; and even if you do, it’s just a matter of time before Palo realizes I’m still alive". Nina realized her voice was turning whiny. “I wanna go somewhere… see other people…”. “Like last time?”, Angel snapped back, taking her by surprise. “When you fucking left me, with nothing but a bullshit excuse?”.

Nina felt like she’d been slapped in the face. “Angel… You think I want to leave?”. “You did once already”, Angel said. “And just now, you were flirting with the guy who came to nuke the cockroaches, that’s made you hate my house”. “I don’t hate your house…”, Nina said, and scowled at him. “And I wasn’tflirting!”. “We’re not doing this now. Get on", Angel grunted, and started the engine. “Angel…!”. “Get on the fucking bike, Nina!”. “No! Fuck you!”, Nina growled, and began walking down the sidewalk, in the direction she thought might lead to a bus-stop.

She was so angry, she hardly heard Angel drive after her; and only just noticed him, once he was coasting slowly next to her. “Are you gonna walk to the yard?”, he said. “No. I’m gonna take a bus”, she retorted. “With what money?”. Nina halted. “I’ll flirt with the driver. Apparently, I flirt with strangers!”, she hissed. “I’m sorry…?”, Angel said. “Is that a question?”. She looked at him with rageful eyes, and he stopped the bike; getting off to walk up to her. “You have girls all over you, all the time, and I never complain. I’m friendly with one person, and you flip out!”. “You laughed at his sex-joke!”, Angel exclaimed. “Creeper was making dirty jokes all night, last night. I laughed at them”, Nina sneered. “You didn’t even blink!”. “Creep is a brother”. “So, I’m allowed to talk to patches; but with everyone else, I’m supposed to pretend they don’t exist?”, Nina asked. “With the club, it’s different. I trust them not to…”.

Nina scoffed at him, and rolled her eyes; before continuing to stomp down the street. Angel ran up behind her, and grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry…”, he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that shit”. “You don’t trust me; that’s the problem”, Nina said. “Yes, I trust you. I’m just… I already lost you once. I can’t do that again”. Angel’s eyes were sincere, and Nina fought the urge to take him into her arms. She was still angry. “I wanna protect you… And maybe I’m trying to protect myself”. Nina sighed. “I’m not leaving you again… But I have to see more than the inside of your house and the scrapyard”. “I know”, Angel said, and cupped her face. “Just, please… Let’s finish this shit with Palo, and I’ll take you wherever you want, ok?”. Nina frowned at him for a moment longer. “Don’t accuse me of stuff like you did just now… That’s not ok”. “I won’t. I’m sorry”, Angel said. “Please get on the bike. We need to get you to the yard, where you’re…”. “Safe… yeah. Whatever”, Nina muttered; put on her helmet, and got on the bike, after Angel had saddled up.

They drove to the scrapyard in silence.

---

Once at the clubhouse, the tension between them had lifted slightly, but Nina was still feeling peeved at Angel. He managed to steal a short kiss from her; but frowned, when she didn’t reciprocate his hug with more than a pat on the back.

Coco and Gilly came over, with rushed expressions. “We got a load of meds for the doc, but border control is hovering around the flower shop”, Gilly said. “East tunnel?”, Angel said. “West”, Coco said. “It’s further, but safer”. Angel nodded, and gave Nina a final look, before going over to get on his bike with the others. Nina waved at them as they drove off. She felt bad about how she’d left it with Angel, but it was hard to just get over being reminded of what she’d done to him. Mostly, she was angry with herself. Maybe there had been a different way to deal with the situation with Danielle those weeks back; but at the time she hadn’t known how to.

Trying to take her mind of it – she couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, anyway – she went into the clubhouse to start work. EZ was waiting with coffee and burritos, and they spent a little while having breakfast; while Nina retold the exterminator’s bad jokes. “He was flirting with you!”, EZ said. “How did Angel take that? Is he still alive?”. “Angel?”. “No, the exterminator!”, EZ chuckled. “Yeah… Though, I have a feeling he’s gonna have to watch his back for a while”.

Bishop, Taza and Hank came out of templo, and the prospect got to his feet. “We’re meeting with El Padrino”, Bishop said. “Business”. “Where’s Huey, Louie and Dewey?”, Hank asked. “They got a hold of some meds for the doc down south”, EZ said. “They’re using the west tunnel”. Hank nodded in approval. “Riz and Creeper are rat-hunting”, Taza said. “With their dicks…”, Bishop grunted. The men all sniggered. “Do you need me with you?”, EZ asked. “No. Stay here and Nina-sit”, Bishop replied. Nina rolled her eyes. “Sorry, mija. You know how it is. Palo is supposed to come tomorrow, but we don’t know if he changes his mind, and shows up early”. “You have your gun?”, Hank asked. Nina pulled out the .38 from her waistband. “Always”, she said. “Good”, Bishop said. “Prospect, go take care of that load of iron with Chucky. Nina, call him if anything comes up”. Nina and EZ both nodded, and the Mayans left the clubhouse. EZ went to clear up the table, but Nina halted him with a hand on his shoulder. “Go… scrap, or whatever it is you do. I’ve got this”. EZ nodded with a smile, and left her to it.

After clearing off their dishes, Nina went behind the bar, and put her gun by the sink, to wash them. She took her time, turning on some music to relax her tense mood. She hated to think something might happen to Angel while he was away, after how she’d more or less shrugged off his affectionate gestures, before he left. A cheery song came on, and Nina let herself sway to the music. Maybe she’d get a chance to dance with Angel at the party the day after, in spite of the psychopath bikers coming to kill her. They’d be ok. They had to be.

After a while, she went to wipe down the tables around the clubhouse; having to work a little more forcefully on the table the poker-game had been held at the night before. Stains from liquor and stray cigarette ashes had dried in, and she broke a nail trying to get one of the stickier stains. She cursed bellow her breath, and put her finger in her mouth, to relieve the pain a bit.

The door to the clubhouse opened, and Camille came in. “Hey!”, Nina smiled. “What’s up?”. Camille looked around the room, as if searching; before walking behind the bar. “Where is everyone?”, she asked. “Bish’ and the other tops are at some meeting; and the rest are out on some job down south”, Nina shrugged, and turned around to continue wiping down the table. “What about EZ?”, Camille said. “He’s around the yard somewhere. Bishop has him working on something”. “So, no one’s around?”. Nina looked confusedly at Camille. She looked almost relieved that they were alone; when usually she’d be annoyed there was no Mayans around to adore. “Yeah, we’re alone”, she muttered. “But seeing as you’re here, maybe you could help me with the party prep”. Camille chewed her lip. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk”. “Sure”, Nina shrugged. She dried her hands, and went to sit at one of the clean tables. “What’s up?”

Camille sat down across the table from her, and blew out a deep breath. “I’ve been keeping a secret from the club”, she said. Nina felt a shudder go through her. The situation reminded her too much of her confrontation with Daniella. “What’s that?”, she said. Camille took a long moment to gather herself, before looking meaningfully at her. “Before I came here, I used to go with the Vatos”, she said. “Oh”, Nina croaked. “Yeah…”, Camille muttered. “I met Sala while on a trip to Tijuana; and he took me to one of their parties… I ended up sticking around for a while; you know how it is”. “I guess…”. Nina didn’t like where this was going. “At first it was fine. I’d hang around, and take care of them…”. Camille shot Nina a look; making it clear what taking care of meant. “They offered me a permanent place with them, if I helped them out with a problem… Apparently, they wanted to expand into the states, but there was another MC blocking their way… So, they sent me up here to get whatever info I could get out of the Mayans; and for a while, that’s what I did”.

Nina cleared her throat, and tried to look calm; failing miserably. “Why are you telling me this?”, she asked. “You should know, I don’t have very good experiences with snitches”. It was difficult to avoid having an edge to her voice. “Because… I like you”, Camille said. “And I want you to understand why I’m doing this”. She put her hand behind her back, and pulled out a .38; which Nina instantly recognized as her own. She cursed internally for letting the gun out of her sight. Her eyes widened, and she fought the urge to run for the door. She wouldn’t make it anyway. Camille let the hand holding the gun rest on the table; the barrel pointing towards Nina. “Camille… What is this?”.

“The night of the party, I went into the trailer with Creeper… I saw your inhaler, and I figured out who you were. Sala had told me to look out for someone like you”, Camille said. “I was going to tell him, but then Creeper started talking about taking me out to the ocean for a couple of days, and I didn’t want to miss the chance of becoming his; and being a part of the family here... The Mayans are so different than Vatos Malditos… It’s not just drugs, and guns and fighting. They’re like a club should be. They care about their own… VM never cared about me, not really”. There was true pain in Camille’s eyes. “So, I went to talk to Sala, and tell him I was done. I wanted to belong to the Mayans… He told me it was fine, and that he’d take me to get the last of my money… But in stead, they beat the shit out of me, and… The Vatos aren’t as nice to women as the Mayans are. They dropped me in that tunnel, for the club to find me; said that if the Mayans wanted me, they could have me…”. Nina could read on Camille’s face what had happened the night she was beat, and she felt bile rise in her throat. “Camille… I’m sorry that happened to you…”, she tried. “Don’t pity me”, Camille hissed, and clenched her hand around the handle of the gun. “After all that, after they beat and raped me to try to get me to talk, I was still loyal to the MC here! I didn’t say a word... You are the Mayans favorite pet, and I saved your ass; but I couldn’t even tell anyone about how faithful I’d been, because I’d still be punished for being a snitch.”.

Nina swallowed thickly. “But you did talk to them again… didn’t you…?”, she said quietly. Camille nodded. “People around here love you. Everyone lights up when you enter the room, and I want that as well... You left, and I thought that when you went away, I’d have a chance to take over your job; but Dani was here, and she was all over the gig… I didn’t stand a chance”. “So you told the Vatos she was me…”, Nina croaked. “I was there the night Angel made her tell him what she knew. But even after trying to blackmail him into giving her another chance, the club was going to let her stick around; I just knew it. So, when Angel calmed down, and went to take her home… I called Sala. I told them the woman they wanted was with him, and where they were headed”, Camille said. “They killed her… You killed her, Camille”. Nina felt her whole body shaking. “Yeah… With both you and her gone, maybe the Mayans would finally let me be a part of the family”, she said. “But you came back, and you make it so fuckingdifficult to live up to the standards you set”.

They sat for a long moment in silence. Nina was terrified to move even a muscle. “What are you going to do now?”, she asked, convinced she already knew the answer. Camille looked at her with sad eyes. “You weren’t supposed to come back”, she said. “I just want to be a part of something, but with you around, there’s no room for me”. “That’s not true… You belong here as much as I do”, Nina said. “Bullshit…! I tried everything; serving their favorite beers; laughing at their jokes; giving them a good time in bed… They still see me as a nobody. But you… you’re like this shining, perfect person to them; and I can’t live up to that… The only chance I stand of having a home here, is if you’re not around. I’m not enough as me; so, I’m going to become you”. Camille pulled the hammer of the gun, and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna tell them the Vatos came by, and took you out… I’ll take care of them while they heal. They’ll see me as the new Nina”. Camille raised the gun, and smiled sadly. “I’m sorry…”.

Nina felt pure adrenaline flow through her veins. She put her hands under the edge of the table, and flipped it over; making Camille fall backwards, and the bullet hit the ceiling. Running for the door, another shot was heard, and she felt a burning pain in her leg; and screamed out in agony. Crawling behind the bar for cover, she heard Camille scramble to chase after her. “Don’t make this so fucking difficult”, the red-head yelled. Nina got to her feet, and grabbed a stray bottle of scotch; throwing it at Camille. Camille ducked just in time for the bottle to narrowly miss her head; giving Nina time to jump at her, and grab her wrist, to force the gun to point away, before Camille could pull the trigger again. They wrestled for the gun for a few seconds, before falling to the floor; limbs tangled. Camille was growling in anger, and as Nina got on top of her, she grabbed her arm, and bit down on her skin; drawing blood. Nina cried out, and pulled back; making Camille able to get on top of her. Nina kept her hold on Camille’s wrist, trying to force her to drop the gun, but Camille was like a wild woman; not letting go of her weapon. Once again pointing the .38 at Nina; she was startled at the door to the clubhouse slamming open. Nina twisted her wrist, when Camille pulled the trigger again.

The next three seconds felt like years to Nina. Red mist clouded her vision, as Camille’s blood and brain matter rained down over her. Something heavy held her down, and she realized it was her assailant’s body, slumped on top of her. The weight was pulled off her, and someone yelled her name repeatedly. She didn’t reply. Even opening her mouth a little, she felt the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She could hardly even breathe, though not for need of her inhaler. It just felt like there wasn’t any air to be had. Turning her head, she looked at Camille. It was that dark alley all over again. The bullet hole in Camille’s head, and her dead body on the floor; laying just as Gael had lain there.

A hand on her wounded leg made her jolt in pain, and she finally met EZ’s startled eyes. “Nina…! Are you ok?”, he said. Nina simply let out a short breath; unable to reply. When she didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone. “Angel! Get back to the clubhouse now. Camille is dead, and Nina’s been shot…”.

---

She sat on the floor, with her back against the bar. A paramedic was shining a flashlight into her eyes, and trying to get her to talk; but she had nothing to say. She’d not spoken a word to anyone, not even shed a tear.

EZ’s second phone call had been to Bishop; and he, Hank and Taza had arrived moments later. They all tried to get her to move away from Camille and the pool of blood she was sitting in, but she’d refused; recoiling from anyone trying to touch her. She’d sat there, looking at the dead woman on the floor, while Taza called 911.

The Mayans were pacing the floor, and giving statements to the cops; and all giving her worried looks. “Miss? Do you think you can tell me what happened here?”, a police officer asked. He crouched down in front of her, while the paramedic moved down to take a look at her leg. Her calf was soaring with pain, but Nina didn’t move a muscle. “Miss Teller?”, the officer tried again. “This is a serious situation. A woman is dead!”. “Back off her!”, Bishop growled. “You see the gun in the dead bitch’s hand. It’s clear what happened”. “You need to relax, sir”, the officer said warningly.

A roar of bikes was heard from outside, and Nina recognized the sound of one of the engines. It felt like there was finally a little bit of air to be had, and she took a gasping breath. “Where the fuck is she?”, Angel roared, before slamming the door open. He took one look at the scene, and ran over; dropping to his knees next to Nina. “Get off her!”, he growled at the police officer. “Watch it, son…”, the officer sneered. “She won’t move”, the paramedic muttered. “We need to get her to the hospital”. “Just let me talk to her”, Angel said. The officer got up, and backed away; keeping wary eyes on him and Coco and Gilly, who had come in after him. Both of them cursed bellow their breaths as they took in the scene.

Angel cupped Nina’s face, and looked at her with worried eyes. “Nina? Look at me, please…”. He stroked her temples with his thumbs, and Nina met his gaze. “Angel…”, she almost whispered. “I’m here, querida”, he said, trying for a soft smile. Nina slumped against him, and he gently wrapped his arms around her; letting her melt into him. “She… I can’t…”, she croaked. It was as if a dam inside her exploded, and tears came streaming out of her eyes. She sobbed violently, and clutched her hands around his arm. “I got you… I’m here”, Angel said, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. Everything surfaced in Nina’s head – overwhelming her with emotions. Her fight with Angel; how she’d not said goodbye properly; how she could have died without telling him again how much she loved him. She looked at the dead body on the floor. The coroner was crouched over it, taking pictures, and swabbing for gun residue on the hand. Camille’s eyes were still open, and it felt like she was staring straight in to Nina’s soul. Nina closed her eyes, turned away, and wailed against Angel’s chest; while he continuously stroked her hair, and tried to wipe away the unstoppable rivers of tears coming from her eyes.

“Sir, we have to move her… I can’t treat her here”, the paramedic said. Angel nodded, and slipped his arms under Nina’s body; lifting her up. He carried her out of the clubhouse, and over to the waiting ambulance, where they’d set up a gurney. Nina was shaking and crying as he set her down on it. “Let’s get you out of here”, the paramedic said. Nina shot Angel a panicked look. “Don’t let them take me away”, she cried. Angel looked at the paramedic. “I’m going with her”. “Only family can…”, the paramedic tried. “He is family", EZ said. He and Bishop had followed close behind Angel. “All of us are", the president grunted. Angel looked ready to kill anyone who tried to keep him from Nina’s side, and the paramedic sighed. “Alright. Let’s go", he said, and together, they pushed the gurney inside the ambulance. Angel jumped in to take the seat by Nina’s head, and took her hand.

The paramedic went to share a few words with the police officer, and left them alone in the ambulance “Angel…”, Nina whimpered. “Shh… you’re safe”, he whispered, and stroked her cheek. “It’s over”. “No…”, Nina whispered. “Camille was the snitch”. Angel’s eyes widened, and he stared at the body bag the coroner was rolling out of the clubhouse, before giving Bishop a hard look. “Rat…!”, he growled.

The last thing Nina saw before the paramedic closed the doors to the ambulance, was Bishop rushing back towards the clubhouse, his phone in hand.

---

[booksimp]

Flame of Autumn - Part Two

A/N: Part two of Midnight at Rita’s is finally here, everyone! Sorry it took so long, I started a new job and I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. As you can tell, I’ve named this series something different. That’s because Midnight at Rita’s was supposed to be a smut one off, but it has a mind of it’s own and has become an actual fic. This will be part two of a series called “Flame of Autumn”. This fic is going to be quite long, and more elaborate than anything I’ve written here so far. I hope you enjoy!

“Oh, fucking hell.” I curse, clapping a hand over my mouth in shock.

Azriel chuckles sardonically, running a hand through his already sex mussed curls, puffing out a shocked breath. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, eyes wide.  

“Well said.”

For a few moments, we just sit and feel the bond thrum between us, like the plucked string of a cello. We’re still flushed and dazed, our panting breaths the only sound in the room as we stare at each other. 

A strange intermingling of emotion overwhelms me. Elation, joy, desire. A desire to take hold of Azriel and never, ever be parted from him. But all of it is entirely eclipsed by a sense of dread. It wraps itself around my throat, my heart, like a noose of ice. 

A mate is just another person to lose, to endanger with my own existence. 

The faces of all those that have suffered to protect me, that I ultimately lost, flash across my vision. A macabre version of a scrapbook. Just as easily as he perceived my earlier insecurities, Azriel notices the rising emotions in me. With the mate bond newly revealed, I wonder if the connection we’d felt all night had been the first clue. That, and his uncanny ability to read me like an open book. 

“Sabine, I don’t expect anything from you. But I- I’d like to explore this. We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.” 

His face shines with hope as he takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. A hesitant reach down the bond caresses against me. His eyes are open and earnest, a shy smile on his face. The epitome of honest and trustworthy. 

I wonder what he would think if he knew Sabine isn’t my real name. 

A pang of guilt shoots through me, at the dishonesty of it, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. Lying to others has become disturbingly easy over the years I’ve been in hiding. I’m skilled at it now, diversion and distraction like second nature. But the thought of keeping up the ruse with my mate is unbearable. Having to lie every day, and to the person who should know the absolute truth of myself? I can’t do it. I won’t do it. 

I’m opening my mouth to admit things I haven’t in years, when my mothers face flashes through my mind. She was the first to implore me to hide my abilities, and the first to die because of them. 

“You threaten his crown. He will destroy everything you love to keep you quiet, my girl. You cannot give him more ammunition. You get close to no one. You keep moving. Don’t ever come back here.” 

Her words ring in my ears like I’m hearing them for the first time. I shut my mouth with a snap. I can’t tell Azriel anything, for fear of bringing the wrath of my father down on him. Can I even stay in Velaris? 

When I first heard of the hidden city of the Night Court, heavily guarded by the most powerful High Lord, I rejoiced. Isolated and with a varied population, it made the perfect hiding place. Not to mention that Velaris is far outside the reach of my fathers court. I’ve felt almost safe here, and the thought of leaving this city, of leaving Azriel, has my heart sinking into my stomach. Azriel slowly places a hand on my cheek, breaking me free of my internal struggle. Concern shapes his features, hazel eyes heartbreakingly gentle. He is too perceptive to not see the indecision and fear in me, bond or not. Without meaning to, I speak. 

“Okay.” 

A relieved grin graces his lips. I feel the apprehension fading from him, being replaced with soft joy. It makes my decision for me. Azriel is an Illyrian, not exactly an easy target. We’re in the safest place there is for me. If I guard my secret well enough, I can stay. Stay, and see where this newfound bond leads us. I pray to the Cauldron that I’m not making a stupid, selfish mistake. 

“Are you sure?” His brow furrows, intent on my response.

In that moment, I know that no matter how strongly he feels, Azriel will let me walk away. If I decide he’s not what I want, he would honor my choice no questions asked. It only makes me more certain of my decision. I’ve never been one to tolerate a controlling male.

“Absolutely. Are you?” I ask, inching closer to him, still clutching the sheets against myself.

His eyes flicker down to my chest, and back to my eyes. When a faint blush paints his cheeks, I nearly drop the bedding in shock. So the confident male can get flustered. I file the information away for later, barely containing a smirk. 

“Of course I am, I’ve waited almost six hundred years for you.” His voice is low, each syllable more sure than the last. 

My heart soars inside my chest at his words. Depthless hazel eyes bore into mine, and his shadows brush against my bare skin. They send shivers all along my body, and I edge even closer to him. He meets me in the middle of the bed, his forehead touching mine as his gaze roves over me like I’m a precious, once lost jewel. I do the same, drinking in the sight of the magnificent shadowsinger before me. My mate. 

Long ago, some inexplicable force decided that he belonged to me, and I him. I wonder what makes us so compatible, and I find I’m excited to discover every reason for myself. I want to know all the simple, small details of him like the back of my hand. I want to memorize the planes of his face, every color in his eyes.

If my mother could meet him, I imagine she’d remark on the beautiful grandchildren we’d make her. It's that thought, and the sudden realization that we are both very naked, that has a fierce blush coloring my face. 

“Maybe we should get dressed.” I whisper, only slightly breathless. 

Azriel’s eyes run along my sheet-clad form once more, before he pins me with  that now familiar alluring smile. 

“As you wish.” 

He says again, only making me more flushed at the memory. Without an ounce of shame, the Illyrian rises to his feet and walks to the dresser at the other end of the room. He begins digging through the drawers, before selecting some grey sweatpants and a long sleeve black shirt for himself. I’m still wrapped in his sheets, attempting to not gawk at the unobstructed view of his ass, when Azriel looks over his shoulder at me. He smirks at my obvious observation of his body.

“Do you want something other than your dress? Something more comfortable?”

I look down at the rumpled silk garment on the floor and grimace. He’s right, the thought of shimmying myself into it right now is about as appealing as a cold bath in the middle of winter.

“Yes please. Preferably something a bit warmer.” 

He nods, and picks a few items from his dresser. He places them on the bed before me and fixes me with a sweet, slightly shy grin. 

“Are you hungry? I have pastries from the bakery down the street. I could make coffee?” 

My ears perk at the mention of food, and my stomach grumbles in agreement. I like that instead of pushing me to continue our conversation about our future, he’s making sure I’m fed and comfortable. That warm, light sensation flutters in my belly again.  

“I never turn down coffee or carbs.” I manage to get out, smiling coyly. 

“Noted.” Azriel smiles again, a quiet amusement in his eyes. 

He leaves me to change, heading towards the kitchen to start the coffee. I put on the sweatshirt and black briefs left for me. Both are too big, but they’re warm and soft against my skin. Worlds better than the dress. I pull the collar of the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhale his scent of cedar and moonlight and rain. Gods, what does he bathe in that makes him smell so good?

For the first time all night, I’m able to observe Azriel’s bedroom. My eyes widen as I take in the beautiful A frame ceiling with exposed wooden beams. The soft patter of rain on glass draws my eyes to the east wall, which is made entirely of paneled windows. Silver rivulets of water run down their surface, reflecting flickering beams of moonlight into the room. The floors are a dark oak, the walls a calming sage.

Candles burn on Azriel’s overflowing bookcase, and the fireplace crackles merrily on the opposite wall. I reach out hesitantly with my ability, and feel the heat of each flame flicker inside my awareness. For a moment, I watch the candle flames dance and twist under my will. It's rare that I ever have the chance to explore my gift, the small flames too often exploding into an uncontrolled inferno that attracts attention. But I can’t help playing just a little.   

The sound of a kettle whistling startles me from my reverie, and a few tea lights extinguish entirely. I wince, and quickly light them again before following Azriel into the kitchen. 

He’s at the counter, adding hot water to a french press. The earthy scent of coffee tickles my nose as he presses the grounds down, the muscles of his arm flexing deliciously.

“How do you take your coffee?” He asks, gesturing towards a pale box of pastries for me to choose from. 

“Cream and sugar. Lots of cream.” 

“You like your coffee sweet.” He smiles to himself as he pours extra cream and sugar into my cup, as if adding the observance to a mental list.

 I pad closer and peer at the box of pastries over his broad shoulder. On the front it reads ‘Diana’s Bakery and Coffeehouse’ in elegant script. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I open the familiar box, and take a bagel from inside. 

He notices me smiling at the pastries and raises a thick eyebrow at me, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“What is it?”

“Nothing it's just - well I work at Diana’s.” I laugh, taking a bite of the magically warmed bagel after liberally smearing it with cream cheese. 

“You do? But I’ve been in there everyday this week, I haven’t seen you.” 

He passes my mug to me, filled to the brim with creamy coffee, and I take a careful sip. He leans against the marble counter, hazel eyes looking me up and down, that small smirk making an appearance once again. What is it about males liking us in their clothes? Not that I’m complaining. 

“Well, you wouldn’t. I work in the back with Diana as her baking apprentice. I even baked those cinnamon rolls.”

 I know they’re mine by the slightly imperfect glazing. Diana is meticulous and every single treat she bakes is always flawless.

He points to the icing covered cinnamon rolls inside the box, mouth gaping in shock. 

“These cinnamon rolls? They’re the best I’ve ever had. I’ve been buying you guys out everyday.” Azriel exclaims, eyes wide and alight with surprise. 

“Oh, so you’re the reason I’ve had to make twice as many recently?” I chuckle, pink staining my cheeks. The fact that Azriel loves my baking brings me way too much delight to be proper. 

“I’m sorry, but Cassian and I can’t get enough of them. What do you do to them? They’re like biting into a cloud!”

“I can’t tell you that! It's a secret recipe!” I wink, a goofy grin on my face.

Azriel rolls his eyes and smiles, grumbling about how secretive bakers are as he deposits a large mound of cinnamon rolls onto a plate. A truly genuine smile breaks across my face at the sight. He collects his own mug and leads me to a comfy couch, where we both plop down and tuck into our midnight snacks. 

I can’t help but watch him, completely mystified. This sexy, adorable male is my mate? I’ve never felt lucky a day in my life, but as Azriel finishes his third cinnamon roll, I can’t help but feel like the fates smiled on this one aspect of my life. Having finished my bagel, I sip on my coffee and relax into the couch. I’ve been running for a long time, keeping everyone at arm's length, never staying in one place for more than a few years. But maybe I can stay hidden in Velaris and keep Azriel a lot closer. Maybe I don’t have to be alone. I want that future so badly it becomes hard to breath.

“So you bake. You dance at Rita’s. What else?” 

Azriel’s voice brings me back to the present, and I glance up from my coffee cup. Silent laughter dances in the hazel depths of his eyes, his plate of pastries discarded on the coffee table. Suddenly self conscious under his intent gaze,  I reach a hand up to feel the tangled masses of my dark hair. I grimace when I realize what a mess it’s become. It will probably need to be dyed again as well.

“I play music. Mostly the piano. I write sometimes. And you?”

The admissions, however small, make my throat tight with anxiety. I haven’t told anyone anything true about myself in years, and I haven’t touched a piano in just as long. The feeling is nerve wracking, and I can’t help but feel exposed. My eyes follow the upward curve of his lips as he smiles at me, one arm draped over the back of the couch. 

 “I can see you playing piano. You have the hands for it.”

I blush at his statement, my gaze falling to my entirely ordinary hands. What does that even mean?

“I’m something of a homebody. If I’m not with my brothers, I’m probably here with a book. I train, I work, I come home."

That explains the mountains of novels all over his room. And the incredible body. He reaches over and runs a hand through my slightly curling hair, the hours I’d spent straightening it made useless. He curls one of the ringlets around his finger, giving it a slight tug, before he tucks it behind my ear. Every single nervous thought evaporates at his touch.

“I like your hair like this, especially since I’m the one who made it this messy.” 

He murmurs, a sudden heat in his eyes. I feel my body warm in response to that look, and I have to divert my gaze down at my lap to keep from jumping him right there. Again.

“You’re a shameless flirt, shadowsinger.” I mutter, playing with the silver ring of leaves on my finger, noticing that his thigh is now pressed against mine. When had he moved so close?

“Not usually, trust me. My brothers would be astonished.” He laughs, running a hand through his own messy hair. 

“Not usually?” I trace a finger along the back of his hand, fascinated by the combination of scarring and complex veins. 

He shivers slightly, and I smile in satisfaction. He’s not the only one who can play that game. 

“I make exceptions for my mate.” He whispers, taking my hand from his and pressing a kiss to my palm, lips soft and warm. 

“I was supposed to have drinks with my brothers. They must think I decided to stay in.”  He laughs against my skin, kissing his way to the pulse point of my wrist.

“Little do they know, huh?” I gasp, made breathless by his ministrations and the thought of exactly why he’d ditched his brothers tonight.

“Little do they know. When you’re ready, I - uh. I know they’d love to meet you.” He looks up at me, cheeks filling with color as he straightens. 

My stomach drops, and a bit of reality comes crashing down. A mate is one thing, but letting his family into my life? They’d be two more people to lie to, two more people in danger because of me. I avoid any straight answers, and decide to divert his attention elsewhere.

“Tell me about them?” I drink from my mug, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. I can’t shake the feeling that he can see down to the very truth of me when our gazes meet. 

“Their names are Cassian and Rhys. Complete idiots. But those two have saved my life in so many ways.” His eyes glow with a warm, far away look, a goofy smile on his face. 

“It sounds like you love them very much.” I speak softly, not wanting that radiant look to ever leave his face.

“I do. Do you have any siblings?” His eyes flicker back to me, the distance clearing from them. 

“An older brother. Micah.” I try not to let my voice break on his name, the longing slamming into my chest like a horse at a full sprint. 

I curse myself for using my brother's real name, a slip up I wouldn’t have made with anyone else. Azriel’s mere presence is enough to disarm me, and it's a struggle to focus with him this close. I haven’t seen Micah since the day our mother was murdered by my fathers sentries, and we both fled for our lives. In opposite directions. The day that started my life on the run. 

“Are you two close?” Azriel’s shadows curl around me as he squeezes my hand in silent support, like he already knows the answer. 

“We used to be, when we were young. Not so much anymore.” 

I tense, hoping that he doesn’t push the subject. I can’t exactly tell him the truth of our forced estrangement. At least not yet.

“Where are you from?” 

 His tone is light, and I am endlessly grateful for the change in conversation. He doesn’t seem to miss a thing when it comes to me. The thought is a constant inkling of worry in the back of my head. 

“Not Velaris.” I reply quickly.

It technically isn’t a lie, but the evasion feels even worse.

“I could’ve guessed that, love. I’ve lived here for hundreds of years, if you lived in Velaris I would’ve found you sooner. Are you from the Night Court?” 

He chuckles, taking up another strand of my hair to play with. For a moment, I forget that he’s waiting on a response. 

“No, Summer Court. Adriata. Did you grow up in Illyria?” 

 I attempt to change the subject, the subterfuge like spoiled milk in my stomach. I wish I could tell him all about my little cottage on the outskirts of the Autumn Court, about my mothers smile, and Micah’s penchant for getting me into trouble. Instead, I have to wriggle my way out of letting him get to know me. This is going to be harder than I thought. 

“Unfortunately, I did.” Shadows rise from deep within his eyes, blotting out almost all the light in them. 

I’ve heard many stories about the brutality of Illyria. Their perilous winters and sprawling mountains, the discipline that they ingrain into their children, how they throw themselves into the path of war. I wonder who put the scars on his hands, his wings, and I feel sick for an entirely different reason.

I search his eyes for answers, glimpsing an age old sadness there. I feel him trying to shove it down deep, but he can’t hide from me anymore than I can from him. A burning rage seethes in my chest at that sadness. It makes me want to grow claws and rip and tear, scorch those responsible with my flames.

He closes his eyes and rests his head where my shoulder and collarbone meet, a deep sigh leaving him. From the tension in his body, I know he wants me to let the topic drop. So instead of asking the questions on the tip of my tongue, I kiss the top of his head and stroke his back softly. He practically purrs, pressing closer, telling me to continue. I smile softly, trailing my fingers down his spine in slow circles. His back is deliciously firm, and rippling with muscles from his often used wings. Heat scorches across my face as I remember how I brought him over the edge just by kissing them, the absolute unleashing of it. 

“I- I didn’t realize. That, well um- your wings. That they were so-“ I stutter pitifully, the blush spreading down my neck. 

Azriel leans back to meet my eyes, a slight smile beginning on his face, previous troubles forgotten. 

“You didn’t know?” He asks, disbelief in his tone and a glint of amusement in his eye. 

“No, they just looked very kissable.”

He throws his head back and gives a loud, full belly laugh. I beam at the musical sound, satisfaction flowing through me. I want to make him laugh like that again and again.

“An Illyrian males wings are the most sensitive part of their body. If touched in the perfect spot, we can finish from that alone. As you saw. But they are also our greatest weapon, and we protect them accordingly. For that reason, I usually keep them far away from any - partners.” He explains after sobering from his laughter, voice soft and a slight blush painting his elegant cheekbones.

“But you make exceptions for your mate?” I ask, eyes downcast as I play with the cuff of his long sleeve shirt.

“I do. Only for you.” He takes my hands from his sleeve, and presses them to his lips once again.

I glance up at him, to find his eyes already on me. The warmth and tenderness I find there has my heart flying in my chest, and tears pricking my eyes. I blink them away hurriedly, looking to his wings instead of the intense emotion he’s showing me. For some reason, the adoration I see there has a small burst of fear running through me. 

“I’m glad you let me touch them. They’re beautiful.” I whisper reverently as l behold the incredible expanse of his wings. 

Vibrant plum and lavender, veined with maroon and the silver of scar tissue. I can’t even think of these beautiful, majestic wings being mutilated like that. My hands ache to touch them again, feel their silky warmth. 

“You definitely showed your appreciation for them.” He leans closer, his breath fanning across my cheek as he whispers in my ear. 

It sends shivers deep into my core, and I have to squeeze my thighs together and hope he doesn’t catch my scent. The confident, seductive Azriel of earlier tonight is back. 

“Not yet I haven’t.” I murmur, emboldened by my renewed need for him. 

The need comes quickly, overwhelmingly. Especially now that I know what being with him is like. Entirely world shattering. He may have ruined every other male for me. Again, not that I’m complaining. A low rumble comes from deep in his chest, and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap with ease. 

“Is that so?” There’s a sultry promise in his voice, and I feel him stir against my thigh. 

The room is filled with our mingled arousal as he inhales against my neck. 

“I still can’t believe I found you.” He groans, pressing kisses against my throat. 

I let my eyes fall closed, shocked anew at how easily he reduces me to a gasping mess. His hands begin to roam over my hips and waist, his touch worshipping and disbelieving. When I begin to slowly move myself over his growing arousal, I feel a shift in him. His hands halt their exploration, and he tenses beneath me. I open my eyes to find his face veiled with worry, his brow creasing. 

“You don’t have to, Sabine.” He cups my face in his hands, dark eyes gleaming with concern. 

I try not to flinch at the false name, and I wonder what his voice would sound like saying the name my mother gave me.  

Shoving those thoughts away, I shake my head, a small grin forming on my lips. Does he not see how infatuated I am already? Of course I don’t have to, but I want to. 

“Az, you idiot.”

And with that, I plant my lips on his. He doesn’t need further convincing. His body responds to mine eagerly, a low growl building in his chest. My back meets the leather couch as Azriel maneuvers himself above me, his hands sliding under the hem of my sweatshirt. He is somehow gentle and commanding all at once, his skin burning hot against mine. I sigh into the kiss as I give myself to him, entirely content to do so this time. 

“You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He whispers against my lips, that reverent tone back in full force. My eyes prick as my chest fills with equal parts warmth and fear. I can see how easy it would be to love my mate. To fall fast and completely. And the part of me that’s been running scared from those I once loved is terrified.  

“I’m scared.” I murmur back, surprised at my own honesty.

I feel his frown against my lips, and he only holds me tighter. 

“I’m scared too, love. But I won’t ever hurt you. You’re - You are everything.” His eyes, soft and dark and endlessly kind, convince me. 

I smile sheepishly at him, holding out my left pinky. 

“Promise?”

Without hesitation, he wraps his finger around mine. 

“I promise.” 

The next morning, sunlight streaming in through the expansive windows wakes me. A sleepy contentment keeps me drowsy and warm, and I stretch like a cat after a particularly restful nap. 

“Good morning.” 

Cauldron, his morning voice is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

I blink my eyes open, the blurry image of a very amused Azriel coming into focus. His black hair is tousled and falling onto his forehead, and pillow marks color his cheeks. 

Delicious.

I cuddle closer to him instead of replying, not ready to start the day yet. He wraps both arms around me as I bury my head in his very bare chest. Memories of last night rise to the surface, and I feel my cheeks warm. After his pinky promise, Azriel made love to me. That's the only way to describe the beautiful, tender way he touched me. He made sure every ounce of doubt was replaced with complete trust. It was the most intimate I had ever been with anyone in my entire life. 

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” He asks, a teasing grin curling his full lips.

I can’t help but remember those lips on my body in the living room. And the bedroom. And the bathtub. Needless to say, we didn’t sleep until dawn.

“W-What did I say?” I can only imagine the mortifying things my sleep self has to say to this male.

“Just my name. Over and over again.” His voice deepens, eyes darkening.

“Shut up! I did not!” I hiss, giving his shoulder a shove. 

He only chuckles and waggles a brow at me, before placing a kiss to my forehead. He smells even better in the morning, his cedar scent more potent. How is that even possible?

“How did you sleep?” 

He brushes my hair over my shoulder, peppering even more kisses across my collarbone. I shiver under his attention, my eyes falling closed again.

“Better than I have in a long time.” I admit, my voice still raspy with sleep. 

“So did I.” 

He runs gentle hands through my hair, our legs still entwined intimately. I haven’t felt this safe and content in someone’s arms since I was a girl, when my mom would hold me after I woke from nightmares about monsters under my bed. Azriel already feels like home, and the thought doesn’t scare me as badly as it did last night. Thoughts of my father seem distant and insignificant now, chased away by the bright morning light and warmth of my mate’s presence. 

“I wish I could stay here with you all day, baby.” He groans, a deep sigh leaving him. I can feel his reluctance in how firmly he presses me to him, strong arms locking me against his chest. 

“Then stay.” I grumble moodily, a frown curling my lips downwards. I know we can’t stay sequestered in his apartment forever, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. 

“I have to do some work for my brother today, but you’re more than welcome to stay in my bed. In fact, I hope you do.” Azriel chuckles, untangling his limbs from mine and kneeling before me. He drops a tender, lingering kiss on my lips  before standing.

My cheeks warm as my blood sings in my veins, and my breath catches in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way his touch affects me. I hope I never do. 

“Oh? What kind of work do you do for him? Does he have his own shop or something?” I yawn my way through the question, cuddling myself into his vacated warm spot. 

Azriel smiles over his shoulder at me, while sliding into Illyrian fighting leathers. My mouth goes dry at how the skin tight garment outlines his muscular thighs and powerful chest, accentuating the golden tones of his skin. Hubba Hubba.

“Actually, Rhysand is High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his Spymaster. I have spying to do.” His lips twitch as if he’s trying to not let the easy smile fall from his face as he continues dressing. He watches for my reaction intently.

The blood in my veins turns to ice, freezing my heart in place as my eyes shoot open in shock. 

Azriel’s brother Rhys is... Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. All sleep leaves my body, and I have to fight to stay still. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, run far and fast. 

Because Rhysand knows my father, seeing as he’s High Lord of the Autumn Court.

In fact, I know Beron has met Rhysand many times. He often spoke about the half breed bastard who challenged his authority at meetings.

I met Rhysand at Beron’s court once, when I was barely fifteen. It's been decades, but he could easily recognize me as Beron’s bastard daughter. And he could tell my father where I am, maybe even deliver me to him. 

Even if he doesn’t recognize me, grown and changed as I am, Rhysand is a Daemati. He could rip the truth from my own mind with hardly a thought. And the High Lord of the Night Court has a reputation for finding pleasure in that sort of thing. The thought has me shivering despite the warm blankets tucked around me. 

“Oh. You didn’t mention that last night.” I rasp, trying not to look like I’m about to throw up. My stomach roils, and my palms dampen with cold sweat. 

“I forget that he's High Lord sometimes. He’s just Rhys to me.” Azriel shrugs, with his back now turned to me as he readies himself for the day. I thank the Cauldron for it. 

I can only imagine the stark horror in my expression, and I take a few extra moments to reign my emotions in. Gods, no wonder Azriel can read me so effortlessly. It's not only because of the bond, he’s a spymaster. Reading people is his job. A job he performs for a mind stealing, murdering monster of a High Lord. Bile rises in my throat, and I feel my heart crack in my chest. 

Azriel is not who I thought he was. The trustworthy, gentle male I spent the night with could just be another mask he wears. A tremble begins deep within me.

“When will you be back?” I try to sound eager, like I can’t wait for his return. 

In reality, I’m trying to find out how far away I can get before he even realizes I’m gone. 

“Tonight. I just need to visit some - colleagues in another court.” He says, while lacing his sturdy looking boots into place. 

What court is he ‘visiting’? Will he be spying on other High Lords for Rhysand? Despite the new revelations about his dangerous brother, I feel a stab of fear for my mate. Any High Lord would slaughter him in a moment if they caught him spying on the Daemati’s behalf. 

“Will you be safe?” I hear the worry in my own voice, and Azriel either hears it as well or can feel it from me. Damn mate bond. 

The male perches on the bed next to me, a reassuring smile on his striking face. The two versions of him that exist in my head clash terribly; the vulnerable, kind Azriel of last night and the formidable Spymaster I’ve heard grave stories about. My gaze falls to the dark dagger strapped to his leg. Truth Teller. I try not to shiver as the light glints lethally off its razored edge. I wonder how many truths he’s tortured out of his enemies using it. 

“Of course. Always, but especially now.” Azriel strokes stray curls out of my face, his eyes brimming with unabashed tenderness. He kisses me soundly, a promise to return. 

My stomach flips and suddenly my heart is no longer racing out of fear. For a moment, I almost forget the hidden lethalness and only see Az. But that’s foolish. I can’t shiver at the sight of his famed blade and crave his touch at the same time. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, mentally calculating how long I have to leave Velaris. I go through the well rehearsed steps of my escape plan, focusing on mundane details to keep the fear and longing from rendering me completely useless.

“Of course.” Shadows of worry cloud his eyes, and I can almost see the sharp, spy's mind calculating behind them.

Azriel kisses me once more, his lips hesitant for the very first time.

His mouth tastes like sorrow, and I feel a flicker of something down the bond. It's gone too quickly for me to decipher it. I curse internally, hoping he only thinks I’m intimidated by his brother’s position. Between the bond and his spymaster abilities, who knows what he can decipher from my reaction alone.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He stands, tucking his wings in close and letting his shoulders droop slightly. 

He searches my face, lips slightly turned down at the corners, brow furrowed. 

“I’ll be here.” The lie burns my throat like acid, and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

Instead, I pretend to settle deeper into the bed, closing my eyes as I bring the blankets up to my chin. I don’t want to see the confusion and worry in his gaze. And I can’t watch him leave, knowing that I may never see him again. Azriel squeezes my thigh softly, whispering another farewell as he leaves the room with a sigh. 

I wait until I no longer feel the thrumming current that is Azriel’s presence,  when I know he’s well and truly gone. Then I spring into action. I burst from the bed, and head straight for Azriel’s dresser. I yank a pair of sweats from the drawer and pull them on hurriedly, shaking so hard it takes me three tries to get my legs through the correct hole.  I practically run through the living room, propelled forwards by thoughts of obliterated minds and the dank cells beneath the Autumn Court. 

I glimpse the forgotten mugs and pastry box from last night on the coffee table. Tears prick my eyes at the memory of the hope I felt during that meal. I told Azriel, my mate, more than I’ve shared with anyone in years. He let me see some of the anguish he carries with him, buried so deep it's become a part of him. I gave my body to him. And he felt like home. Can I really run from that?

Yes, I can. I have to. I was a fool to think that I could ever be outside my father’s reach.

On impulse, I hunt down a pen from the kitchen cabinets and scrawl a quick, cowardly note on a scrap of paper. Shame coats my tongue so thoroughly I think I may choke on it.

I’m sorry. - S 

  With the note finished, I raise the hood to conceal my face and tear down the stairs, avoiding the elevator Azriel first kissed me in. Soon enough, my bare feet are slapping against the rain slick pavement, my heart cracking with every step. I don’t stop to notice the people that watch me fly by, or the sun shining over the Sidra. I let the fear cloud every guilty thought, until all I know is adrenaline. 

Once I reach my apartment, I change into clothes more appropriate for an escape attempt, and collect my emergency bag from beneath some loose floorboards. Not the most creative hiding spot, but it’s better than my underwear drawer. 

Less than an hour later, I’m standing on the rickety, wooden deck of a foreign boat, sailing away from Velaris. Tradesmen man their vessel, hardly paying attention to me as I stare out over the water from their starboard side. I can imagine the mystery I pose. A lone, cloaked female, begging to stow away on their watercraft.

The money I slipped to their captain keeps the curious glances to a minimum, and I hope it keeps their mouths shut in the future. Either way, I won’t be settling where I first disembark. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll go yet, but maybe that’s for the best. If I’m entirely impulsive, my actions will be harder to predict.

I’ve run scared so many times over the years that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never been so conflicted. Every mile I put between me and the shore of the Sidra is another knife shoved up under my ribs, and it becomes harder and harder to breath. Eventually, the vibrant colors of the Rainbow fade from view and the citrus scent of the river becomes the salty brine of the ocean. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I let them fall. The hood of my cloak covers my face anyway. 

“Goodbye, Az.” 

[verryberriess]

How the King of Elfhame Lost His Stories | Part 1

tap picture for better quality :3

Rating: M (NSFW)

Synopsis: As long as Jude didn’t go back to the human world, she would remain by his side. (CANON-COMPLIANT)

Word Count: 6,206

A/N: Sorry!!! I take a long time to write, but I’m really excited about this. Thanks again to @maastrash​ for helping me with edits<3 :3

Cardan looked back at his queen, sleeping soundly on the bed beside him. He examined her sleeping profile: her luscious colored lips that always kept him wanting more, long eyelashes he admired for framing her walnut-colored eyes, and the line of her jaw that he loved to kiss over and over again. He laid beside her, resting his head against his palm while his arm took up his weight. Despite its king size, Jude had somehow managed to wrap most of the duvet around herself, leaving Cardan the meager edges to lie under. 

Cardan didn’t mind. Some nights he would yank back the covers from her, a tug of war of sorts that usually lasted for hours on end, carrying on until someone fell asleep first. Sometimes the covers were tugged back unconsciously from the other’s grasp, which ended up leaving either Jude or him cold and freezing in the morning. Most nights, however, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, after a cozy entanglement of love making.

She was so cute, so beautiful, he thought. Curled up, Jude looked peaceful. Not a scowl in sight. This was Sleeping Jude, a side of Jude that only few are able to get to know well. A side of Jude that is sighted only when the sun is high and it is early twilight, where her breaths are even and relaxed and the stress of the night’s schemes didn’t hinder her. A side of Jude that only Cardan’s eyes were allowed to see.  

He peered at the pendant that hung around her neck loosely. Crafted unprofessionally and held together by a simple snake knot, the leather string was weighed down by a rusty brass coin that seemed hastily carved with the initials “JD x CG”. How the thing had not yet been lost to time or turned into dust, despite these thousands of years, was beyond him. He smiled. 

It was a cheesy gift, one that he had prepared quickly in the week before Jude’s coronation as queen. He gave it to her while he pulled her aside from the extravagance of the revel, wanting to have his newly crowned queen all to himself for at least once that night.

Cardan thought how utterly surreal it was since then. To think that he had spent thousands of nights since the coronation with this mortal woman that was his sweet nemesis, that he used to scorn and ridicule her just because she was disgustingly always on his mind. No, he couldn’t betray himself anymore. It wasn’t disgusting at all. He had welcomed those thoughts, and remembered how his eyes always seemed to find her form in the crowd, trailing after her, no matter the area or size of the crowd. And when she wasn’t in sight, her wicked presence had infested his mind, occupying the back of his thoughts like a parasite he would do nothing towards to resist. But now, she was next to him, besides him always. His wicked queen. 

It was rare for him to have woken up before her. She had been tired lately, sleeping in more than usual. He watched the sun dip into the horizon and a flurry of colors overcast the sky, illuminating a soft glow around Jude from the opening between the curtains. 

Slowly, she stirred. Her nose wrinkled and she shifted a bit, moving closer towards his direction. Her eyes puckered but they gradually opened. Jude blinked up at Cardan, while he stared back.

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” Jude asked accusingly.

Cardan smiled, his face of wicked amusement. “Never will I lose appreciation for my lovely wife’s incriminations, but I must admit that I’ve been awaiting your rising to kiss those hooded eyefolds of yours.” 

“When did you ever start waiting to do something?” 

“Since whenever it had to do with you.” Cardan put down the arm he had been resting his head upon, leaning in towards Jude. As he got closer, he watched Jude squeeze her eyes shut, allowing him to close the space between them. Cardan pressed his lips against the lid of her eye as promised, soon maneuvering to her neglected right. He pulled back and smiled. 

Jude opened her eyes again, “Well that’s certainly one way to fully rouse me. I feel like it was only last night when we first exchanged our vows.” She propped herself up and flipped over the covers. It was time for her to get out of bed and go about her royal duties, but Cardan didn't want her escaping his presence just yet. 

Rid of his tired daze, with a sudden haste Cardan catapulted himself out of the bed and made his way to the bathing room after Jude, who went towards the chamber pot, and bent over it. “Throughout our past thousands of years of marriage, I never believed that my kissing you would make you withdraw away from me.” 

He prepped himself at the sink, as servants readied the bath for him. He watched Jude undress, slipping off her sheer nightgown and letting the air taste her nude flesh. He couldn’t help but admire her as he stripped out of his own satin night shirt. He would never tire of her form. He’s always been fascinated by the simplicity of the mortal figure. Surrounded by the complexity of the fae, Cardan was used to seeing mixed forms, of which consisted of fae with animalistic or plant aspects, though he had long accepted that he was a slave to Jude’s sloped breasts and sweet lies. Despite their nightly activities, and the fact that he and Jude had fulfilled each and every one of his sexual fantasies, seeing her nude body dip into the tub of rose water renewed his raging fervor for her. It was like seeing her without those garments and petty underthings for the first time again. Again and again. Every night.

He joined her in the tub. The water, infused with a few dozen oils and scents he never took the time to learn the names of, lapped at his skin. 

“The depths of your desire is very apparent right now, Cardan.” Jude remarked.

“As always, dear wife.” He smirked.

Every now and then they would do this. He would wash her back, since he enjoyed the touch of her skin, while Jude arched against the tips of his fingers that lingered seconds too long. He never tired of the suds that he always popped and of Jude’s eye rolls at his childish behavior. They would banter before a silence befell them, soak up the essences of the water until their skins became raw and wrinkled, and get out of the bath to get ready for the night’s tasks.

Although Cardan knew she didn’t fancy it, ever since Jude had been crowned her wardrobe had become more extravagant than ever. He didn’t mind, especially since the range in lacy underthings had upgraded, much to his benefit. Though, Jude had added upon her own tastes as well: tops, pants, shorts, anything she’d be able to move fluidly in. Her collection of sword sheaths and belts further fascinated him, due to the pockets that fitted their respective array of knives, daggers, and other deadly poisons he wouldn’t dare wield.

Jude donned a pale blue court dress adorned with crow feathers, while he dressed in a black doublet with velvet cuffs, breeches, and a fur capelet. He tossed his own crown atop his hair, not worried about its placement. 

“What do your royal duties consist of today?” Cardan inquired. 

Jude set the crown onto her head and attached Nightfell to her hip as she strolled to the door, “The usual. Scheming, power-plays, and paperwork.” She pauses. “And, perhaps I may go out riding with Grima Mog.” 

Cardan replied, “Ah, yes, I forget we are knee-deep in affairs with the Court of Teeth. Taking Grima Mog would make a fine decision.” He lowered into a chair, “Should you need my presence on your ride, however, I would much oblige.” 

In response, Jude tilted her head and smiled, “I’ll keep that in mind. Join me for lunch, though?”

He thought of his own duties he would attend to today, but didn’t think twice about having lunch with Jude. He had never placed his work before her and wouldn’t ever even entertain such a ridiculous idea. “In the garden. With the silver-blue roses. Alone.” 

Jude grinned harder before she was off. Cardan waited in the armchair, allowing the servants to commence dusting his cheeks with gold and adorning him with an assortment of jewelry. Besides her crown, pendant, and Nightfell, Jude rarely embellished herself in the other brooches and ornaments he had gifted to her. He knew she didn’t place value in such “meaningless trinkets,” as she called them, but he loved to see her in finery. To observe the shine of gold she occasionally wore not even be able to compete to her even more illustrious presence. 

By the time Cardan yielded himself back to reality, the servants had already finished with him. He dismissed them.

Jude took command over his thoughts far too often the past few days. He was looking forward to lunch. Or, maybe it was because the anniversary of her coronation was coming up. 

Cardan stood up and left their chamber. 

He made his way to the study, meeting with a few members of the court to plan the final arrangements for the week-long revel in two days. 

~.~.~.~.~

“And since it is the 1600th year of our reign, I expect no less than grandiose. I want feasts, debauchery, and excess— golden beetle thread embroidered onto seats, glowlight vines, wine! Goblets and carafes of the best mortal wine—“

A courtier, scribbling as fast as she could on her leaflets of notes, interrupted, “Your Majesty-- ”

Despite the disarray of the small audience in the room, Cardan continued without regress, “Everything must be labeled. Faerie wine, rosettes of meat, hazelnuts, and bread and cheese alike. Should I set my gaze upon even an inkling of faerie fruit or hear the slightest hint of the treachery against the queen, it’s off to the Tower of Forgetting.” 

“Your pardon, our stores for mortal wine are depleted, I’m afraid.” Randalin, the Minister of Keys said worriedly, “The last time we’ve tried to replenish the stock was disastrous. According to the last Folk who ventured to the human world, the mortals had quite the frenzy discovering our… ah, differences.” 

But Cardan interjected once again, “If it’s such a problem, why have we continued to rendezvous with the kind for so long? We’ve had thousands of nights with the beverage at no hindrances. Continue to do whatever you have done before to restore the stock.” With that, Cardan took a long swig from his goblet. He set it down, before continuing. “Any state matters shall be discussed elsewhere, in the strategy room, so that my wife is present to consult with the rest of your woes.” 

The courtiers paled. Everyone in Elfhame was already well-aware of their queen’s reputation. Nonetheless, they respected her, as Cardan expected it so. Jude had grown into her power and legislation beautifully. Politics and schemes were in her favor, and cruelness and bloodshed at her behest. There was no room to humiliate, discredit, or taint her honor.

Cardan got up from his cushioned chair and made his way to the doorway. “Now, since this meeting has since been hours too long, I shall release myself. The pleasure of my world has been delayed long enough.” He left the courtiers to discuss among themselves the matters of the ball without him. They would be able to take care of it themselves. 

He shut the door behind him and walked out into the hall. Cardan had long been accustomed to ruling, but he still found said matters of state boring. Although he would have liked to refrain from admitting such, his attention span was the size of a honey cake and his mind often wandered elsewhere. Nevertheless, he contributed to council meetings. He entertained his court with his musings, and he also found himself confident in complementing Jude’s decrees with his own advising. They balanced each other out.

Cardan carried a certain poise in his step as he walked throughout the halls of the palace. The estate had never been a home to him until he made those vows with Jude. 

He got to the garden, satisfied at the sight of the picnic blanket and basket laid out upon the grass amongst the green scenery. He was glad that the Bomb had gotten his message about getting someone to set up the picnic for them. The meeting had taken three hours, and he couldn’t help but doze off at the thought of lunch the whole time. Although he and Jude ate together regularly, it wasn’t every day that they had cute setups. Cardan smiled in victory to himself. How victorious it felt to have come up with an excellent idea. A picnic in the garden! Where Jude had disposed of his deceased brother!

Settling himself on the picnic blanket, he waited for Jude’s arrival. The moon was bright tonight, allowing him an easy glance at the green around him, with the occasional difference in hue in the trees and flowers. Night sprites buzzed and sounded the air with a light hum. He tinkered with the woven twigs that made up the basket, poking and prodding at the delicate framework to pass the time. 

Too immersed in his new plaything, the crackle of laughter above him startled him. He looked up at Jude’s laughing form. She held her sides, looking like she was trying to hold herself together, and her body bent at some awkward angle. This was another side of Jude he appreciated. 

He had discovered her ability to laugh early in their marriage. Before then, in contrast, he couldn’t remember a time when she had ever laughed while in his presence. He knew he, himself, was to blame for who he was back then. The first time he had delighted at her laughter, he wordlessly promised himself he would try to encourage her laughter and happiness further. He wanted to hear the sound every day-- let it replace the honey wine he used to drown himself in. 

It was back when both he and Jude journeyed to the human world to visit Vivi and Heather. Cardan was fascinated by the tiny space that Jude had once lived in while in exile. He couldn’t believe his eyes at the way humans lived without magic, utilizing light and a continuous flow of charge to power their suspicious devices and supposedly, their whole world. He had been confused at the combination of tomato and cheesy bread, but deemed it appetizing. And when he had tried to glamour his attire to match that of the styles of what the humans wore, he was so utterly confused, he found Jude uncontrolled in a way that was full of energy, doubling over and eyes squeezed shut as she clutched at her belly. He guessed that his attire was what caused her reaction, so he replaced his doublet with some shirt that belonged to Vivi’s human friend. Regardless, apparently his newly upgraded state of dress appeared even more ridiculous because it had provoked Jude to laugh even harder. 

How unfair of her. She was as unsuited to the human world as himself, but he loved the glow of her happiness when she laughed. So he had grinned back in return. 

“You looked like you required no other company besides yourself and that basket of yours!” Jude called.

Cardan sensed a trend in Jude’s source of laughter.

“Well, I admit this basket makes fine company, but I wouldn’t think it would make for great long term companionship.” Cardan retorted. If causing Jude’s laughter was to be at his expense, he may perhaps go along with her foolery.

“Yes, and I would.” 

“You’re not wrong. It neither speaks nor sneers. It’s convinced me to not partake in pursuing this friendship further, however disappointed it may be.” Cardan watched Jude take a seat next to him. She proceeded to flip open the lid of the basket, going through the collection of assorted foods inside.

“A grave loss,” Jude confirmed. “What do we have here?” She asked incredulously, waving out the small cardboard box. The box was twelve inches in diameter. Its smell was extremely pungent but nostalgically familiar-- something he hadn’t had in a long time. He couldn’t decipher what it was. Jude set the box on the blanket between them and lifted up the lid. “Pizza?” Her eyes widened at him. 

“Ah, so this is how the royal kitchen interprets ‘savory for a human.’ I’m quite pleased, I hadn’t known that this is what they would plan.” Cardan answered.

“Its smell rivals that of humans'. Did they make it themselves?” Jude had already taken it upon herself to grab a slice. The strings of cheese were reluctant in parting with themselves in the other slices, but it stood no chance against Jude’s merciless attack. 

Jude looked so casual. She had flayed out her dress so that she could extend her legs across the blanket, removing her shoes in the process so she sat barefoot. Another side of Jude he loved, Cardan noted. How she could be so effortless in her movements and still be able to disarm him. To others, she was a fierce murderess. Conversely, to him, she was always a seductress in waiting, yielding secrets about herself to him in bits and pieces that he lapped up so eagerly and fervently. It had already been more than a thousand years, yet he still had so much he needed to know about her.  

“I’m confident that they did.” Cardan grabbed a piece for himself and bit into its tip with conviction. He knew exactly what pizza was now. And how to eat it. Cardan had accumulated an Insmoor’s worth of experience eating the savory dish throughout the first few times he and Jude visited the human world. “Many are too cowardly to simply fetch wine from a mortal department store.” He relished in the ratio between the sauce and cheese. He appreciated the effort the chefs had put in to add the prawns as toppings, allowing him to reminisce of their first journey there. 

“I suppose that it’s good for the stores to have depleted. I’d like to lay low on the liquor for a while.” Jude continued to bite into her pizza. Small specks of red sauce stained the area around her mouth. 

Not a strange request since Jude had never been a big drinker, but ever since they had gotten mortal alcohol that's safe for her to drink, Jude indulged herself on occasion. Cardan smiled at the thought. She ought to hold her liquor better. At their last event, while Cardan had downed goblets after goblets of faerie fruit cocktails to get himself past tipsy, she had already been a stumbling mess at the table.

“That would delight the courtiers in excess. Dear wife, so you do have a heart after all. ” He mused. 

 “In some circumstances.” With only three slices left, they had almost finished the pizza. “Do you remember when we journeyed to the hidden lake in Insmire a few weeks ago, where we conversed of forever together?”

Cardan answered, “... We have an eternity and a few. Why, are you worried that your days will have become a bore and that your love for me will shrivel? Fear not, for I will never allow that.” 

“I have been resting more often than late, but I have never been bored. In fact, things have actually become more interesting…” 

Weeks ago, Cardan took Jude through the Milkwood to visit the hidden lake he had used to traverse to by himself.

It was a secret spot, one only known to a few, and he took Jude there for the first time, to finally reveal one of his long kept secrets. Despite the title he had given it, the lake was more like a large pond, home to hundreds of forest and water sprites, pixies, and nymphs. 

When the moon was at its brightest, where it was closest to the surface of Elfhame in its orbit, the brilliance of the lake was unparalleled. Pixies and sprites alike illuminated the surroundings to reflect the moonlight that shone upon the crystal waters, overcasting a soft glow in the midst of the dark surroundings. It was at this time where not only the creatures and faerie of the Milkwood celebrated the glow of the moon, but the flowers, waters, insects, and soil participated as well. It was at only this time of year when the hidden lake’s flowers of gold and cerulean hues bloomed in full, casting off a shimmering spectacle of reflective light among the greenery.

But to wait thousands of years for the perfect time to show Jude, had been absolutely devastating to him. He had only wanted to show her his favorite spot when it was at its finest, disappointing himself year after year when he had to refuse her requests to venture to the lake. 

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Jude whispered, her eyes taking in the sight of the hovering flower sprites. “To think that you’ve been hiding this after all this time. How cruel of you.”

“I just wanted to wait until the time was right-- when the moon is at its closest and brightest.” Cardan explained. “Every year I surveyed the stars, confronted Baphen of the state of the moon, waiting and waiting for the perfect time to take you. And when I finally got an answer that the time would be tonight, after more than four thousand years since the last Moondrop, I knew my efforts to outsmart your scheming, pesky stalking, and fake anguish would all be worth it. And it is. Your glowing, my sweet Jude.”

Jude grinned. Beautiful and wide. Lashes brimmed against the soft smooth of her cheeks when she smiled so hard, he could tell her cheeks strained. “I love you.” 

Cardan’s cheeks burned. His face felt so hot, and later the rest of his body. His tail had gotten out free, twitching back and forth excitedly, enamored by the buzz of his thoughts and feelings for the mortal woman before him. “I love you too.”

He tugged Jude against him, hugging her tightly against his chest. This-- having her soft body pressed up against his, molding to fit against his frame, and her soft pretty lips so close to his own he felt, rather than heard, the slight breaths that escaped her, and the hair that framed her face ticking his chin. By the gods, he wanted to kiss her so badly. He loved her so much, so, so much. The only figure who had shown him love in this life, how to love, and how it felt to feel desired and wanted. Everything was mutual between them. It was too good to be true. 

This mortal woman that he had tricked himself into hating for the longest time in his youth, was the one he wanted by his side forever. Cardan clutched Jude so tightly, like he was afraid she would disperse into thin air before him and take away every feeling of love she had permitted him. He clutched each of her declarations so tightly to his heart, never in his life had he felt so overwhelmed and obsessed with something. Only when it came to her. 

He started with her lips, not at all soft or light. He pressed his lips into hers fiercely, wanting to taste all of her. And when that wasn’t enough, he met her tongue in a passionate dance, that ultimately turned into a battle of wills between two stubborn souls, relentless and unyielding. They shared breaths, and Jude reached up a hand to run up the side of his taut muscles, his body hot and aroused from the scalding tension between them. 

Jude pulled away, though she was still near enough so he could feel her deep exhalations from their lack of air. She spoke softly, as if she had only wanted Cardan to hear the words she was about to speak, “Cardan, do you want to try?”

His mind rolled into blank space. He didn’t understand what else she wanted to try. He thought they had tried out all of the positions his and Jude’s fantasies had dreamt up of, but apparently not, however. “Try what?” He finally asked. He was a little annoyed. He felt feverish from the heat building up within him, and the sight of Jude right now only intensified his fervor. 

She rolled her eyes in response. “For a kid. For you to be a father, idiot.” 

Without further provocation, Cardan clasped his hands around her middle and pulled them towards the banks of the lake. He heard Jude let out a quiet gasp as he used his momentum to twist themselves off the edge. They were airborne for milliseconds, wrapped around each other until they heard the crash of the lake water envelope their hearing. Cardan had flipped them so that he would take most of the impact, using a bit of his magic to soften their crash through the water, which caused the surface of the lake to fracture in lingering ripples. But now, all they could feel was the sensation of their beings underwater, making a gradual descent from the surface until the pressure slowly pulled them upwards again. Their movements were languid against the syrup of the water, sounds muted, and only Cardan’s overwhelming glee and desire for his wicked queen mattered. He never realized until then how he ought to engage in underwater kisses more. 

They broke the water’s surface and had engaged in each other for the rest of the night.

Cardan watched Jude put down her goblet of water and slowly place her hands atop her stomach. 

His eyes widened. He couldn’t distinguish between what was louder: the stunned silence that blared between the two, or the rapid increase in booms that sounded from his chest. Sounds and feelings were elevated at headlong, where he was stuck in an indescribable state of everything and nothingness, that is, until everything rushed back at him. 

“Y-you’re…” Cardan blabbered.

Jude smiled, but her eyes misted, where tears gathered. 

And then Cardan continued the merciless assault against her he had cultivated on Moondrop. With intense love and devotion and adoration for the woman next to him, he descended upon her in a song of nervous anticipation and joy. Cardan worshipped Jude, her body, and her devastating power over him like the Queen that she was, in a certain reckless abandon that once his lips met hers the energy became so heated and hungry. 

In contrast to the fevered energy that pulsed around them, in the distance, chirping sounds relentlessly insisted a festive tune. A flurry of white and blue rose petals fluttered in the surroundings, carried by a cold breeze that Cardan welcomed against his hot skin. Cardan saw none of the Folk around them. They were utterly alone, in a sacred spot away from the fence of blooming elderflowers and the nosiness of tree sprites, away from any eyes that could spot them committing mischief. So they proceeded.

His tongue glided along her bottom lip, demanding entrance, which Jude obliged heartedly. His tongue plunged inside the depths of her mouth, tangling with hers, probing and exploring. She moaned, which only heightened his desire and need. “Jude... I need you” Cardan breathed. His shaky grip on control loosened further. His head swam and he felt Jude’s own body sing for him, as she melted into him effortlessly.

He moved his palms up and down her skin, his thumb brushing down the slope of her shoulders to the length of her arms. Jude, in exchange, explored the muscles of his lean frame, as she had done more than a thousand times in her life. He nuzzled in closer, and was unable to form a single coherent thought, other than relishing in the taste of Jude and the utter beautifulness that was her. Jude quickly undid the buttons of his doublet. Afterwards, she got up to strip off her dress while Cardan shimmied out of his breeches. 

Cardan trailed his fingers along the lace of her black bra, expertly unhooking the offending material and discarding it into the grass. He gave her a predatory look, unable to hide his hunger and lust any longer. He moved to cup Jude’s breasts, gently squeezing, where she arched into his touch and elicited another breathless moan. She fell back again, allowing him further access, so he trailed his lips over the warm expanse of her neck, tracing her collarbones with his tongue, while his hands busied themselves deep within her. His tail unknowingly brushed against her ass, its sensual touch contributing to her pleasure.

But Jude, unable to allow Cardan to handle the reins for any longer, crouched over him, pressing her body against his and the ground. She kissed him again, sensuously, taking her time to first kiss his eyelids, the arch of his nose, lips, cheekbones, and the sharp planes of his face and body. She left a sloppy trail down his neck, along his chest and abdomen. Cardan groaned. His eyes rolled back into his head, an accumulating heat building up in him.

She positioned herself so that her entrance hovered above that of Cardan’s length. 

“Cardan,” Jude called. “I am beside you. Always.”

And that was his undoing. 

Cardan analyzed the unmasked elation in her gaze as he locked eyes with her. He climbed back on top of her and seized control from Jude. He wanted to attend to her-- to express every bit of passion and sentiment that that statement alone had stirred in him. 

He wanted to give her everything-- provide his child and his queen with everything: power, riches, love. He would give his child a boundless love that stemmed from a bottomless well that had accumulated over the years, in thanks to Jude. He would give his child the childhood he never had and never allow them to experience the cruelty and neglect that he had unknowingly accepted throughout his adolescence. 

Cardan held her steady, slipping inside with little difficulty. He rocked himself against her hips, and pushed against her harder, faster, until his name fell from Jude’s soft, cherry lips listlessly, like a sort of begging that furthered him into the abyss. 

~.~.~.~.~

Afterwards, Cardan and Jude left for their rooms. They showered--together-- and advanced their little ministrations and teases until they separated again, to finish the day’s tasks. 

Jude went on a ride with Grima Mog. He trusted her that she’d be safe, but now, he was worried for her safety more than ever. 

In addition to Jude’s anniversary of her coronation, he wanted to announce the existence of his heir. Shouting it into the skies wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to profess it to Elfhame-- the world-- of the news. But, he guessed a month-long revel of feasts and serenades would have to suffice. 

Cardan gazed at the ceiling, observing the candles and lights that illuminated the room. He had forgotten that the Minister of Keys was present, muttering indistinct nothings that he had long chosen to ignore before he focused on the faerie. He lowered the paper he had been analyzing, eyes narrowing and blacking by the second. The minister across the room managed to lower himself by another two degrees. “My King, everything is written in detail. A scribe wrote down a list of the specific themes and characteristics that will be administered at the celebration.”

He glared at the frail script of black on parchment. It was hard not to chew the inner lining of his mouth but he refrained the chagrin. “Enlighten me, Randalin, what does ‘Ask the mortal Devil-Queen for her preference in the color of flowers. Apparently the High King wants to obtain more mortal wine, but at the cost of a few of our Folk’s wits. It does not sit well with Cockroach-face, for he believes that the Queen should dance merrily to our festive tunes. He also proposes we shall try to let the Queen decide on what specific brand she most especially esteems--” mean to you? Does the word ‘surprise’ carry a different meaning to the lot of you?” Cardan crumpled the parchment and threw it into the fire. 

Randalin mutely winced. “I supplemented your scribe’s diligent notes in red ink for clarification, my lord. The exchange between you and Yorn and the other courtiers lasted for three hours. Your scribe’s stamina was stupefying. She scribbled non-stop.”

“And new, I presume.” Cardan retaliated.

“Certainly, my king. The scribe went off to our queen for her input, but with ill fortune, the queen has been out. The scribe returned with no information of importance.” 

Cardan glared ominously at the wordy fool.

Randalin sputtered, “Y- your Majesty! I shall rewrite the report.” 

 “We have been entertaining revels and gatherings with human refreshments for as long as I could remember. What makes this one so different that you lot have retracted towards such difficulties?” 

Randalin grew red. His form quivered in the increasingly displeased presence of his high king. “It-- well--” Randalin paused, unable to form words coherent enough for his tongue. 

“Nonsense,” Cardan remarked. “Times have changed. It is whatever, for now. You may relax, we won’t be having the presence of human alcohol for quite a few months. Refill the stocks as you can.”

Cardan watched the Minister of Keys instantly loosen, yet fright and tension still tormented his will. “That is… that is most incredibly generous of you, your Majesty. We are so utterly grateful for your extended benevolence.”

“As you should.” 

Randalin shifted, but asked tentatively. “But may I ask… what inspired this... sudden change?” 

“You will know in two night’s time.” 

“That is the celebration!” 

“Indeed, it is.” Cardan dismissed Randalin. He left the room with thundering footsteps; the door slammed shut. 

Cardan walked through the halls again, wanting to work alone in his study.

Royal guards and sentries lined the halls and bordered the gates of the private doors of the palace. 

Cardan studied documents and parchments in his study for hours before he resigned himself to dinner, where he took his meal alone. 

He regarded Jude’s whereabouts. It wasn’t unusual for her to go out for a few days at a time, but she usually told him beforehand about what she would be up to. He picked at his charcuterie plate, that consisted of breads, cheeses, grapes and a goblet of honey wine. He tried to shake off the uneasy feeling he felt in his gut, calming himself before he impulsively told his guards to call for Jude and his Grand General back to the palace.

“Dessert, your majesty?” A servant walked up to him to refill his wine.

“Thank you, but I’d like to do without tonight.” He replied.

“Of course. I’ll clear this for you,” the servant cleared the plates and boards from the table, leaving the carafe and goblet, before scuttling away. The servant’s whiskers twitched in dismay at the king’s sullen mood.

Cardan sat at the table, continuing to guzzle himself away. He attributed his raging worry for Jude towards the fact that their unborn child lay inside of her, but he was also excited for Jude’s return. He waited for hours in his cushioned chair at the dining table.

Later, he decided that he would retire early for the night, escaping into the bliss of his chambers that would surround him in Jude’s scent. 

He closed the curtains of his room tightly, leaving no room for the noon’s light to seep in. He changed into his sleep clothes, rid himself of makeup and jewels that peppered his being, and laid in the bed. 

By the time Cardan was able to fall asleep, he was awoken by a volley of furious knocks at his door. He could see the sun’s shine that casted a faded glow beneath the thickness of his curtains. Grumpily, he trudged to the door, and yanked it open. 

He looked forward to seeing Jude at the door, even though it was so bright and early for him to be woken at this time, but was disappointed to find The Roach and The Bomb in front of him.

Before he could utter a word out at their overconfidence to be at his doorstep that morning, they beat him in answering of Jude’s regards.

“Your Majesty!” The Roach cried. “Grima Mog has returned, but without Her Highness!” 

Cardan froze. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. His knees buckled under him, leading him to crash onto the floor, commissioning the rough of the oak floorboards to wound his knees. He was unable to discern whether he felt fright or rage, but without another word and with little strength, he got to his feet again, and ran out of the room.

Tags: @maastrash @b00kworm @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @fantasyfox101 @curlyredqueen06 

Let me know if you want to be tagged via comments/ask!

[monstersandmaw]

Male orc x male reader (1st person) sfw

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This was posted, completely unedited and hot off the keyboard, to Patreon at the beginning of June. It’s first person for a change, but male perspective.

Reader is the crown prince of a high fantasy kingdom, who was never expected to become king. His older brother was killed in action when he was 13 and he suddenly found himself shifting from the role of scholar to the role of soldier, a role for which the king things him ill-suited. It opens with him at aged fifteen, first meeting the orcish son of a local war chief, who accompanies his mother to the castle for peace talks with the king. Vilugh is about ten years older than the reader. The reader doesn't have it easy, and is extremely lonely, as I would imagine a lot of royals and people with important families would be, beneath all those expectations and responsibilities.

Hope you like it - I have more written and more I want to do with it. I know it's orcs, which isn't very non-humanoid (Patreon folks said they wanted more non-humanoid monsters), but I really enjoyed going with the inspiration for this one and was excited to share it with you first. Sorry for any mistakes - as I said, it's still mostly unedited.

(The orc’s name is pronounced ‘vee-lug’)

I was fifteen the first time I saw Vilugh, and my jaw dropped the moment he entered the castle bailey beside his mother. They both rode enormous war boars with tusks and ears as decorated as their orcish riders, and his mother’s had a great, spiked chain that dangled between them.

The War Chief swung down from her mount, landing light as a sabre cat in the rocky outcrops beyond the castle, though the myriad ornaments adorning her head gear and garlanded around her neck jangled and clinked. The blade of her double-headed axe flashed silently in the holster across her back. Bone and steel, ivory and gold flashed in the sun. Beside her, astride a colossal, russet boar with a great bristle-back mane and flashing, mismatching eyes, rode her eldest son. The orc was huge, even for young adult. With orcs and humans ageing at about the same rate, he had to have been in his mid twenties, in the absolute prime of life, and I was awestruck by his presence.

Silent, built like a bulwark, and with eyes that took in everything and revealed nothing, Vilugh glared around the courtyard. While many orc’s eyes were light as amber, his were a deep, colourless black from that distance, and I licked my lips as my heart rate shot up like a winter solstice arrow into the sky. He stared straight at me, unmoving. Evaluating me, with my scrawny arms and less than impressive physique, no doubt. He quickly dismissed me, assuming I was some kind of page boy, no doubt. His surprise when I was formally introduced to them later as the Crown Prince was certainly enough to draw a tiny, knowing smile from my lips.

They were here to begin peace talks, and, to everyone’s surprise, they went astonishingly smoothly. Few humans made snide remarks about the orcs, and none of my father’s people were decapitated in retaliation.

The orcish party came, spent hours walled up with my father and the royal council, I lingered around the door and behind the wood panelling in the great hall, scuttling along the wainscot like a stray castle mouse, sneaking scraps of conversation instead of cheese.

I couldn't take my eyes off Vilugh though. He sat with the presence of a dormant volcano; all that power barely contained within each gesture. Like his mother, he wore a mix of leather and fur, with a swathe of his large, green-skinned chest exposed beneath the cross of leather that just about covered his nipples and went up over his huge traps and down his back to meet at the waist of the loose leather riding ‘skirt’ favoured by orcs. Really though, it was more like rough linen covered with tattered layers of studded, off cuts of leather.

As a gesture, everyone left their weapons outside the doors, and as I passed by - bored after two hours of talking - I paused and stared at them. A royal guard eyed me cautiously, as if I were about to cause mischief that would get her into trouble, and her orcish counterpart standing on the other side of the small weapons cash narrowed his eyes at me. This orc was older than the others in the chamber, and stood at seven feet tall, with colossal shoulder muscles. Perhaps the most startling thing about him to me at that age was the fact that he had only one arm, and one of his tusks was missing on the same side.  He sneered down at me and I balked. I’d never seen anyone with injuries like that, and it shocked me deeply that someone could endure something like the pain of losing an arm.

I’d known orcs were tough, but that somehow helped to drive it home to me.

I had made it no further than six steps down the corridor that led away from the Great Hall when the doors creaked open and my father strode out, the orcish War Chief at his side. Trying not to look like I was on the verge of crapping my pants - which, I am ashamed to admit I probably was - I watched the party file past me. My father gave no indication of having even seen me, and marched past me as if I were no more than another rusty suit of armour gathering dust in the miles of castle corridors.

Vilugh, however, turned his gaze sidelong to me as he followed in silence, brooding as a thunderhead and twice as frightening. I managed to conjure a smile from somewhere, and he looked away. Everything about him looked dangerous, from the sheer size of his boar-like tusks to the massive curve of his shoulders, the definition of the muscles visible on his back and sides, the black rope of plaited hair, thicker than my two balled fists put together, that hung down to his backside, and the predatory set of his gait. Oh, and the two-handed axe now strapped to his back didn’t help much to soften him.

The orcs stayed in the castle - a first, I was informed in passing by Rigmore, the castle steward - but I didn’t eat with them. For some reason my father seemed ashamed of his scholarly son. My late brother would have been perfect for this; he’d been the warrior prince, the kingdom’s golden boy, the one destined to rule after father was dead. But Dannan was gone, and the kingdom had me now. I’d taken after my mother, apparently, though she’d died birthing me, so that was another thing my father seemed to hold against me.

I had expected to spend the rest of the day alone in the library, since it was the one day in the week when I wasn’t expected to be out in the training ring with the castle’s master at arms, trying to bulk up a body that didn’t want to take on muscle the way my brother’s had. Big burly Dannan with his head of golden curls and his biceps as big as an orc’s… Then there was me. The scholar-son. I was lean and toned after two years of trying to fill boots that would always be too big for me, but I showed no signs of developing any brawn to go with my brains. Too much of my mother’s side of the family in me, or so my father said.

With my head bent over a tome on the ancient language of our distant forbears, I didn’t hear the door open, but when a young page boy cleared his throat and squeaked at me, I jumped and spattered ink up my arm and onto my dark green linen shirt.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” the boy chirped, nervy as a sparrow.

“It’s fine,” I smiled, trying to reassure the kid. He was probably not even half my age. “You have a message for me?”

“Yes, Highness,” he said, bowing. “His Majesty says you’re to ride out with them. They’re going through the castle gardens and out into the deer park.”

“Oh. When?”

The boy grimaced. “Now.”

“Now?” I cursed and the boy blushed. “Thank you. I don’t supposed it would have killed my father to give me a little warning?”

The page boy didn’t know what to say to that, so I thanked him again and dismissed him, folding up my notes into the book and hurrying to my chambers to change into my riding leggings and something a little warmer.

By the time I jogged out of the main gates into the castle bailey, the party was just mounting up, my father swinging easily onto his enormous grey stallion as the beast pranced by the mounting block. My father was a soldier-son, first born and in the saddle before he could walk. I’d started a little later, but I wasn’t too bad. My mare was brought out to me, gleaming and brushed and black as midnight. The orcs were mounted on their boars and, despite the horses innate fear and hatred of the beasts, there wasn’t too much fuss about that.

The stable boy who led Starling out to me didn’t take her to the mounting block but brought her directly to me at the foot of the castle steps. Lean and light and fifteen years old, I sprang into the saddle and took the reins from him with a nod of thanks, nudging her forward with the merest squeeze of my lanky calves to join the others.

“Took your time, boy,” the king growled at me.

“I came as soon as the message was relayed to me,” I retorted sullenly. “I was in the library.”

“So I see. You’ve got ink on your lip,” he said as he reined Spectre around sharply. “Try to keep up and don’t fall off.”

My face heated at the comment but I ground my jaw. There was no point arguing. I risked a glance at Vilugh and found him staring with his unreadable expression at me. I flashed him a wide, boisterous, childish grin and asked Starling to go from a standstill to a fast canter with one easy command. She leapt forwards, following my father as he cantered away over the flagstones and out onto the sandy track that led from the castle around to the apple orchards and formal gardens, and beyond them, the deer park.

We were clearly not hunting that day, since no servants joined us, but the orcs still wore their axes strapped to their backs. Three joined us in total: the War Chief, her son, and the one-armed orc I’d seen outside the chamber. I’d obviously underestimated his significance, thinking him little more than a servant as he’d guarded their weapons and not been party to the peace talks within, but for him to be selected over the others in the party indicated otherwise. My trained mind quickly refiled the information and put it to one side.

My hair was growing floppy now that I had stopped cutting it. No one had noticed, and it now brushed my shoulders if it wasn’t tied up. In the library, I’d scraped it back into a ponytail where it bobbed playfully like a young plant’s first leaves, and now as we rode, it came loose, the little leather strap falling away to get trampled by the enormous hooves of the giant boars behind me.

Starling flew like her namesake, wild and graceful, turning at the slightest touch like a bird on the wing. I loved riding. I wasn’t permitted to go out alone, and no one ever had the time to escort me, so I only got to do it when my father decided he needed to skewer something deadly to let off steam, and now as we all picked up our paces, the horses keen to stretch their legs, I couldn’t keep the savage grin off my face. I felt feral for just half a moment, and it was glorious.

When we finally reined our horses back after a lovely canter along the smooth grass of the orchard road, I sat back a little and Starling responded by slowing her pace to a steady walk. I gave her her head, letting the reins fall loose and dangle, while Spectre pranced and jogged up ahead, snorting and tossing his head. My father always kept his reins too short, thinking it made his stallion’s crest of muscle look bigger. All it did was irritate the horse, but far be it from me to correct a king.

I glanced back and saw Vilugh’s boar raise its huge, pierced snout and let out a scream of what seemed to be like joy as it trotted along behind. My father’s horse spooked a little, and Starling skittered sideways. I went with her, absorbing the motion with my hips before she settled under my palm and voice. “Easy, they’re our friends now,” I crooned to her, and caught the flicker of her ears as she picked out my familiar voice. “There, see… just a big piglet. Nothing to worry about.”

At that, I heard Vilugh snort behind me and turned to grin at him.

“Shh,” I said conspiratorially. “She doesn't need to know what they can really do.”

His harsh face cracked a little at that and he nodded with a little smile. He probably saw me as a little child, I realised, and my face flushed again. I looked away and didn’t try to speak to him for the rest of the ride.

The orcs’ visit was brief, but it marked the beginning of an uneasy peace with their kind. I grew in my duties, becoming ever more isolated. I had no friends among the court, my father ignored me until he required me to be present for something, I trained, I rode my horse, I studied, I ate, I slept, and I read. For three years, the orcs did not return to the castle, though my father made one trip alone to visit them on neutral ground somewhere out on the plains.

When he returned, he seemed pensive, and I caught him staring at me a few times over supper that night, which unnerved me.

The year I turned eighteen was the year I discovered my new nicknames among our people. The “Silent Prince” and the “Royal Monk” had become my monikers, and my father hated it. Personally, I thought it rather fitting. I was still skinny, unable to put on muscle no matter how much meat I was given at supper or how many boars my father sent me to bring down. Of course, I couldn’t bring one down alone, but I managed once or twice with the help of a retainer or two. I wasn’t a complete disappointment. But I wasn’t Dannan.

My twenty first slid by, and my father showed no signs of slowing down. He expanded his territories to the east, and I saw war for the first time. Of course, I didn’t see it from the front lines. What I saw was strategy and numbers in the tents, and my tactics and suggestions won us three battles. They lost us one too, but to my surprise, my father started to take note of me then. He never said anything different, but he included me more in his business than he ever had. My hair grew a little longer, though I had it routinely hacked off when it got below my shoulder blades. It was nothing like the luscious head of curls my brother had had, so I could wear it long without it looking feral. Dannan’s had practically been a halo for him.

One morning, over our habitually silent weekly breakfast together, my father cleared his throat and announced, “Son, you’ll be heading off to train with Khraxh and her war band.”

I choked so hard on my scrambled egg that a servant actually had to step forwards and slap me on the back. “What?” I croaked the moment I had air enough in my lungs to articulate the word.

“You heard me,” the king said, his grey-blue eyes drifting down a list in front of him, the contents of which he had not deigned to share with me. As usual, I had brought a book with me to the table to entertain myself until he rose and left.

“I did, but… why?”

“I believe it will be good for you. Her son, Vilugh, will be here tomorrow to escort you.”

“I’m going alone?” Stupid question. I was always alone.

“Yes,” father chimed carelessly. “It’s time to toughen you up properly. Six months with them ought to do it.”

My mind went blank. “Six… Six months?” I stammered. “You can’t be serious.”

“What? You have something better to do than enhance our diplomacy with those beasts?” he sneered.

I was in the middle of translating one of the great Eddic collections of our people into the modern tongue for one, but I didn’t mention that. “Apparently not,” I said coolly, rising from the table after one last swig of water to wash down the startled remnants of my breakfast from my throat. “Excuse me,” I said, not waiting for his permission to leave.

Part Two

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Please let me know if you’re interested in more! Some of the patreon folks were also interested in the one-armed orc, and don’t worry, he’s got more of a role to play too in the future.

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For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

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[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #3: You

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompt List Here]

Haurchefant x Nerys, set immediately after Ardent [Ao3 Link]

Heavensward, right after Inquisition trial and before “Keeping the Flame Alive”

Rating: T for off-screen sex, sex talk

~*This is 2K words, most of it is fluff and I revel in it*~

The Fortemps library is a grand one. Haurchefant is not certain how it compares–he has only been in Haillenarte's with Francel–but imagines it is the finest in Ishgard. His father is a man of letters, a true believer in the power of words. And one who expected his sons to follow suit.

His education differed greatly from his brothers’ the day he became a knight’s page. Even still, his lord father sent him monthly parcels of books. He was expected to read them all and send detailed reports on the contents. Had he ever kept up his thaumaturgy studies, he would have been hard-pressed to find the time.

As it was, he’d stayed up often to fit in the poetry and novels not on the list. Count Edmont was a modern man and his syllabus reflected this–vetted popular authors and poets made it into the parcels. Never in the quantity Haurchefant would have liked. And never some of the one-gil books he bought in The Pillars.

When he was a boy, there were songs for sale about body functions and noises; exaggerated tales of heroes fighting all manner of beasts and foes. As a youth, these became long, violent epics of battles and bravery. As a young man: lurid poems and explicit romance novels. Some as grand and sweeping as the classical romances his Father promoted. Some were not.

He has managed to introduce some contemporary poets into the collection. Not all. Edmont’s tastes in poetry run more traditional. Some of the rising stars of the field are roundly rejected.

Haurchefant is working on that.

Today, he feels romantic in both classic and literal senses. And as his Father has ordered him to stay for a day and night, indulging in a novel sounds just the thing.  It seems that getting trapped in a blizzard–even if things had gone fine, more than fine–means your noble father turns to such decrees.

At least, that is what it means now they are growing close, as they never had been. Another miracle Nerys has wrought with her coming. And as Haurchefant has full faith in Corentiaux and the rest...he allows himself to be thus ordered. 

Someone else is in the library. He can sense it soon as he enters. A soldier learns to tell when others are near, even in safe environs such as this. Haurchefant softens his footfalls, peering about the shelves. There, in the alcove reserved for study, he finds the source of today’s romantic mood.

Nerys looks up, eyes turning soft. His heart swells in his chest, his mouth cannot help but smile. It’s unstoppable and he does not ever want it to cease. Was it really only yesterday? That she told me my love was returned?

It seems a dream now, albeit the sweetest one he has ever had.

Her hands sweep at the papers she has laid out, pulling them into a stack. Flips over the one on top. “Hello.”

“Hello, my dear.” How nice to call her that. “I thought you were on a shopping expedition with Emmanellain?”

“I was.” She touches her neckline. So caught up in her eyes, he hadn’t noticed the gown she wore.

Scarlet as the unicorn on his shield, set off with dangling garnets in her ears. The heart-shaped neckline shows off her elegant neck and collar bones. The sleeves are slashed to reveal white fabric beneath and the cuffs have delicate pearls. “I found this. For when I’m here at the manor and not about to fight Inquisitors or dragons.”

“You are breathtaking in it.” He circles the table to take her hand. Bows over it before pressing his mouth to her knuckles. Etiquette demands he should kiss the air above it but surely exceptions are made for lovers. 

She is my lover now, he thinks in wonder. Her cheeks stain with a fetching indigo shade. “My lord is kind.”

Haurchefant drops to one knee before his lady and turns her hand. Her palm is just as lovely to kiss. “Your lord means everything he says. But if you require further proof of my ardor…”

Nerys darts a glance about before tilting up his chin. Her kiss is sweet and soft and not a little heated. Would that he might lay her upon the table in this temple of learning and know her better.

Alas, Nerys has asked for discretion. Time to better acquaint themselves as lovers before declaring themselves. They are still friends–always will be, if he has anything to do with it–but this dynamic is new and strange. Haurchefant can understand why the most public figure in Eorzea might want some measure of privacy. 

Though, he reflects as he parts from her. Half the fun would be keeping quiet and avoiding discovery.

“I know that look,” she says. “You’re thinking of something lascivious.”

“When I had this look before I confessed, what did you think it meant?”

“The same,” she admits. “But that your love of innuendo was good-natured teasing.”

He heaves a sigh. Either he is not as obvious as Estinien always accuses him or she’d been in deep, deep denial. “Dearest love, how-”

The library doors bang open and the culprit whistles as he walks inside. Haurchefant rises, knowing exactly who it is before he comes into view.

“Old Girl! Old Man!” Emmanellain grins. “You didn’t tell me we were having a party in the library.”

“Impetuous Youth,” Haurchefant shoots back. “What if one of us was deep in study?”

“Oh I don’t deal in ‘what-ifs’. You two are having a conversation, not studying; ergo all is well.” 

“He has a point. I think,” says Nerys. “By the by, if Haurchefant is ‘Old Man’, what do you call your eldest brother?”

The two men exchange looks. Smile. Say in unison, “Artoirel.”

Nerys groans and flaps both hands at them in dismissal. “Go fetch whatever you two were looking for. I am actually working on something.”

“Am I to be banished for my baby brother’s crimes?” Haurchefant presses a hand to his heart. “Mistress Eluned, you wound me.”

“If I must be quiet and meek like a mouse, so must you. After all, I am the true leader of our brotherly trio.”

“You are right of course. I could never compare to you.” Haurchefant shakes his head. “Very well, Impetuous Youth. As mice scurry to cheese, let us go to the books we seek.”

“Ordered to seek,” Emmanellian mutters. “I’m to review Ymbelet’s Theorem of Command and deliver a report. As if we hadn’t put our schooling well behind us.”

Haurchefant does his best to soothe his brother. They quiet down at last: the younger man taking his volume off to his chambers, the elder settling into an armchair within eyesight of Nerys. (Far enough away that she may stop hiding her work.)

His novel is a work of popular fiction he’d garnered approval to stock here. No erotic scenes, but romantic enough. Should he ever get his eyes to stay on the page.

Alas, the white-haired sorcerer-king and his beloved princess and his soul-eating sword are no match for the Warrior of Light. The curve of her cheek. The braided coronet of purple and white hair, crowning her while the rest of her curls are a lovely raiment over her shoulders. The quirk to her dark, sweet lips.

She lifts those golden eyes, meeting him. If he were not already lovestruck and bedazzled, that gaze would ensnare him. He smiles and lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. Haurchefant isn’t sorry for lingering before a sunset; and that natural wonder is naught in comparison.

“My lord,” says Nerys, her voice carrying. “May I help you?”

“Nay, Mistress.” He shakes his head. “Simply exist as you are and I am satisfied.”

That is when Alphinaud bursts in, looking drawn and pale. If Haurchefant is annoyed at another interruption, that vanishes at the sight. He jumps to his feet. “My lad! Are you alright?”

The youth shakes his head. “Nerys. Tataru has grave news about General Aldynn. We must be off at once.”

She rises, hurrying over in a rush of white and red silk. In an instant she has changed from playfulness to resolute determination. Always ready to become The Warrior, his Nerys. 

“Do you require anything?” He asks them. “You know my sword is yours, as is any resource at our disposal.”

Alphnaud shakes his head. “No one must see us enter Thanalan or leave. As soon as we cross back into Coerthas, we’ll send word.”

“I thank you. If you needs must bring the General somewhere safe, Camp Dragonhead’s doors are open to you.” If he must return to his command rather than fight at her side, at least he might be of some use to her. He loves–truly loves–his role but lately, his dearest wish is to be a shield at her back and a sword in her arsenal.

Ah, well, even Sorcerer-Kings do not get all they want. Why should he?

He dips into a sweeping bow to them both. Alphinaud returns it before rushing out, every emotion writ upon his usually perfect diplomat’s mask. Should the General die, the youth will carry it as he does everything else that occurred with the Braves. Haurchefant sends a prayer to Halone, asking for mercy on him.

Nerys takes his hand. Squeezes it. He squeezes it back. She smiles before picking up her skirts and rushing afterward.

It proves impossible to focus after that, even more than before. For a moment he entertains armoring up and following. This isn’t Dragonhead and so none of the knights with orders to keep him safe are here. (That time with Iceheart, Corentiaux had actually sat upon him.)

But they have asked he stay behind. So he will.

Haurchefant can take care of Nerys’ papers for her. He means to pointedly not look at the contents. He truly does. But he sees a piece of paper with his name on top, another with his last name, and his resolve crumbles.

The first piece of paper is titled “Minako” in large, neat letters. Beneath are names like Mamoru, Umino, Motoki. Her Yellow Chocobo is named Minako. Therefore, this is for…

The next sheet of paper confirms his suspicions. Under the heading “Black Chocobo” are the names Endymion, Starlight, Twilight, Onyx. Below that, a subheading “Elegance” with virtue monikers: Noble, Dignity, Charming.

And so, when he arrives to the last three papers (titled “Haurchefant”, “Greystone”, and “Fortemps”), he cannot contain his joy. The little note scribbled atop “Haurchefant” tickles him further. He gave you the Chocobo and you adore him. Will he be offended? He might be offended. 

Haurchefant is certainly not offended. 

He delights in the candidates, even some of the ones she crossed out. Sadly, there is no option for “Haurchefant” or “Haurchefant II.” I suppose that might get confusing.

Grinning, he picks up her leather folio and tucks her work inside. Hopefully, she will forgive his snooping because he has some ideas about this.

--

The Lord Commander’s bed at Camp Dragonhead may be the most comfortable place in Eorzea.

Nerys should get up to clean, brush her teeth, all the little nighttime rituals. But she is so pleasantly exhausted and the blankets are so soft and warm. She stretches, luxuriating in the feel of them against her skin. It has been a harrowing few days since her abrupt departure from Ishgard. But all is well and now, she feels nothing but comfort.

The bed could be warmer with her companion. But then she wouldn’t get to see his bare bottom as he slips into the bathroom. Halone must adore him to bless him with such a lovely rear.

“My love,” he calls after a while. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh? Should I be worried?”

“I hope not.” He returns with a washcloth, his black silk robe barely closed against the cold. The fireplace sends flickers of light across his sculpted chest.  “I may be overstepping but...I must say that I truly adore the name Grey. Though Tempsy is charming. Also, may I suggest Haurchon?”

What does he...oh. Oh! Nerys groans and buries her face in a pillow. She had been in such haste to rescue Raubahn–rightfully so!–that she had left all her papers there. All face up, all in the open.

The mattress dips as Haurchefant sits beside her. One hand strokes her hair, gentle and sweet. “I should not have pried but Nerys–my dearest one–I am utterly and truly touched by the idea. Though of course, if you pick a different name I will not be offended.”

“I only...well, I wouldn’t have him if not for you,” she mutters into the pillow, heat filling her face. “And if not for him, we wouldn’t have been in Coerthas that day.”

“So we owe him a great honor, for bringing us together at last.” His lips press against her bare shoulder. “Of course, the truest honor would be to name him after yourself-”

She turns then, mortification at last leaving her. Cups his face in her hands. “I am not playing this game where we go on for hours about who is better.  Let’s agree it’s you and end it there.”

“Oh my love,” he sighs, bending down to her. “Though you are wrong, I must obey if it proves to you the depth of my regard.”

“I know another way you could prove it,” she says, pulling him atop her.

--

Grey likes his name.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 74: Enclosure

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 5. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Alcohol, transphobia, prejudiced behaviors, ghoul fetishization, brief unsanitary stuff, dysphoria. (A/N: This is a difficult chapter.)

Doors, keys, barriers, and binding.

_____________________

As his food settled, ‘Choly found his gaze more upon Sticks than anything else. He’d watched as the ghoul ate his stew (and polished off his own as well), watched him as they shared the slice of pie, watched as the two each finished off their chilled cans of Vim. The tonic soda’s alcohol content crept up on him, insidious and heady. Observing Sticks’s indelicate spoon technique juxtaposed against his precise methodology of ripping the bread bowl piece as he went, the angles at which he held his broken lips to prevent dribbling, the diligence and enthusiasm with which he dispatched the meal... He didn’t notice his intoxication until Sticks squarely caught him not just watching, but staring. He frowned softly, stymied and a little too wide-eyed.

He wondered if Sticks had meant to get him drunk, and if so, why. He disliked his reflex to question such a thing.

Angel vocalized as though to clear an imagined throat.

“Ah, yes, gentlemen. Allow me to clear the table for you.” As it did so, it remarked to ‘Choly, “I certainly hope dinner treats you well, Sir.”

“Yeah, it’s gotta be.” Sticks grabbed the cans to collect the ring-pulls from them, before relinquishing them to Angel. He shifted in his seat to lace his hands over his belly. “Surely, I picked out a decent meal.”

‘Choly sat up straighter and reached for his cane hooked on the back of his chair, in preparation of standing, knowing it would take more focus than usual.

“I’ll know sooner or later. I can’t recall a single food since the Vault that hasn’t given me awful indigestion.” His features tightened and he leaned nearer across the table. “The stew didn’t have milk in it, right? Or the bread?”

Sticks didn’t know whether to take the worrying personally.

“Most things don’t. Brahmin don’t produce much milk. It’s usually made into a cheese so it lasts longer. Why?”

Angel finished its bussing. Sticks stood.

“Food allergy. Thanks, Angel.” With a sigh he pushed back the chair. Leveraging off the floor with his cane, he steadied himself against the edge of the table until his balance carried confidence. “Though, I couldn’t say I’d have the same reaction as to cow’s milk. I doubt I’ve had brahmin milk, if it’s rare as you say.”

They passed through the security point again, back into the mall proper. ‘Choly understood this time that the food court took that measure because it had its own door to the outside as well. He supposed that, in addition to the main entrance to the Concourse, each anchor store would have such a weapons check.

It took several tries, and Sticks’s assistance, before he could manage to mount Angel successfully. He laughed it off. They strolled amiably, oblivious to anything but their after dinner leisure. ‘Choly soon stopped them, in front of Sutter Grove, to marvel from a distance at an entire department store space he believed housed nothing but books.

“Sutter Grove was an upscale department store. I understand why a place with a prejudice for robots would clear out their General Atomics in favor of their post office and all, but-- but... did they do similar for every single anchor store?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it.” Sticks shrugged, hands in pockets. “I guess. What’s the use in trying to remember what they used to be, though? It might house hundreds of merchants, but Ant Lane’s more... streets-in-the-sky than a mall anymore.”

“Helps me couple my understanding of things against their reality.”

“Like you keep doing with me, I’m guessing.”

They’d continued along, and it took a moment for ‘Choly to process the jab.

“What, what was that?”

“What’s history matter anymore? I’ve lived so much of it, seen so much of it--made so much of it. We’re in the now, Mindy. Let’s stay here a while, huh?”

He murmured in uncertain agreement, trailing off as he noted the aforementioned Gate City Clinic at one corner of the crossway one might take to get to See’s or The Hall.

“Do you need to see that Liam fellow before we check in?”

“Bah, it’s fine. As long as it stops bleeding, I heal up P.D.Q.--and whatever it is you did, it’s sure stopped, or my sleeve wouldn’t still be white.”

“Is it white?” he mumbled, slouching to ineffectually adjust his half-moon glasses. “This lighting...”

“Tell me about it.” Sticks checked the time on his Pip-Boy and grunted. “It’s five minutes to lock-up time. We need to hoof it, or we’ll have to deal with See’s.”

“Why do I worry you know this from experience,” Angel fretted, matching the ghoul’s haste.

As they passed the glass elevator shaft, converted to a two-story pillar light fixture, ‘Choly looked behind them to confirm his suspicions that See’s guards had spread throughout the mall to empty all visitors from the Concourse.

Five guards stood at the lower level entrance to the Anchor Inn. Its upper level entrance had already been shut off, so as to usher non-Laners into the inn’s first floor lobby. The trio speculated where the Concierge line began, but as the See’s guards pulled shut the Concourse entrance’s rolling metal doors, Sticks encouraged ‘Choly in confidence to make themselves last in line. With easily a hundred people waiting for their rooms, ‘Choly worried they’d fill up before they got to the desk, but did his best to trust his friend. He glanced to his Pip-Boy: curfew came at nine here. Once only ten or so people remained, he dismounted to totter on his cane.

By the time their turn arrived, only one Concierge clerk stood at the desk: the tall, stocky Latin woman with dark teal victory rolls from before. She wore a cravat-bow, with tuxedo-piped slacks and a matching jacket with rows of brass buttons down each side, braided shoulders, and a contrast collar and cuffs. A small pillbox hat was secured cocked on her crown. She’d long since taken notice of Angel’s presence in the lobby, and her confident curiosity indicated easily that she’d assured her coworkers to leave the trio to her.

“I always expected robots to look as dangerous as they’ve been made to sound.” Intrigue piqued her well-manicured brows as she paid the ledgers most of her mind. “Have you stayed with us before?”

“I have. He hasn’t. I’m Sticks, and this is Melancholy. The robot’s Angel.”

She paused as she wrote, processing it all with a faint smile which grew into a beaming grin. She extended a lace-gloved hand and firm handshake, first to Sticks, then to ‘Choly. Angel offered a tendril as well, which she snagged with enthusiasm.

“I’m Orqueida. Rates are nightly or weekly. By the night, it’s ten pulls per person. By the week, it’s fifty pulls per person. Check-out’s at noon the following day. Anything you leave in your room past the time you’ve gotta be out gets donated to our Gift Shop.”

“Let’s start off with that week-long price ticket.” Sticks leaned coolly and removed his ushanka, holding it at his breast to smile at her. “Could I persuade you to give us a slight discount? Say... forty pulls each?”

Her misgivings skewed her features just so.

“We’ve got monthly rates, too, but if you’re intent to stay more than a month, it’s cheaper to speak to Mayor Knott about leasing a space in the Concourse. Are you... gonna be around more than a week?”

“Probably,” ‘Choly mumbled aside. Knowing my luck.

Scrutinizing her ledgers, she placed a dark, enameled fingernail on her floor map with a pleasant nod.

“I can do... forty-five. Best I can do. Our monthly rate breaks down to that. Management’s got a strict no-nonsense policy when it comes to haggling. Let's give you Room 110.”

“You’re too kind.” The ghoul’s rumbling, cordial voice ingratiated, firm but humble. “So neighborly-like. Thank you.”

‘Choly crossed his arms firmly, nearly grabbing fistfuls of his cardigan as he chewed at his lip. It didn’t much reassure him, that she hadn’t said one-eleven. He craned his head a bit to discern the room’s location.

“Excuse me... but I’m to understand that the escalators or elevators are no longer in operation. I imagine the inn uses both stories of the DeMarco-Boyle’s. I really struggle with stairs. I hope it’s no bother for us to request we receive a first floor room?”

“One-ten is. Besides, rooms are only in short supply during blizzard conditions. Long as it’s vacant, it’s for grabs. Psh, talking like you knew what the place looked like before it was an inn. You just said you hadn’t stayed at the Lane before today, and the inn itself is well past centenarian.”

“I haven’t been in this DeMarco-Boyle’s-- I mean, not the Anchor Inn, no.”

Orqueida simply stared at length, her lazy eye overt.

“Is your friend always this weird? Or is he just disoriented from traveling too long with a prewar ghoul?”

“Ohh, this is him coherent.” Sticks shrugged it off with a chuckle, and gave ‘Choly a pitying shoulder pat which elicited pedantic sulking. “He’s got a point, though. He hardly gets around without help, from Angel or otherwise. A first floor room is probably a good idea.”

“Of course. Of course.” After annotating their booking in the ledger, Orqueida leaned her elbows on the high desk, to eye Angel with interest. “Now about that robot. Checks out with the Aldermen, right?”

They both nodded, though ‘Choly couldn’t confidently be sure any officials of any kind had given them explicit verbal clearance to bring Angel with them.

“The instant Yancy gives warning, you’ve gotta follow technological protocols. Lock it in our work closet. Turn it off. Chain it down. Non-negotiable.” She softened, and her fascination shined through once again. “Only other choice is to toss it outside at that point, and I couldn’t have the heart for that. It’ll be neat to have a bot around for a change. Looks a fierce one.”

“My ferocity, madam, is only rivaled by my cleaning prowess!”

She let out a barking jolt of a laugh, and tidied her workspace.

“Ha! Madam. A sense of humor, too.”

“To confirm we’re on the same page about storing Angel,” ‘Choly hemmed, unsure whether to even ask. “You say, ‘at Yancy’s word.’ Is Yancy one of your Aldermen?”

Orqueida gagged and teetered in place before laughing at him pityingly.

“Fuck, I hope not. Ask most people, they’d tell you Yancy’s our resident ant farmer, but he’s our meteorologist. Our weatherman.”

As Sticks handed her fistfuls of pulls from his sack, she strung them onto a set of graduated check spindles to count them in a way not dissimilar to Darryl with his abacus. Until then, ‘Choly had presumed the broker-creature had paid his friend in caps. She deposited their payment in an under-desk till. Then she fished the right room key off the wall pegs behind her, and shut the desk-gate behind her to join them.

“Could I walk you to your room, then?” When they appreciated the gesture, she continued their chat on the way. “You aren’t from the Hinter, or you’d know not to bring Angel along... and it’s rare anyone’s here by accident. I was a real little girl, the only other time I can ever remember the Lane letting in a robot. Nor’easters mess up technology. Something about the electricity in them or something. I’m not sure. It was a lot like Angel. Smaller. It didn’t have any arms. See’s removed its weapon. It had a recording about enlisting to the military base to the South. But, sometimes it’d pick up funky radio music. That’s the part we liked about it. Well, See’s locked it out in the Concourse during a storm. It rammed itself to pieces against the rolling doors of the apartments. Heaven knows what the hell its radio was picking up that week, either. Haunting. So yeeaaah. You’ve gotta turn Angel off if Yancy says a storm’s coming.” She eyed Angel amid the tension of her ghost story, heavy lidded and smiling. “Just the armless one was scary enough. Your voice is yours, not others’. Don’t give me nightmares.”

Angel stuttered at length, guilty and incredulous.

“If it is unsafe for me to remain here during certain conditions, then my liberty holds no priority to everyone’s safety. If... if powering down during such a storm means we prevent any injury--to others, property, or myself--then I’ll make no argument.”

“Nor’easters aren’t as common as you’d think.” Sticks patted Angel’s chassis.

“Any is still more common than we’d like,” she added. They stood at the door to Room 110. “The average Laner won’t know that thing you wear are Pip-Boys. I don’t know why you’re here, but while you’re here, you should see Sutter Grove or Grey & Gould about a lock box, if you have any holotapes you want to keep safe. Better to have the arrangements made, than to scramble last minute, afloat in a thousand people caught up in storm preparations.”

“What do you know about Pip-Boys?” the ghoul started.

“I know they’re not just a computer, for one.” She dangled the key fob at arm’s length to see who’d take it, but she snatched it away from Sticks. Slowly, she grinned at him knowingly. “They can also be a key.”

She let them in, then gave the ghoul the key.

“If you need anything else,” she said, “ring at the Concierge desk. But for an hour or so, don’t need me in particular. Now that everyone’s checked in, I’ve got dinner plans. I’ll be back no later than midnight. Goodnight.”

The halls’ chevron walls contrasted to the geometric scale-like fans of the room. Two wall sconces to either side of the bed sported four of those strange curly red-green Burlington glass bulbs, and a matching swag lamp also hung opposite the bed. They had enough room to move about, but Angel still opted to extinguish its thruster and crawl about on its tendrils.

“I’ll bulk up some figurative guns in lieu of those I can’t have indoors, ha-hah!” it announced. The puffing up in its voice crumpled shortly. “Will we be at the mall all too long?”

“As brief as we can, chap. Brief as we can.” Sticks tossed down his hat and flopped to sit on the end of the bed with his untied apron in his lap. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and be done with all this by this time tomorrow.”

‘Choly hung his visor on the coat rack by the door. Then he pulled some things from Angel’s storage, and tucked his cash into it. He slung a fresh work rag over his shoulder, and grabbed Sticks’s right arm to drag him back up to stand.

“We don’t have our own private bathroom. Could you show me to the public bathroom? It sucks that I didn’t think to see if any of the stores had any toothpaste, but I still want to brush my teeth.”

“Sure. I think one’s just around the corner.”

“I trust the two of you can manage without me,” Angel said, nesting into the corner beside the low chest of drawers. “I’ll stay right here. Out of the way.”

“Angel...” ‘Choly put a hand on it as it tucked its ocular lenses flush to its chassis. “You’re not in the way.”

Sticks plopped his apron in the nightstand drawer.

“Come on. Sooner we can get back to the room, sooner I can finally get a good night’s sleep. It’s been almost two weeks.”

“I told you we could’ve pulled over in Concord for you to nap,” ‘Choly poked on their way out.

“We only made good time because I didn’t.”

The public bathrooms had been converted to showers. Most of the toilets’ plumbing now accommodated shower heads and floor drains, in individual stalls minus the doors. ‘Choly counted nine men besides themselves using these facilities: four in the showers, at least one in the toilets, and the rest at the sinks. The first moment he could, he squeezed in at a sink, and wet his toothbrush to get started. In a fit of stupidity, he turned to the fellow beside him.

“I couldn’t bum some toothpaste from you, could I?”

The middle-aged fellow jerked in place. His glare sobered ‘Choly on the spot.

“You’re in the men’s room. You know that, right?”

One of the men in the showers overheard him and covered up with his hands, cowering to one corner of his stall. Sticks steadied ‘Choly by the shoulder and cocked his head at the guy.

“Last I checked, men use the men’s room. If you’re not sure he’s in the right place, are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“Whatever, shambler. Yer both blind. I was just finishin’ up anyway.”

He slapped a half-crumpled toothpaste tube in ‘Choly’s hand, expectorated, and muttered the entire way out.

‘Choly nearly couldn’t bring himself to use it. He trembled the whole time he brushed. Meanwhile, Sticks stepped up to the sink the other man had been using, to whistle and use their bar of soap to wash up his face and mostly-bald scalp. He hadn’t brought in a toothbrush, so he just rubbed around some of ‘Choly’s toothpaste with a finger and rinsed his mouth out. ‘Choly put up blinders so no one would think he was watching them, but it felt more like deer in headlights. He eventually got the nerve to work at pocketing the bobby pins from his French twist, to brush out his hair at the sink, and rinse the road debris from it. He grounded himself by enumerating tasks for the next day.

I’ll need to bring in some things from the car. My robe. My change of clothes. Some towels. Surely, one of the stalls has a door, so I can--

Sticks laughed suddenly.

“You believe that guy? It’s like he’s never met a pint-sized Russian with long hair before.”

‘Choly glowered at him, with a panicked hush.

“Jacob, please. I just want to forget about it. It’s been happening all goddamn day, if you didn’t notice.” His body slacked in defeat. “Angel’s not the only one who feels unwelcome here.”

“Then that makes three of us. Ignorance isn’t always bliss. But we came here for a reason, and we’re going to see that through.”

‘Choly washed at his hands with their bar of soap, and couldn’t stop sighing.

“...Come on now. Let’s see your arm.”

Sticks removed his shirt without questions. ‘Choly unwrapped the wound to inspect it. Even despite the unusual lighting, it struck him dumb to see the wound had stopped bleeding, and had begun to close up quite cleanly. He carefully soaped up his hands to rinse the injury again, then patted it dry with the old rag, in the delirious inundation of an infatuated stream of thoughts.

Instead of a laundry list, his mind now recited all he could recall of Sticks’s Pip-Boy vitals mere hours ago. He couldn’t believe Sticks hadn’t somehow sneaked a Stimpak while he wasn’t looking. This ghoul... Dreamily, he awed in unmistakable proof his friend was more than a burn victim. He felt more brazen, more justified, in his ardor--the ghoul was a ghoul, long since not human. Unlike at the food court table, this time he caught himself lost in his dopey admiration, and straightened up to finish dressing Sticks’s upper arm. Sticks put his shirt back on, oblivious to ‘Choly’s fascination.

‘Choly’s stomach shifted characteristically. His mouth tugged to one side, and he swallowed at an excess of saliva.

“You go on back to the room without me. Don’t wait up. I... I might be a while.”

“You all right?”

“Dinner caught up with me, is all. I’m fine.”

Fortunately for him, most people seemed to use other bathrooms for the toilets, so not only was the line short, but the time he had to take didn’t much affect anyone but himself. There wasn’t any toilet paper, though he questioned whether it was supposed to, since the dispenser had no empty tube left. He would’ve felt even more disparaged if he hadn’t accidentally kept the rag from Sticks’s arm. He tried not to think about it.

Upon emerging from the stall, he flinched and nearly skipped washing his hands, only to flinch even harder at the need to wash out the rag. He ran a sink tap as hot as it would get, and praised that he’d managed to keep the bar of soap in the shuffle.

“The laundromat’s downstairs, pal,” he heard someone offer in nuisance as he wrung out the rag.

“I’ll remember that, thanks.”

When ‘Choly got back to the room, Angel let him in. It knew the sound of his steps without him even needing to knock. One of the two had pulled drawstring curtain-shades over the Burlington glass fixtures in the room to dim the lights, as they couldn’t simply be turned off. When he heard him enter, the ghoul sat up from the bed, in just his underwear. ‘Choly sat on the dressing stool at the foot of the bed and began to undress. The ghoul tenderly helped him out of his orthotics. He handed ‘Choly back his shirt, and sat on the side of the bed. ‘Choly tossed his orthotics, pants, sweater, and socks on the dressing stool. Then he set his glasses on his nightstand and crawled into the bed with Sticks.

'Choly would’ve melted readily into the full set of clean sheets, but he still couldn’t quite unlatch his brain from his day. He stared up into the recently repaired tiled ceiling. His thoughts wandered back to Sticks’s vitals diagnostics, as the ghoul took off his Pip-Boy and prosthetic, and laid back down with him. He cuddled up to Sticks, to feel his chest, his heartbeat, his body temperature... He started to kissing him, desperately wishing to get in the mood to do more than kiss him... but when Sticks held him closer and kissed him back, he crumpled to rest his head on Sticks’s shoulder. Even shirtless, the brackish scent of Glenn Johnny’s fry oil permeated him.

Sticks didn’t pressure him to continue, and they laid there in silence.

“I don’t know that you should’ve trusted me to know where to find the orthotics,” ‘Choly uttered finally, broken. “I’ve been to three Waldens now. The first only had a few scraps of paperwork left. The second had a lab, but I got it burned down. And the third? You just saw it. The next nearest Walden’s all the way in Bangor, if it’s still standing. And you already said hospitals are a no-go for some reason. Maybe... maybe I’m not supposed to have better medical equipment.”

“Oh shut up. Shut up.” Sticks grabbed a fistful at the back of ‘Choly’s head. “I won’t have this after everything I’ve dealt with to get here. The stuff that was in the warehouse, isn’t. So what?” He let go once he knew he’d shaken ‘Choly to really hear him. “This is the oldest settlement in the Hinter. Of course the city’s picked over. Angel’s right. There’s Laners who scav to stock their shops. We’re bound to find some of the stuff from Walden here. It’s too close to the Lane, for us not to.”

“I... You’re right.” His mouth did most of the trembling at that point. “I don’t think you understand, though, just exactly how dearly I need these orthotics. The corset in particular serves multiple purposes for me. My physical state and my gender have begun to blur together. For the past few months, I’ve been using the canvas orthotic corset over there. It does a similar job to the bust flattener I had before, well. I still resent the Vault staff for burning all my belongings, but the flattener wouldn’t provide me any spinal stability anyway... The shape of me gives me such an unbearable grief at times. But the corset helps some.”

Another lull transpired, while Sticks caressed ‘Choly’s scalp from where he’d gripped it. It was almost like the ghoul didn’t know what to say. Or maybe, he just could tell ‘Choly’s silence said multitudes, and he didn’t want to interrupt him.

“...Is that what all this is about? No wonder you’re so upset about earlier.” Sticks pulled him tighter to him, and held him in both arms. “We’re going to find those things.”

“It doesn’t bother you, does it? For a man to lie beside you, looking like I do?”

“I don’t see why it would. Not that my opinion really weighs in on who you are. People come in all kinds of shapes. You’re... you-shaped. Always have been.” He kissed at ‘Choly’s forehead a few times, then pressed his lips to his, letting his hand and wrist wander impassioned. “Now are you up for a little fooling around a little on a nice, big, fresh bed? Or are you still mopey? There’s only one right answer.”

“You’re the best way to get my mind off things,” he relented.

“Attaboy.”

Go to Next »»»

[cavalierious-whim]

Pawfully Yours (FE3H)

FE3H | Sylvix | General | Complete

Sylvain finds a cat and falls in love.

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A/N: I’m finally reposting some older stuff from my last tumblr blog. Read here on AO3 for better formatting! 

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Sylvain has always been a dog person. There’s nothing quite like cuddling with a soft and warm ball of fluff or the heavy weight that sinks into the mattress on top of the blanket as you sleep, or inevitably getting drool in your mouth when you pull them close, crying into their fur as you vent your frustrations about your shitty life into the scruff of their neck.

Sylvain has no idea what that’s like. Not one bit.

When he moved to the city, he had to leave Daisy behind. Ingrid on the surface had made it seem that she was more than aggravated to have the Golden Retriever unloaded onto her. Sylvain knows better. Ingrid’s always had a soft spot for Daisy. She’d let the girl sleep in her bed on the occasional platonic sleepover. Dorothea didn’t even have that pleasure half of the time and she was the girlfriend.

It’s led to a rather quiet life and Sylvain is still adjusting to an empty apartment in the not-so-great-but-you-might-not-get-murdered side of town.

Three months into his new home is when he notices the cat. It’s a small thing with sleek black fur. It looks too healthy to be a stray, but judging on how the creature responds to those getting close, Sylvain doesn’t think that it has an owner either. It seems too proud to slum it as a pet, walking along the dingy alleyway that Sylvain cuts through as a shortcut to work, tail swishing and held high. Proud, even.

But then again, maybe that’s just a cat thing. Sylvain doesn’t know, he’s never really given a cat much thought. He doesn’t know why he decides to pity it.

One day, Sylvain brings a can of tuna and popping the top off, he sets it down on the ground. The cat watches him carefully from ten feet away, sitting on his haunches haughtily. Warily. Carefully composed.

“For you,” says Sylvain, not sure why he even bothers to speak to it. It’s a cat. Cats don’t understand humans. Even Daisy had never understood him, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she responded to just the sound of his voice, and not the content of his words.

Still, the cat seems unimpressed, large amber eyes half-lidded as it looks from the can of fish to Sylvain. And if Sylvain doesn’t know any better, that’s what he would think a frown looks like when spread across a feline face.

Sylvain frowns right back. “Well then,” he says. “I see that I’ve wasted my time. Never again.”

He’s wrong through. Sylvain cuts through the alley every single day, a soiled apron slung over his shoulder and a takeaway cup of coffee in his hand. And sometimes, he brings the dumb little cat an old and stale pastry from the shop, because there’s no harm if they’re just going to toss the old food, right?

Sylvain doesn’t stick around to see if the cat actually eats them or enjoys it, or if it just bats the food away with a hiss. He kinda wants to pet the thing though, because it’s fur looks soft and  Sylvain’s feeling lonelier and lonelier as the weeks pass by.

Eventually, he has the crazy idea of maybe adopting the pitiful thing. It’s like any other day that he’s posted up an offering. He breaks an old cheese pastry into several pieces and tosses them onto the ground. And this time, he waits, crouched down, elbows resting on his knees.

The cat comes closer, but it seems pissed off, body stiff and tail twitching angrily. Amber eyes narrowed in suspicion. He sniffs at the pastry and then snags a small bite. Then it spits out the food, clearly not a fan.

Sylvain swallows thickly. “So like, if you want a roof over your head or something, I can bring you home.”

The cat pauses like it understands him. It’d been pawing at the pastry, playing with it when it stops, head snapping up as it looks to Sylvain. Then the cat’s mouth opens, fangs long and sharp, and it says with surprising clarity, “Fuck off.”

#

Sylvain had imagined it, that was the only explanation. It makes more sense than a cat had opened his mouth and spoke to me. Anything makes more sense than that, so Sylvain chalks it up to too many shifts at the cafe, too many hours of schoolwork, and maybe a smidge of not eating enough.

He keeps cutting through the alleyway because it’s the fastest way to work. Sylvain’s a perpetual oversleeper, the kind that sets five alarms and sleeps through all of them, only to roll out of bed with five minutes to spare.

And he can spare that five minutes if he takes the back way, no matter how dark and creepy it seems at three in the morning and on the way to his early shift.

The cat’s made himself scarce. Sylvain now knows that it’s male because of the shockingly handsome voice it carries. More proof that he’d absolutely made the entire thing up in his lonely misery.

Sylvain doesn’t expect to feel sad about the disappearance of the cat, but it’d sunk in deeper than expected. Even if the cat had seemed eternally annoyed-- as far as a cat could seem at least-- he’d been cute, and Sylvain liked bringing it treats. There’s not a lot left that makes him feel good about himself.

That morning, Sylvain pauses because he’s got a moment. The alley is dark and there’s no sign of the cat. Sylvain sighs softly and says, “I’m sorry if I offended you or something. I just thought that maybe a home would be better than an old alley.”

It seems silly to talk to a cat, but he feels a little bit better and he continues to work with a little bit more pep in his step. And later that night he leaves a pastry behind, just in case.

The cat slinks out from under the dumpster once Sylvain’s out of sight. In his wake is a tuna roll, a fluffy pastry filled with tangy fish salad. The cat likes this one, not that he’d ever admit it.

#

Sylvain rarely works the night shift, mostly because he’d rather wake up at the butt crack of dawn and get his day over with. But sometimes it’s inevitable. Sometimes a coworker just needs a shift covered and Sylvain’s a nice enough guy to agree.

And he doesn’t want to risk getting fired, even if he doesn’t think Byleth is a vindictive manager.

It’s probably a bad idea to cut through the alley at ten at night, but Sylvain’s tired and weary, and he just wants to get home. Not to mention he’s got a container of day-old tuna salad in his hand that he needs to leave the cat, otherwise it’ll just wind up rotting away in his fridge.

He opens the container and places it on the asphalt near the dumpster, waiting for just a moment as he crouches down. Just in case the cat decides to show his face. He doesn’t. Sylvain frowns and with a sigh, pulls himself back up.

There’s a shuffling behind him and he turns to look, only to be slammed against the dumpster, head cracking against the hard metal. Sylvain’s vision swims as he tries to push against his attacker, but then he stops dead. There’s a knife held close to his neck. Sylvain can feel the soft scrape of it as he swallows.

“Wallet,” the man behind him says, a hand gripped tightly around Sylvain’s arm that’s wrenched behind him. He’s stockier in his build, pinning Sylvain against the dumpster easily.

“Hey look man--” The knife digs deeper into his skin, cutting just barely. Sylvain’s not dumb enough to push the situation further. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Back pocket. My phone’s there too, opposite side.” A pause. “You know, just in case you want that as well.”

He can’t help the cheeky reply, but his assailant doesn’t seem to hear him as he rifles through his pockets. The man pulls the wallet from Sylvain’s pocket, flipping through it.

And then there’s a shout as the man is wrestled to the ground by someone else that Sylvain can’t see. There’s a scuffle, some odd yowling, and then the distinct sound of a punch, bones crunching sickly under the hit.

Sylvain stands stock still, still pressed against the dumpster, not moving. Just in case.

“Useless, aren’t you?” Sylvain freezes at the voice, taking in the acerbic tone. “It’s bad enough that you waltz through here every morning, but you should know better than to do it at this time of night.”

Sylvain turns but he doesn’t find the cat, he finds a man standing there instead, finely boned face tugged into a snarl. He shakes out his hand, knuckles already bruising from the solid hit that he’d gotten in. Sylvain blinks. He’s handsome in a feline sort of way, hard edges to his jaw and circles cut deeply underneath his eyes. His black hair is tied into a ponytail high on the crown of his head.

The man toes at the assailant who’s out cold on the ground. “I’d get out of here,” he says. Then he looks to Sylvain again, unimpressed. He stalks over to the container of tuna salad and toes at that too, lips pulled into a grimace of disgust. “Really, now. If you won’t eat it, what makes you think that I will?”

“Um--”

The man blinks slowly, catlike, and with subtle grace. “Do I need to explain it to you?”

“No,” says Sylvain quickly. “No, I just--” A pause as he rubs at his head. “The cat?”

“It’s not the cat ,” says the man with a snarl. “It’s Felix.”

“Felix,” Sylvain repeats.

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“Thanks,” Sylvain blurts. “For, you know.” He gestures to the man on the ground.

“It’s a one-time thing. I don’t reward stupidity,” says Felix as he picks up the container and tosses it into the dumpster. Then he looks to Sylvain again, shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy blue hoodie. “I like the baked ones with the fish and cheese. They aren’t so bad a day past.”

Felix doesn’t meet Sylvain’s face, instead, stalking off without another word.

Sylvain smiles.

#

Sylvain leaves a pastry that he pilfers from the bin after every shift. It’s not always Felix’s favorite, but he doesn’t complain. Either way, they disappear into his belly, leaving Felix to lick his paws clean after a tasty meal.

He doesn’t turn into a man again, but he does walk Sylvain through the alley. And then sometimes further. If Felix follows him to the coffee shop, he knows that he’ll get a small lid of cream.

It’s a strange routine that concerns an even stranger man. What is Felix, Sylvain wonders? A cat? A man? Both? Neither? He’s real and solid as the day though, and Sylvain knows that he hadn’t hallucinated anything that’d happened.

When winter comes, Sylvain worries. It’s cold and crisp outside, not preferable for a street cat. He wonders if Felix has somewhere warm to sleep, which is why he eventually asks.

“Surely you can’t stay out here all season,” says Sylvain one night, as he watches Felix pull apart half a savory ham and cheese tart. He’s not sure if cats should eat one of those, but maybe with Felix, it’s different. The cat never complains.

Felix pauses mid-bite to look at Sylvain. Then he drops the tart, hisses lightly, and runs off. Sylvain blinks. An answer is an answer at least, and Sylvain stops asking.

#

One day, it snows. Gautier is a cold and dismal place in the winter, but the snow comes later that year than anyone expects. Sylvain’s wrapped head-to-toe in a heavy jacket, a scarf, and thermals.

Felix follows him to the coffee shop that morning and against Sylvain’s better judgment, he opens the door to the storage shed out behind the shop. “It’s not much,” says Sylvain, “but it’s not in the snow.”

Felix gives him a long look before bolting inside.

Later that day, Felix strolls into the shop as a man, walks up to the counter, and slaps five gold coins onto the counter. Sylvain stares at them and then back to Felix, who immediately bristles.

“I didn’t fucking steal them,” says Felix. “I have a job.”

That’s news to Sylvain and he can’t quite picture it. This is only the second time they’ve met face-to-face, but he has a distinct feeling that Felix isn’t a people person.

Felix points to the fish and cheese pastry in the case. “It’s my favorite.” There’s an awkward pause as he closes his eyes in a near wince and continues with, “Look, I need to talk with you about something, alright?”

Sylvain rings him up, throws in a free cup of coffee, and fifteen minutes later they’re settled into the soft armchairs near the back of the cafe. It’s cold and bitter out, so they’re alone.

“You once offered a home,” says Felix, his hands wrapped around a warm ceramic mug. Sylvain’s coworker Annette paints them and they never get used. Felix huddles closer to it though like he’s trying to leech the warmth from it. “Does that offer still stand?”

Sylvain’s mouth parts in surprise and Felix turns bright red, looking anywhere but his face. “Look, it doesn’t mean anything,” says Felix. “But it’s getting cold out and it’s hard to find somewhere to bed down for the night where I won’t freeze to death.”

“So, my apartment,” says Sylvain.

“I’d be a cat,” says Felix. “I’d stay out of your way. It’d be like I’m not even there.”

Sylvain frowns. “I offered because I wanted a pet.”

Felix bristles. “I’m not a--”

“I know,” says Sylvain quietly. “I wouldn’t ask you to be since you’re… well, you know.” But Sylvain doesn’t know, so he gestures to Felix vaguely. He’s still trying to figure Felix out.

Felix sighs. “It’s only for the winter,” he says. “You won’t see me like this much. It’s not easy to… well, it’s not preferable.” He leaves it at that, which piques Sylvain’s curiosity.

“You can have the entire couch to yourself,” says Sylvain, half in jest.

Felix finishes his coffee quietly and then stands. “I’ll think about it.”

And he must, because when Sylvain leaves his shift in the late afternoon, Felix follows him all the way home.

#

Felix is never a man, he’s always a cat. Sylvain thinks that he prefers being a feline, though he’s not sure why. When he comes home from work, Felix is often curled up next to the warm glow of the fireplace. He leaves it lit because Felix can handle whatever might happen if something bad does.

As winter passes, Felix moves closer. He’s less annoyed. He sits on the couch next to Sylvain, his tail twitching softly against Sylvain’s thigh. Sylvain talks to him about any and everything, and he knows that it’s probably annoying, but Felix hasn’t yet told him to stop. So he doesn’t.

Sylvain gifts him a collar on Yuletide as a joke. Felix stubbornly wears it, because he’s testy about the weirdest of things.

When the New Year comes, he’s a man again. They’re nestled into the couch, Felix having shoved his feet across Sylvain’s lap with a cursory glance. Sylvain immediately pulled them closer, kneading at his arches.

Neither of them thinks more of it. Or maybe they both think of everything about it. Felix is impossible to read, but Sylvain thinks that he’s starting to recognize his moods. Even the most ornery of cats can’t turn down softly placed affection.

Sylvain wonders if it’s weird to fall in love with a cat. It’s a momentary thought because then he remembers that Felix isn’t just a cat and that there’s probably weirder things out there than Sylvain’s love, or the cat that’s also a man.

They watch New Year’s festivities on the television.

“I hate the noise,” says Felix when the fireworks start. “Too loud.”

“It’s not so bad in the city,” says Sylvain, hands still wrapped around Felix’s cold feet.

“It’s the worst day of the year,” says Felix. “Everyone’s drunk beyond reason and they roam the streets doing shitty things. Like kicking cats.”

There’s a lot to unpack there and Sylvain looks at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s an earnest apology.

Felix huffs, lips curling into a sneer. But then it’s gone as he relaxes into the couch. “No, it’s--” A pause, the air pregnant between them. “I’m not out there tonight, so it’s okay.”

It’s not, because Felix isn’t the only street cat to ghost the streets of the city. Still. “You’re welcome,” says Sylvain, squeezing his feet lightly. Felix kicks at him just because he can.

#

Winter ends sooner than Sylvain likes, but Felix doesn’t leave. He seems intent on staying and neither of them says anything, even if he’s a man more than a cat nowadays. Felix disappears during the day for his proclaimed job. He even cooks dinner sometimes and those are the kind of nights that Sylvain likes to cherish because Felix gets weirdly soft.

There’s a weird morning as Sylvain’s about to shuffle out the front door and Felix stops him.

“Is there something wrong?” asks Sylvain.

Felix doesn’t immediately answer and when he does, he says, “Have a good day.”

Sylvain assumes the worst because it’s an old habit that he can’t quite break. “Oh shit, you’re leaving aren’t you? Felix, you should know by now that you’re welcome to stay--”

Felix grabs Sylvain by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him forward, pressing a kiss against his lips. It’s short. It’s a little bit sweet. Felix seems to have no idea what he’s doing. Sylvain loves it, hand reaching out to grasp at Felix’s elbow.

When Sylvain pulls back, he asks, “What was that for?”

Felix’s hackles raise, immediately on the defensive. “Whatever, it was--”

“It’s not a complaint,” says Sylvain simply. “I liked it. It also sends some confusing signals.”

“What could be confusing about a kiss?” asks Felix.

“You don’t seem the type to do that,” says Sylvain.

“I’m not.” Felix pulls away, brushing at Sylvain’s shoulder to distract himself.

Suddenly, Sylvain gets it. Felix isn’t good with feelings and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s really a cat-- or maybe it’s not that at all. Sylvain still hasn’t figured out the details of all that nonsense, nor has he asked Felix outright. But Felix seems the kind of person who’s a doer, not a thinker, so he did the only thing that he thought would send a clear message.

Or maybe Sylvain’s overthinking something that’s really quite simple in the end.

“I love you too,” says Sylvain quietly.

Felix’s hand pauses and Sylvain watches him swallow. “Fool,” says Felix, but it’s more affectionate than angry, his voice cracking sweetly as he tries to find his words.

Sylvain smiles, pulling him back for another kiss. It’s longer this time, but just as awkward. Felix sinks into it, fingers curling tightly into Sylvain’s jacket as they hover in the doorway. When they part again, Felix says, “What an absolute fool.”

“The most foolish,” says Sylvain.

There’s a beat as Felix stares back at him like he’s looking, really looking at Sylvain. Felix sees him. And for once, Sylvain doesn’t mind. He’s never liked people seeing him for who he is, but Felix is different. He’s wormed his way into his heart and Sylvain doesn’t want to let go.

“But I wonder,” asks Sylvain, “what’s that say about you?”

Felix could have reacted a hundred different ways. What he does is pull Sylvain closer again, pressing their foreheads together. “Obviously I’m an even bigger idiot.”

Sylvain laughs, before swooping in once more.

[chaotic-citrus]

Harvest in Honnleath

I have absolutely succumbed to the pumpkin spice season and am in deep fall feels right now, so I was inspired to write this shameless fall fluff by @cozy-autumn-prompts‘ Hot Apple Cider prompt and @oc-growth-and-development‘s OCtober prompt for Day 8: Festival! Enjoy some seasonally fluffy Cullen Rutherford x Evelyn Trevelyan! 

"Few celebrate the year's harvest quite like Honnleath."

When Cullen had spoken the words earlier, Evelyn had assumed it was little more than a case of hometown pride. However, as she took in the sea of decorative gourds so vast it nearly obscured the young children who wandered through it, the unyielding scent of cinnamon that permeated every inch of the small village, and a band so boisterous at times that she could hardly hear herself think, Evelyn finally saw the truth to his words.

Lanterns were strung between the homes lining the main square, candlelight bouncing over the revelry below as the sun's dying rays were swallowed by evening's arrival. A large, unlit pyre sat at the center of the square, the villagers having pitched all manner of tents and carts around it that each boasted their own promising aroma of a different delicacy within. Cullen had assured her that, despite appearances otherwise, most of these tents really just held different kinds of cheese (they were in Ferelden after all), to which Evelyn had (rather cleverly, in her opinion) responded, "I suppose some cheesy jokes are in order then!" Cullen hadn't seemed nearly as delighted by her joke as she had, and with a playful groan and roll of his eyes, he had walked off to fetch them something to drink.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that something besides cheese? Isn't that sacrilegious for your kind?" she teased upon his return, an eager smile gracing her lips as Cullen gently placed a mug of warm cider in her outstretched palms. Taking a moment to attempt to think up another pun, Evelyn brought the mug to her lips absentmindedly, instantly realizing her mistake as she hissed and recoiled from the scalding liquid. Cullen did a terrible job of stifling his laughter behind his mug, which only grew louder when he caught the glare Evelyn shot his way, emerald eyes unamused and pink lips still stinging.

"Careful, I can't have the Inquisitor injured on my watch," he teased, blowing gently on the liquid in his own cup as if to demonstrate the proper technique for cider consumption. "Cassandra and Leliana could have my head for that, you know."

"Ah yes, a grievous injury indeed," she responded sarcastically, admittedly chuckling at her own clumsy mistake. "Should we call for medical attention? I dare say a head as handsome as yours would be a shame to lose." Cullen quirked a brow at that, lips twisting into a definitive grin as he leaned in a bit closer. "If I recall correctly," he began, one hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "you're not supposed to apply pressure to a burn. With you talking like that, however, it's certainly tempting." At that, Evelyn watched his gaze fall blatantly to her lips, his warm chestnut eyes sparkling with mirth as she felt a rare blush prickling her cheeks at his forwardness. Blatantly pleased by the blush he'd managed to draw from her, he pulled away with a laugh and a smirk so handsome it bordered on insufferable. "How's that for cheesy?"

Evelyn felt a tug on her sleeve before she had the chance to respond, something that was likely for the best considering she'd opened her mouth before she'd had much of a witty response to deliver from it. Drawing her gaze from the spellbinding commander before her, Evelyn was greeted by a pair of young girls with enthusiastic smiles and arms full of more flower crowns she would've thought feasible for ones their size to manage carrying.

"Can we interest you in some of our fine flower crowns this evening?" the elder girl asked, gesturing to the crowns with a dramatic flourish as her younger friend did her best to display those she was carrying.

"These crowns make fine gifts indeed!" the younger girl added, spinning with the crowns in an act of showmanship Varric would've been proud of. "Crowns like these are the pride of Honnleath!"

"Are they now? Is there a story behind that?" Cullen asked, a gentle smile having settled across his features as he gingerly took the crown the elder girl was handing him.

The girls lit up at his question, both nodding enthusiastically before simultaneously shouting, "Of course!"

This was all the encouragement the girls needed before launching into a dramatic tale of a beloved statue that once stood at the center of town, one that with every passing festival was adorned with countless wreaths and decorations. After the villagers awoke one morning to its disappearance, the girls claimed the villagers eventually started to simply wear the decorations themselves, thus giving flower crowns their popularity.

Despite a cryptically muttered "I thought something was missing..." from Cullen as he looked around the square with a puzzled expression, the Commander returned his attention to the pair of girls as he fished into his pockets for his coin purse. Offering them a generous handful of silvers, he turned to Evelyn with a sheepish expression and flower crown in hand.

"I suppose I should've asked first, but-"

"Cullen, it's lovely. Would you help me put it on?"

The crowns were simple in nature, a smattering of white and purple wildflowers tucked haphazardly into a simple hempen braid to secure them. Cullen carefully placed the crown on Evelyn's head, meticulously placing the hair pins the girls had given him where he thought they'd be the most structurally secure. Fingers gentle every time he'd move her hair or slide a pin into place, he eventually stepped back and announced the completion of his work. The pride in his eyes as he watched Evelyn turn to a nearby window, moving to catch her reflection in its surface, was unmistakable as she let out an impressed whistle. While Evelyn had worn her fair share of intricate hairstyles to any number of balls at the Trevelyan Estate growing up, there was a charm to the clumsy attempt at weaving the flowers into her curls that she couldn't help but love. Satisfied with his work and clearly ready to proceed with the rest of the night, it was Evelyn's turn to stifle her laughter as the girls held out a second crown for Cullen before he could leave. Flushing slightly, Cullen did his best to dissuade the girls of his need for one, though all arguments seemed to falter when the girls pulled out their best wobbly lips and watery eyes. An increasing number of silvers lighter than it had been at the start of the night, Cullen eventually pulled his coin purse from his pockets again with a grumble, planting the flower crown on his own head with far less ceremony than he had Evelyn's as the girls skipped away, successful in their endeavor.

"Why do I feel like I've been swindled?"

"I think you look great. Very princely."

The distinctive sound of a blade striking flint drew Evelyn's attention next, one she knew well from countless nights huddled by a campfire over the course of her many Inquisition expeditions. Several had gathered around the unlit pyre she'd seen before, an older looking gentleman striking at a piece of flint rock twice more before a spark finally took to the massive pile of kindling. Drawn by the sputtering crackle of the growing flame, the commotion of the festival slowly died down as the rest of the villagers made their way toward the bonfire.

"This way," she grinned, giving a still-groaning-Cullen's hand a squeeze before falling into step behind the villagers, most of whom had queued up behind a set of large wicker baskets, each filled to the brim with... pine cones?

"They're for wishing," he explained, clearly having noticed her confusion as he plucked a pine cone for each of them from the basket. "I'm not certain what symbolism a pine cone has, but the wishing part likely started as a way to end the season of the harvest with a wish for another year of healthy crops. For as long as I can remember though, it's always just been tradition to end the Harvest Festival by tossing a pine cone into the bonfire and wishing for... well, whatever you want, really. I think I once wished for a growth spurt."

She laughed at that, the contrast between a gangly teen Cullen and the absolute snack of a man he'd turned into rather stark.

A moment of silence fell between them as Evelyn's laughter faded, both turning the pine cones over in their hands in quiet contemplation. Cullen was the first to break it, his voice soft as he fixed her with an attentive gaze that seemed ready to memorize whatever she said next.

"Do you have anything you'd like to wish for?"

She could still feel the weight of the coin he had given her the last time they’d been in Ferelden as she pulled it from her pocket, the gesture having been so kind she wasn't sure what more she could possibly wish for that he hadn't already given her. She flashed the coin at him with a wink. "What do I need a wish for when I already have all the luck in the world?"

Cullen chuckled at that, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck as he looked away with a flustered blush. "Yes, well... maybe I could commandeer your wish then, if you aren't planning on using it. Mine's hardly an easy request, so it can't hurt to use twice as many pine cones."

Intrigued, Evelyn wordlessly handed over her pine cone, cocking her head to the side curiously as she watched him turn to the fire. His voice was quiet as he spoke, wavering just slightly enough to betray how genuine the plea was as he murmured, "Maker, keep her safe."

Evelyn felt herself soften as she heard the care with which he spoke the words, warmth blooming in her chest and climbing up her neck to her face. For once, their complexions matched as he turned back to her, cheeks rosy for plenty of reasons beyond the glow of the fire behind him.

"Well,” he started, his tone light and teasing as his blatantly blush-stained cheeks twisted up into a mischievous smile. “I figure after the damage that cider did to you, you need all the help you can get."

She let out an incredulous laugh and a scoff as she readied for a retort, but Cullen was faster as he grinned and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to him and silencing any argument with his lips on hers.

She supposed he was right after all - no one does a festival quite like Honnleath.  

[shireness-says]

and he called her love amongst the snowflakes

Summary: Being a princess is no guarantee of a perfect Christmas. Spending the next two days snowed in with her brother's hot bodyguard just might be, though. Rated T for language. ~6.8K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Merry Christmas, @owlways-and-forever! It was an absolute delight to be your @cssecretsanta2k19. I hope you’re having a wonderful time with your family - in the meantime, here’s a little bit of a modern royalty AU for you!

Super thanks to @snidgetsafan for her last-minute beta skills, and @let-it-raines for her help with a title.

Tagging the usual suspects: @kmomof4, @thisonesatellite, @profdanglaisstuff, @ohmightydevviepuu, @scientificapricot, @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer, @searchingwardrobes, @snowbellewells, @stahlop, @teamhook

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

“What do you mean, you and Dad won’t be home for Christmas?”

“Now Emma,” her mother sighs. “I never said that. I just said we won’t be home on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, like that’s better,” she grumbles under her breath in a manner very much unfitting of the Crown Princess of Misthaven.

“Emma.”

“Ok, fine,” she concedes with as much attitude as she thinks she can get away with. “What do you mean, you and Dad won’t be home for Christmas Eve, a totally separate thing that’s not at all like Christmas?”

Her mother - Queen Mary II of Misthaven, if you want to get official, though Emma doesn’t quite want to when she’d rather act childish about Christmas - doesn’t even bother to respond to that particular bit of sarcasm. “I know you’re upset, sweetheart, but there’s nothing to be done about it. The snow’s just coming down too hard, and it’s supposed to keep up tomorrow too. As much as we both want to be home with you and your brother, neither of us can control the weather.”

What’s the damn point of being Queen, then, Emma thinks, mostly jokingly. Mostly. She still has a small self-preservational instinct, however, so she does not voice this out loud.

“We knew this was a possibility when we went,” her mother continues. “We knew the weather might turn. We hoped it wouldn’t, but we had to go anyways. We couldn’t miss this hospital opening, Emma, not when they named it after your grandmother. At the end of the day, we are here to serve our citizens.”

Emma mouths the last words along with her mom, having heard them many times. It’s not quite a catchphrase in their family - that distinction goes to her father’s very sappy “I will always find you”, the one thing that can reliably make both his children gag - but it does get repeated an awful lot. Call it their motto, or something. The lines just get more blurred when your family life and your professional life is so entwined.

“I’ll miss you,” Emma finally says after letting the line sit silent for a moment. That’s what this all comes down to, after all - as much as Emma understands why her parents had to fly across the country, and as much as she knows that they can’t control the weather, it’s Christmas time, and she wants to spend it with her parents.

“We’ll miss you too, sweetheart, and your brother too. Dad and I will be home as soon as we can, okay?” 

“Okay, Mom.” What else is there to say?

“They’re waiting for us, but I’ll talk to you later. Give Leo a kiss for me. I love you, Emma.”

“Love you too. Say hi to Dad for me.”

As comparatively well as Emma holds it together on the phone, that evaporates as soon as the call disconnects and she lets out a screech of frustration. It’s immature. She doesn’t care. She’s allowed to want her family on Christmas… Eve. Eve. 

(It’s technically still the night of the 23rd, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

Barely seconds later, a dark head pops into the room. Killian Jones - her brother’s security officer. Emma wouldn’t say she has a crush on him, but… she kind of has a crush on him. He’s just so goddamn handsome and charming, and she’s only human, even if she is the princess. They don’t cross paths very often - just on summers and school holidays, when Leo was home from boarding school and now from uni - but when they do, Emma can barely tear her eyes away. Damn, can that man wear a suit.

(Mostly, Emma just blushes a lot whenever he’s around, embarrassed by her own lustful thoughts. It’s a miracle no-one has called her on it yet.)

“Everything alright in here?” he asks, craning his neck towards all the corners, as if some kind of assassin might have made it through multiple layers of security at the palace just to crouch in the corner of a private sitting room. Just doing his job, she guesses. “I thought I heard some kind of shriek from the hallway.”

Emma colors a bit at being caught. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just —” She abruptly cuts off. “Is that an entire tub of cheese puffs?”

It’s Killian’s turn to turn a bit pink. “Aye. Your brother is playing one of his games, and you know how he gets. Likes his junk food.”

“Spoiled rotten, you mean.”

“I’d never say that,” Killian protests.

“Yeah, says the man bringing a tub of cheese balls up from the kitchens when His Spoiled Highness still has working legs!”

“You know, it sounds an awful lot like you’re deflecting, Your Highness,” Killian points out. His eyes still manage to twinkle with restrained laughter, even if his ears are still red.

He’s caught her, too. “Just a bit frustrated, is all. You know the stormfront going through up North?” Killian nods. “Mom and Dad got caught in it. They won’t be home tonight after all, and probably not even tomorrow. So… it’ll just be me and Leo for Christmas Eve, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, lo — ma’am,” Killian says softly. He does that, sometimes - start to say one thing, before quickly course correcting back to propriety. She’s always wondered what he’s trying to say - she’s never quite figured it out. 

"It's not your fault," she shrugs. "Unless you've got some weird weather powers you've been hiding from me." It would just figure that Killian was the one who could control the weather; just one of the many secrets she doesn't know about him. "When are you heading home? You didn't get the Christmas shift, did you?"

Killian scratches behind his ear as just the tip of the cartilage flushes red. She can't imagine what he has to be embarrassed about; regardless, it's kind of cute.

Not that she's watching. That closely. (All the time.)

"I traded shifts with Mulan," he explains, referencing Emma's own security agent. "She's got... something with her girlfriend's family. Kind of a last minute thing."

"Looks like you're stuck with us, then," Emma comments, trying to tamp down the excited little butterflies in her stomach and the voice in her head that screams score! Very dignified.

Killian grins back. "Looks like I am." They smirk at each other for a minute, some camaraderie simmering between them with an undercurrent of something more. "Well, I'd better get the prince his cheese puffs," he finally says, shaking the container for emphasis. "I'll see you around, Your Highness. Let me know if you need anything."

(It would be horribly foolish to tell him you, so she doesn't say anything at all.)

——— 

By the time Emma makes her way down for dinner, the snowstorm has started in earnest - big, fluffy flakes that accumulate as soon as they hit the ground. In the little sitting room overlooking the gardens where her family takes informal meals, the swirling flakes make her feel like she lives in the little house in the middle of a snow globe. As much as she wishes their parents were here with herself and Leo, she's simultaneously glad that they're not out in the middle of this. 

Leo flings himself into a chair with all the grace of a nineteen-year-old boy. Emma tries not to sigh too loudly at the way his limbs fly every which way, banging against the table and rattling the dishes; she's not willing to turn into her grandmother yet, thank you very much. She loves her brother, but somewhere along the line, he's developed an attitude that's hard to live with. Probably something about the independence of university going to his head, making Leo think too highly of himself. Maybe some girl out there will find it attractive - with their mother's hair and eyes and their father's strong jawline, he'd be a catch otherwise.

(She really must be turning into Grandma Ruth, if she's thinking that kind of thing.)

The one thing that's noticeably absent from Leo's little display is Killian. "Where's Lieutenant Jones?" she asks as the kitchen staff bring in plates of chicken and potatoes and asparagus to place in front of the pair of them. 

Her brother shrugs. "I dunno. Probably having dinner somewhere."

That would make sense. It also brings into stark evidence that he's probably doing so alone; around Christmas, the palace always operates with a skeleton crew of staff so that as many people as possible can spend time with their families. There's no reason he couldn't just eat with the two of them. "Did you invite him to join us?"

Leo flushes red and mumbles something at his plate as he reaches for a dinner roll - not really an answer, but at the same time, more than enough of an answer. 

“Leo…”

“I didn’t think of it, alright?” 

Emma sighs heavily, before standing from the table to track down her brother’s security agent. It doesn’t take much searching; Killian is right outside the door, thumbing through his phone. He hurriedly stows the device away when he sees Emma, practically snapping to attention. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Nothing, really,” Emma says. “You can stand down, or… whatever. I just wanted to see if you’d like to join us for dinner.”

“Oh, that’s really unnecessary —” he protests, but Emma’s determined.

“I know, but still. It’s kind of weirdly quiet around here, and there’s more than enough food. You don’t have to, obviously,” she hurries to clarify, “but it’d be nice to have you there. I’d appreciate the Leo buffer, at least,” she even jokes.

“Well when you put it like that…”

He follows. And of course there’s enough food, and of course he’s perfectly charming, and of course he has the presence of mind to suggest watching a Christmas movie after dinner to get them just a little more into the spirit of the season. Killian fits like that - unobtrusive, the way a good agent ought to be, but also charming and seemingly super-aware of how to cut through some of that sibling tension that always inevitably exists between Emma and her brother. 

The movie is an old classic - one with dancing and singing and two reluctant people falling in love. Emma wouldn’t have expected Killian to like this - would have pegged him more for an action movie fan, or something like that - but he smiles and bobs his head along with the music. Leo is a different story altogether - after not even an hour, he’s already deserted the lounge for his room and video games, leaving Killian and Emma alone together. 

“So what would you be doing tonight? If you weren’t here with us.” Emma’s clarification isn’t necessary in the least; however, she’s sitting close enough to touch Killian on the couch, and the thrill of it all is making her babble. 

He’s gracious enough not to mention it, at least. “I’ve got a brother,” he explains, “and he and his wife have a little boy. Max. Really cute kid; let me dig out my phone, I’ve got so many pictures on there.”

The little boy on the screen can’t be more than four, with a wide and silly grin on his face and a dinosaur shirt to complete the picture. He’s just as cute as Killian promised. 

“That was at his birthday last month,” Killian smiles fondly. “Four years old - growing so fast. Anyways, I usually spend my holiday with them. My sister in law has a huge family, and they’re always happy to let me tag along. Too kind, really.” 

“I’m sorry you’re having to miss that,” Emma replies with genuine regret. 

Killian shrugs; Emma has already proven she wouldn’t be nearly as gracious in the same situation. “There will be other years,” he explains. “All things considered, it’s not so bad, spending the holiday with Leo and your lovely self.”

“I think you’re the first and only person happy to be spending Christmas with that ball of teenaged attitude,” Emma jokes. 

“It’s not so bad,” Killian deflects. “I’ll admit, the constant quips and eye rolling can be a bit much some days, but he’s a good kid underneath. Did you know he paid for all his roommate’s books for the coming semester?” 

“No, I didn’t.” Emma shouldn’t be surprised, but she is. She’s gotten so used to the snarky terror her brother acts like around their family that it’s shocking to hear that it’s not always the case.

“Like I said - he’s a better kid than he lets on.” They watch the screen in silence for a few moments; they’re coming up on the finale. Perhaps Emma can convince him to watch a second movie with her afterwards. “I suppose he didn’t tell you about his girlfriend then?” Killian asks with a laugh.

“Leo’s got a girlfriend?”

“He would if he’d just ask her,” Killian snorts. “Her name’s Britta. You’d like her, I think - she doesn’t put up with any of his nonsense. Which, just between you and me,” he says from the side of his mouth like he’s confiding a secret, “he sorely needs sometimes. Anyways, she lives one floor up in their dorm. They have Intro Geology together.”

“He’s really doing alright?” Emma asks softly. Leo is, more often than not, a little shit, but he’s still her little brother. She still just wants the best for him, most of the time.

“He’s really doing alright,” Killian confirms. “Don’t worry - I’m keeping an eye on the boy. For all of us.”

The warm feeling that leaves in Emma’s soul carries her through the rest of the night. 

——— 

Christmas Eve dawns much the same as the evening before - cold and snowing to the point of a whiteout. Emma isn’t particularly pleased about that turn of events, especially since it means that there’s almost no chance in hell of her parents getting home that day.

At least it’s a good opportunity for her to get a lot of work done. Being the crown princess means commitments to various charities and foundations and plenty of reading to come along with them, not to mention the never-ending stream of correspondence. A day just to focus on the things that have been accumulating on her desk will be good for everyone involved.

At least until the power flickers out. 

It’s midafternoon, just when the light is starting to dim, and she’s been working on editing a proposal someone sent her via email. She technically can do it in the dim light, but it’s… not fun. Emma doesn’t particularly enjoy squinting. There’s generators at the palace, of course, but they’re directed towards the most essential functions - security, heating, and minimal kitchen operations. Lighting, for better or worse, isn’t included on that list - nor is wifi signal. She’s stuck.

On a hunch, Emma wanders down to the kitchen, to find Leo and Killian raiding the cabinets for candles and snacks. She should have figured; two young-ish guys, food was obviously going to be the priority.

“This sucks,” Leo gripes. “First, Christmas gets screwed up, and then this. Unbelievable.”

“To be fair, the electric company can’t really help the snow,” Killian points out as he extracts a roll of cookies from a cupboard. “A lot of electrical infrastructure is still above ground. It’s easy to get knocked out.”

Emma shoots Killian a sidelong look before swiping the same cookies. “How do you know so much about this?”

“You pick up a few things when you read, Your Highness,” he winks back. 

“Are you guys done?” Leo interrupts. “Not everyone wants to watch your thirsty asses flirt all night. I’m not that desperate for entertainment.”

“Oh my god, Leo,” Emma groans back. It’s much more fun to watch how Killian turns bright red to match Emma’s own embarrassment. 

“Look, just because the TV is out, doesn’t mean I want to deal with this.”

“Ok, what would you rather do then?” Killian asks in much more measured a tone than Emma would have been able to muster. Probably the benefit of not being related to Leo.

The younger man shrugs. “Scrabble?”

Killian snorts at that, though Emma doesn’t quite understand why. “Are you sure?”

“I like Scrabble,” Leo defends. “I’m going to kick both your asses.”

It’s as good an idea as any to spend a snowed-in afternoon. 

——— 

A couple hours later, Leo is singing a different tune as Killian plays the last of his Scrabble tiles.

“Make sure you mark my latest points, lad,” he prods with a grin. “I want to make sure my lead is really cemented.” Killian has proved to be an invaluable ally in Emma’s personal quest to knock her brother down a peg; unfortunately, Leo is less enamored of the effort. 

“Whatever. This is so lame,” the prince says, pushing back from the filled board. “I’m going back to my room.”

“Oh, c’mon, Leo, it’s just a game —” Emma protests, but her little brother is already out the door. 

“I thought he said he liked Scrabble?” Killian asks, starting to collect the little tiles back into their bag. 

“Oh, he does. He just likes winning, and usually he can beat the rest of us. Finally met his match with your fancy words, I guess,” she jokes, though it kind of falls flat. It’s hard for the punchline to land when its subject has already stormed out of the room.

“Ah. Well, I apologize for that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma excuses. “Though if you don’t mind, I’m not sure I’m up for a rematch - at least not of Scrabble.”

“You got something in mind, Your Highness?” Killian smirks.

“Have you ever played cribbage?”

“Once or twice. I could be persuaded.”

“I’ll get the board then.” Emma stands up, but pauses before actually leaving to do so. “And call me Emma.”

She leaves the room before she can see him react, but barely catches the soft trail of his words as she passes through the door. 

“As you wish… Emma.”

———

It turns out, Killian is lying about having played “a time or two.” Either that, or he’s extraordinarily lucky.

(Cheating isn’t fully off the table, either, but she’s trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Not that he makes it easy.)

“So that’s fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, fifteen eight, fifteen ten, fifteen twelve, fifteen fourteen, pair is sixteen, and three pair is twenty-two.”

Emma groans as he moves his red peg around the outer curve of the board. They look like such a cliche - Emma in her pajamas, Killian with his tie loosened,  sitting in front of a roaring fire with candles scattered on all the flat surfaces as they play cribbage on the floor. The typical picture of two people caught in a power outage. Touching, really. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but you’ve got the proof right in front of you. A damned good hand, if I do say so myself. What’ve you got there?”

“Utter shit,” Emma proclaims, tossing her cards down on the carpeting. “Run of three and a fifteen for five, plus a fucking useless ace. Absolutely jackshit.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” Killian cranes his neck to see where her cards are strewn on the carpeting. A nine, an eight, a seven, and that stupid ace. Nothing. “Never mind, it really can,” he laughs. “Tough luck, love.”

That little word - just a small endearment - hits her like a brick. That’s what he keeps trying not to say, all these times. Love. It just took a few permissions from her, and several more drinks than either one should have indulged in, for him to let it slip. 

(She just might like it - being called love.)

The real question is what he means by it. It could be a verbal tic; it could be something more. Emma knows how she feels, her persistent crush, but it’s hard to tell how Killian feels behind his unflappable professionalism. Or maybe it’s not professionalism - maybe it’s just how he feels? God, she just can’t tell, and it’s about to drive her crazy.

Emma spends a lot of time studying Killian for the rest of their game. She doesn’t really discover anything new - she already knows the way that he laughs and smiles and teases - but it cements, somehow, that he’s a really good guy. She already knew that, really, but tonight has really driven that home.

The longer she watches him, and the stronger her conviction comes, the more she wants to do something about it. Maybe it’s the rum; maybe it’s the ambiance. Whatever it is, Emma wants to know just how he feels too, and hears herself talk without thinking. 

“Hey, Killian, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Emma,” he smiles. 

She shouldn’t continue - should just keep her mouth shut and her dignity intact. Drunk Emma doesn’t agree. “I was just wondering —”

By some miracle, a face-splitting yawn interrupts her sentence, saving Emma from herself. Because she was definitely about to say I was just wondering if you, like, like-like me. You know, like middle school.

“I think it might be time for bed there, love,” he laughs, seemingly oblivious to the butterflies he just set swarming in her stomach. Love. God, she’s a sap, and one who reads too much into things at that. “What were you saying?”

“I… can’t remember. I think the yawn knocked it right out of my head,” Emma lies with a laugh. “You’re right, I should get some sleep. You too - you know where there’s a guest bedroom, right? You’re totally welcome to use it.” A stupid thing to say, all things considered, but Emma has progressed to babbling to cover herself. 

“Aye, I do,” he assures her. “Now come on, love, up you get and off to bed you go.”

Love. 

Emma goes to bed floating on a happy cloud made of rum and his endearments, certain the pairing will only bring her the sweetest dreams. 

———

The dreams are sweet. The morning is decidedly… not. The room is too bright where sun seeps through the shades, and her mouth is too dry, and she can already feel the beginnings of a killer headache encroaching behind her eyes. Revenge of the rum, or something. 

A glass of water helps a bit, as do a couple of painkillers, but Emma is still less than pleased to hear the knock on her door. She’d much rather spend the day in bed, Christmas together-ness be damned, but there’s traditions in this family she can’t run away from, and every year since Emma was very young, they’ve passed out holly sprigs and candy canes to the visitors at the gate.

Killian smirks when she opens the door, apparently finding some sick amusement in the death glare Emma shoots in her groggy state. God, it’s just patently unfair that he still looks so attractive while she’s so hungover - even in yesterday’s suit and shirt. He’s not quite all buttoned up yet - still a bit of chest hair peeking out the top and his tie hanging loose - and it only makes him look even more delectable.

(Is that still a way that people describe hot guys they have chemistry with? Truthfully, Emma is a little too foggy to know or care.)

“Well don’t you look festive,” he teases. “Is this what they call high spirits?”

“No, that was last night.”

“Touche, love,” he laughs. “Do you think you’ll be ready to greet the people at 10:30? That should give you and Leo an hour or so for the meet and greet. Your mother’s speech is scheduled for noon - though I suppose you’ll be tackling that if she doesn’t make it back in time?” He phrases it like a question; it’s not.

Emma groans at the prospect. “Don’t remind me. And don’t jinx it!”

“Sorry, sorry.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles at her - an extra little detail Emma hadn’t noticed before, but now can’t stop seeing. “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather not have to be.” And it’s true; Emma’s perfectly capable of giving a speech, and has done so on multiple occasions, but her mother’s annual televised Christmas address is something else entirely that Emma would rather avoid at all costs and if at all possible. That all depends on her parents being able to make the flight, however. “How’s the weather today? Any better?”

“Have you not even looked out your windows today?” Killian prods gently. Emma isn’t quite sure when they switched to this teasing relationship they’ve apparently established, but she thinks she likes it. 

“I was a little busy trying to avoid all trace of sunlight,” she shoots back.

“Well, it’s a lovely, crisp day,” he promises. “I don’t see why your parents shouldn’t be home for Christmas.”

Just to hear it out loud is a huge relief, even if she has enjoyed their little bonding exercise the past couple of days. No matter how much fun she’s had with Killian, it’s still Christmas, and she still misses her parents. 

“I’ll see you at breakfast?” Emma asks tentatively, hoping he’ll say yes, scared that he’ll say no.

“I’ll have the kitchens whip up something particularly greasy,” he winks back.

———

The morning is cold, but just as clear as Killian had promised. As much as Emma had grumbled this morning, she actually likes this bit of Christmas tradition - shaking hands, giving their visitors well-wishes, making sure to hand out candy to all the children. It feels like the true spirit of the holiday - giving not for the thanks, but for the smiles, and because it’s the right thing to do.

Still. It’s cold, and as much as Emma had appreciated how wide Killian’s eyes had gotten when she had emerged after breakfast in a full-skirted green coat dress, her skirt and hose don’t offer much protection against the weather. Pants would have been a much more practical choice, but there are expectations for days like these, and a skirt is part of that. 

Her relief is palpable when they finally make it back inside. God only knows where Leo gets to - he’s off the hook, at least - but Emma treks back to her mother’s formal office as soon as her winter wear is sorted. As much as Emma hopes it won’t come to that, her mother’s annual Christmas speech is scheduled in twenty minutes, and if Queen Mary is still on the road, Emma will be expected to fill in. It’s not something she’s looking forward to; spontaneity like this never is, though she knows she’ll only have to read from a prompter. 

Killian beats her there, somehow; by the time she arrives in the antechamber outside where television cameras and lights are already set up, he’s crouched under the tree, fiddling with the lights and offering an excellent view of his ass. Nice.

He catches her staring, of course. “Anything I can help you with, Your Highness?” he asks with a smirk.

“Nah, just taking in the view,” she winks back. Any fears she might have had about last night only being a product of the outage and the rum are largely quelled by the way he’s acting today - not quite just like normal, but not in a bad way either. Closer. More intimate. More… something. 

Emma’s face settles into something more contemplative as she reflects on the change - something Killian, of course, doesn’t fail to notice. “What’s on your mind, love?” he asks, tilting his head in concern and curiosity. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma hurries to say at first before reconsidering. She still wants to make a move, to see where they stand; more than that, she wants him to know just how much these past few days have meant to her. With that in mind, she takes a deep breath and tries to be a little brave. “I just… I guess I just want to thank you, Killian.” Emma makes sure to look right in his eyes as she says it so he can see how much she means it. “This wasn’t the Christmas I expected to have, obviously, but it’s been… wonderful, really. And you’re a big part of that.”

“Oh, Emma, you don’t need to —”

“Yes, I do,” Emma interrupts. “I know this probably wasn’t how you planned to spend your Christmas - not when you’ve got your brother and his family to spend time with. But it meant a lot that you were here, even if you didn’t want to be.”

By the time Emma finishes, Killian has flushed a brilliant red - even more than just his ears. “About that, love…” he says, tugging at his hair. “It really wasn’t quite as out of my hands as you believe. Please believe me - there’s no reason to thank me.”

“I don’t understand.” He had switched with Mulan, of course - she knew that already, he had told her as such - but that didn’t change that he’d ended up here for much longer than he should have been, thanks to the storm. 

“You know that I switched shifts… but not when.”

“What does that matter?”

“Well, it matters because when I told you that I’d be around, that I’d switched… I hadn’t, actually. I arranged that with Mulan afterwards. There was no conflict with her girlfriend’s family, I just… I wanted to be here.”

As surprised as Emma is by the revelation, she still feels like there’s something she’s missing - whatever would make him want to stay when he could have avoided it. “Why?” She asks softly, taking a step closer into Killian’s space. This feels like the kind of conversation to require close proximity - foster emotional intimacy, or something like it. As Killian proved in scrabble last night, he’s the one with the words.

Emma can see Killian swallow as he stares down into her eyes. “I wanted you to have a nice Christmas, love,” he replies, just as softly. Tenderly, even. “I could tell you were frustrated, and upset, and… I know it was the height of hubris to think that I could make that better, but I wanted to try. If I could help make it a happy Christmas for you, love… I wanted to try.”

“For me,” Emma breathes - more a realization than a question.

“For you.”

It’s impossible to miss the earnestness and truth in his words and gaze. That desire Emma felt last night to kiss the daylights out of him has been simmering on low ever since they parted for separate beds, but it flares up again at his confession. He did that for her, because he wanted to make her happy. Carefully, Emma takes that last step into his space, so close that their bodies nearly touch. Slowly, she trails her hands behind his neck and up into his hair to draw him down, lips mere inches apart —

A commotion in the hallway barely gives them a moment to break apart before Emma’s mother bustles into the room. As much as Emma has spent much of the last three days wishing her parents were here, now feels like the worst possible time.

“Mom, you’re home!” she manages to gasp weakly. Killian discretely steps away again; though Emma understands why, she’d much rather continue what they’d started - without an audience - than watch him retreat back into professionalism. Especially when moments ago, she’d just gotten a preview of what his hands might feel like against her skin.

“I couldn’t miss Christmas, now could I?” her mother asks, hugging Emma tightly. “I didn’t want to leave you to take care of the Christmas speech either; I know that kind of thing isn’t your favorite, and you’ve had no time to prepare besides… but oh! It’s just so good to be home again! Your father went to try and track down your brother…”

The queen keeps rambling as she strips off her gloves, but Emma doesn’t pay much attention. Sometime in the last handful of minutes, Killian slipped out the door altogether, leaving only Emma, her mother, and her mother’s security head. She missed her chance, it appears.

(And after all they’d shared these past days… Emma could just screech with the frustration of it all. It’s becoming kind of a habit.)

——— 

Emma hopes to talk to him after their interruption - tries to talk to him, even, searching for him across rooms. But it’s Christmas, and her parents are finally home, and it’s so easy to lose track of time and get caught up in the hustle and bustle of things. By the time Emma can break away from the festivity for a few minutes, Killian has already slipped out, quietly replaced by Mulan. She knows that he won’t be back for several days - more than earning a vacation and time with his family after giving up most of his Christmas with her and Leo.

She should be able to talk with him once he’s back at work, too; after all, he’s only got three days off (she knows this for a fact - she asked Leo, any hit to her pride be damned). But by the time Killian is back at work, so is Emma, with charity appearances and daily meetings and everything else her usual schedule entails. 

Maybe it’s fate that they don’t meet again until New Year’s Eve. Maybe it’s just fortuitous scheduling. Whatever the case, Emma doesn’t get a chance to speak with Killian until the annual New Year’s Diplomatic Gala, of all places. 

It could be for the best, maybe; Emma can’t deny that she looks fantastic. Her dress tonight is silver and drapes elegantly across her body, creating a kind of vintage aura, topped with pinned waves, a rich burgundy lipstick, and long white gloves. The diamond and sapphire tiara is just the topper of it all, the icing on the cake.

(Emma’s always liked sapphires, but tonight, the stones don’t seem nearly as blue as his eyes, no matter how much they catch the light.)

She sees him across the room the moment she walks in, along the wall in another tailored dark suit, and she could swear that his eyes follow her too. Killian has a dress uniform, she knows - he wore it to the Armed Forces charity ball last year, and looked quite dashing at that - but tonight’s not the time for that. Tonight, the idea is to be as unobtrusive a presence as possible since he’s on duty, not that it’s going well. It’s hard for Killian to blend in with that face and that suit - or maybe Emma’s just attuned to noticing him. 

Regardless, it’s still not the time to talk anyways - she’s still being escorted into dinner on the arm of the Ambassador to Glowerhaven, and there’s still a banquet and dancing to come. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she can steal away later; maybe, with even more luck, she’ll be able to pull Killian along with her.

(They’ve got unfinished business, and Emma still wants to learn how he kisses.)

The garden balcony off the ballroom isn’t exactly an ideal location in late December, but it’s the only place Emma knows she can get a few blessed moments away from the crush of people inside. It’s cold out, nearly trying to snow again; a few rogue flakes drift from the night sky to land on her bare skin. There’s a handful of heat lamps scattered about, but they only do so much, as do Emma’s gloves. This hadn’t been one of her brighter plans, Emma knows, but she and Killian had been making eye contact all night across the room, and she simply couldn’t wait any longer to slip away and hope he follows her.

Just as Emma’s preparing to abandon the plan and head back inside, a warm weight drops on her shoulders - the faux-fur wrap she’d discarded at the dinner table earlier as it got in the way of her eating. Killian smiles at her when she turns her head to meet his gaze.

“I thought you might be cold, love,” he explains. “We can’t have you catching a chill.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think much about the weather when I came out here - I just wanted a little time alone,” Emma admits. “With you.” The last part is added hurriedly when a flash of embarrassment streaks across Killian’s face, and he looks like he might make an utterly unnecessary run for it. 

“We never finished our conversation from Christmas, did we?” Killian almost looks a little bashful about the subject, ducking his head and tugging at the hair behind his ear. It’s adorable, truly, not to mention a little fascinating - the way he shifts back and forth so rapidly and confidently between seeming like a smooth master of seduction and a bashful boy who isn’t quite sure what’s happening, but is happy to be there. Fascinating, in the best of ways.

“Oh, I thought that conversation was plenty finished,” Emma teases. She even sways into his space flirtatiously to underline her point, finding some kind of boldness within her that she wasn’t certain she possessed. It must just be something about Killian that brings it out in her. “If I remember right, we were about to move on to… how would you put it? Much more pleasant exchanges, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” he mumbles back. “If I crossed a line the other day… I’m sorry if I overstepped, Your Highness —”

“It’s still Emma,” she corrects with a smile, reaching out to lay a hand on Killian’s arm. “And you didn’t overstep. I was right there wish you.”

“I’d just hate to think that I pressured you into something —”

“Killian, did you want to kiss me on Christmas?” Emma interrupts.

Killian pauses. Emma wasn’t aware a human person could turn that red. “Yes,” he finally admits - just one simple word that sets her heart a-flutter.

“Well, that’s lucky, because I did too. Still do, honestly.” 

“You do?” Killian looks like he can’t quite believe his luck.

“I mean, yeah. Christmas could have been… honestly, straight up depressing. But you made it better. And I… I like you. I mean, I’ve been attracted to all this —” she waves a demonstrative hand — “for a while, but I like you. It’s New Year’s Eve, and it’s stupidly picturesque, and I want to kiss you at midnight. If you still want that too.”

Killian breaks into a wide smile. “What if I don’t want to wait for midnight?” he asks, moving so close into her space that she can feel his breath on her face. She twines their fingers together where their hands finally meet. “What if I still want to kiss you? Now?”

“Then I’d say…” 

Emma never bothers to finish the sentence, opting instead to lean forward and meet Killian’s lips with her own. Her high heels put her at the perfect height to just barely need to tip her head upwards to find a perfect angle. Killian’s lips are soft against her own - gentle and teasing at first, almost like he’s just trying to learn the shape and feel of them before anything else, but he’s more than happy to deepen the kiss when Emma sinks her hands into his hair to pull him closer. He tastes a little minty, like he just popped a mint before coming out to speak with her - a fact that seems impossibly endearing, even through the pleasurable haze of their kiss. She can feel his hands through the fabric of her dress, firm and warm at her hips, like he’s keeping her safe even now. The kiss is tender, and passionate, and perfect.

(Then Killian tilts her head with calloused fingers at her chin to adjust the angle and sweep his tongue into her mouth, and she gladly stops thinking much of anything at all.)

“That was…” he breathes when they finally separate, breaking apart just far enough to rest his forehead against her own.

“Well worth the wait,” Emma finishes. And then laughs, unable to hold it back. “You’ve been holding out on me, Jones.”

“Call it the magic of Christmas,” he teases back. Fireworks start going off around them; though Emma hazily wonders for a moment if they did that, somehow set off literal fireworks to match the metaphorical ones bursting between them, before she realizes it must be the new year. They completely missed the countdown - not that she cares.

“So how does one go about dating the Crown Princess?” Killian asks, already leaning in for another round of kissing. “I think that just might be my New Year’s Resolution.” 

“Stick around, and you’ll find out.”

She’s got a lot of plans for them. 

[fortheloveoffanfic]

You

Young! Keanu Reeves x Reader. Requested (A/n-buckle up friends, it’s a long one. Seriously, I only realized that it should have been split in two when I was almost done. Sorry not sorry. Even this note is long. Also, to the person who requested this months ago, sorry it took so long, but if you’re still here, I hope you can forgive me and that you like it) (Since the beginning is weird, I’ll just drop a very vague summary- Follow Y/n and Keanu’s growth from childhood friends to adulthood as they navigate life and their feelings)

Summer, 1970 A pink hair bow haphazardly placed by chubby, clumsy fingers. A dress two sizes bigger that her sister had long cast to the dress-up chest. And finally, a pair of mismatched heels that she had managed to swipe from her busy mother’s closet.

Next to her, in the drying, muddy back yard, stood Keanu, just about her height though one year older, dressed in a combination of his stepfather’s and her brother’s clothes. Most of it mismatched. A plaid tie that was too long, a suit jacket that seemed to swallow him up, socks, but no shoes and a ridiculous hat that he had found when they were looking for their ‘fancy clothes.’

Mr. Snubbs, Y/n’s cat doubled at the trusty, though rather silent officiant, his only words being the occasional ‘meow.’ They had asked his younger sister, but she had quickly lost interest, opting to play tea party with their neighbors down the street. 

In her hands, Y/n held a small bunch of wildflowers from her mother’s garden, the petals a little bruised from the manner in which they had been picked by an over excited Keanu for his ‘bride-to-be.’ At that point, they should have long been married, considering they had played the game dozens of times, always marrying each other. It was sort of second nature, that every time one of them suggested it, they would play the parts of the couple. 

“I think it’s time to say our vows,” Y/n giggled and Mr. Snubbs licked his paw, very disinterested in the ceremony before him. How foolish of them to hire such an incompetent feline! 

“Okay,” Keanu beamed, turning to Y/n, wild hair falling in his face. His mother was always trying to take him for a hair cut, and it always ended in a fit of angry tears. “Do you want to go first? Mrs. Mena in school always says ladies first.”

“Yeah,” Y/n smiled, trying to jump in her place, though, her mother’s shoes almost fell right off, tripping her. “Keanu,” she began cheerily, “I promise to always be here for you. I’ll always give you half of my cheese sandwich and I think your hair looks great!”

Keanu’s smile widened and he prepared to recite his own ‘vows’, “Y/n, I promise to always be your best friend, we’ll always have sleep-overs and I’ll never cut my hair!” He giggled wildly.

Y/n laughed too, and just realizing that she had forgotten something, interjected; “Oh! And I’ll always be your best friend too.” Their wedding ended with cheek pecks and long hugs while Mr. Subbs submitted to a high noon nap and Y/n’s mother called them in for a snack.

Summer 1983 “England.....” Keanu breathed. They were sat on the hood of his car, drinking beer that they had managed to steal of her parents before driving out to the beach, just an hour away from where Y/n still lived. Keanu had moved several times since they were children, but they always stayed in contact. And now that he had a car, though at times it was quiet unreliable, he’d still drive out to see her. His best friend from a small town in Canada. His arm was draped around her as they stared out at the waves in the darkness, but neither of them thought much of it. They had been friends for almost as long as they had been alive, close contact like that was as normal as breathing for the two.

Y/n slipped the letter back into her bag, taking a swing of her beer, “Yeah.” She smiled widely, just as she had when they were kids, but this these days, she looked different. When she smiled, Keanu no longer just saw the pig-tailed girl he grew up with, he saw a young woman with big dreams, who wanted a penthouse in a big city and a corner office.

“That’s far away,” Keanu mused, playing with a loose thread on her favorite sweater, “Are you sure you want that?”

“Are you sure you want to move to Los Angeles?” Her question wasn’t a sarcastic jab or anything of the sort, it was just a reminder that she wanted to realize her dreams, just as he did his. “This is everything that I’ve been working for Ke, I have to go.”

“Okay,” he determined, “Well, I support you. No matter what. And I can’t wait to see you walk across that stage at Oxford.”

“Thank you,” Y/n turned in his embrace, pulling Keanu into a hug. They lingered in each other’s arms and when they pulled away a little, she found herself almost drowning in familiar chocolate pools. Fifteen years of familiarity, comfort and something else, something that grew inside of her when she had given up dolls for make-up. Something that she had felt for other boys, like Jimmy Kent from English, but strongest for Keanu. Her best friend, the boy who she’d traded lunch with, her first phone call when she was crowned Homecoming queen, as if it were the greatest honor. Her closet confidant, her everything. 

Keanu stared back at her, lips slightly parted, breathing her sweet scent of jasmine mixing with the salty sea breeze. Her pink lips stood out against her wind blown skin and Keanu cocked a lop-sided smile as he brushed away an escaped strand of hair. It would have been so easy to just lean forward and kiss her, see if she tasted like beer, the popcorn they had had at the movie earlier or something entirely different. It would have been easy, but for some reason, the thought didn’t even reach the front of his mind. She was his friend and probably didn’t even see him as anything more and besides, they would be separated by the end of the year, for months, probably years.

That night, they broke apart, feeling like something was missing as Keanu drove them back to her place, he was sleeping over, except that night, like every other night since they were twelve, he slept in the spare room, dry wall between them. As they laid in bed, they tried to decipher what had changed while they sat on the beach, but neither of them could figure it out. So instead, they just laid on their backs, thinking until finally losing the battle to sleep. 

1991 “I watched it last night!” Y/n squealed, covering the mouth of the phone as she sat in her small office at a law firm in San Francisco. It had been eight years since that night at the beach, though neither Keanu nor Y/n had managed to figure out what was missing that night. Since then, when ever they saw each other, there were always little self-contained moments much like that one, but they had somehow managed to keep brushing it off. They had also managed to remain close despite the distance, often exchanging long phone calls and meeting when schedules allowed it. Just a couple months ago, he had flown to the city for her birthday.

“Yeah?” Keanu asked, smile audible even if he were miles away, “And what did you think?”

“What do you think I thought?” Y/n exclaimed, hoping the person in the other office wouldn’t hear her, “It was amazing. Though Swayze gives you a run for your money. You’re gonna have to step up you game Reeves, or I’m going to replace that poster of you in my living room.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he scoffed, trying to suppress his laughter.

“Don’t test me,” she warned playfully, “You know I’ve loved him since Dirty Dancing.”

“No one puts baby in a corner,” he quoted with her, finally bursting into an episode of loud laughter.

As Y/n started laughing too, a senior attorney stuck his head in her office, offering her a pointed glare. Grimacing, she quickly contained herself, offering Keanu a hurried good bye, “I have to go,” she whispered, “Duty calls, petty criminals to defend, you know how it goes. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

“Okay. Later,” Keanu smiled sadly on his end, wishing she didn’t have to go that soon, “Love you too.”

1997 Countless successful movies and even more court cases later, found Keanu and Y/n still just as close, though finding less and less time for each other. She had just been the youngest woman to make partner at the firm and he was traveling the world again, promoting another movie. This one had peaked Y/n’s interest just a tad more than the others and when Keanu had first gotten the script, she was his first phone call. It was a supernatural mystery with it’s protagonist as a lawyer. 

They had tried to make time for each other, they really had, but things kept getting in the way. Y/n was supposed to visit him in L.A a few weeks before, but ended up cancelling her fight because of an emergency hearing. And when Keanu was due to drop by her place while waiting for a connecting to somewhere in Europe, he had gotten caught up with an impromptu press event at the airport and had only been able to offer a quick call to her assistant’s desk as cancellation.

San Francisco..... Y/n sat on her sofa, curled up, clutching a glass of wine as she stared at the television. All the lights were off but a  glow from the streetlights and the full moon washed her hardwood floors in a wide pool through the French windows on both sides of her living room. There was a thick blanket draped over her legs and an old sitcom played on the screen. Y/n had seen the episode several times before, thus no longer finding it humorous. 

Most of her free nights went that way. Her routine revolved around work, home and sometimes, when the circumstances allowed it, working from home. By then, nearing her mid-thirties, long nights out with friends had become rare. Most of her work friends were in relationships or were already married with kids which meant that they were long past days of partying. Y/n herself was usually so wrapped up in work that she hardly made time for anything else. And the only person she was willing to make time for, didn’t have time for her. It was ironic, even if it wasn’t really ironic. 

She missed him. In the truest sense of the word. Y/n knew that they were still just as close as they were twenty years ago, that she could still call him, for anything, even if was just to vent about an upsetting day. But it didn’t feel like that, by then, she had started to feel the effect of distance and equally busy lives. Taking a long drag of her wine, she sighed quietly, snatching up he remote, hoping to dig herself out of self pity with the rest of her wine and an interesting television show. She maintained pressure on the channel button, stations changing quickly, only stopping when she noticed a familiar movie. She had seen it before, obviously. Once after it’s initial release at the cinema and then after she had bought it on tape. Still, Y/n stopped channel surfing, favoring to watch a younger version of Keanu on television, even if it just made her miss him more.

He was one half of the lead, and unlike that the sitcom that played before, this never failed to make her laugh. Though, even the laughs and seeing him in the early days of his career, playing air guitar without a care in the world wasn’t enough to ease the hollowness in her heart. Sighing, Y/n pulled on a little metal chain to turn on the lamp on the end table next to her, picking up the framed photo that sat beneath it. It was one from her graduation; as promised, he had made it to England, cheering as loud as her parents as she crossed the stage to collect her degree. And afterwards, her father had taken that picture of them, on the steps of the university. Keanu’s arm was draped proudly over her shoulders and her head rested on his shoulders. People had thought she was his girlfriend. She had dismissed them with a playful wave, ignoring a pang of disappointment in the lowest pits of her stomach.

Maybe that’s what the feeling was. The one she had every time they were together. The reason she measured past boyfriends to Keanu. The feeling she got when they were together, the kind of comfort that buzzed with undertones of something she couldn’t recognize. Y/n was in love with her best friend. The question was; did he feel the same?

France... Keanu stumbled into his hotel room, more tired than he had been in a while. It was just past midnight, and his eyes were heavy as was his body, a gnarly combination of jet lag and plain ‘ole tire leaving him completely drained. 

With and audible sigh that sounded more like a groan, Keanu slapped his hand against the switch, turning on the lights as he dumped his bags to the floor. He couldn’t even be bothered to ensure that they had made it to his bedroom safely. In fact, all he wanted was a hot shower and to flop face down in bed. 

It might be better if Y/n were here.

What?

He had no idea where the thought came from, though the minute it entered his brain, he couldn’t get it out. She always made things better, her smile, they way she never let things bother her, her jokes that he poorly pretended to hate. She was his best friend.

But could she be more?

With furrowed brows, Keanu dragged himself to the shower, tossing articles of clothing to places that would leaving him searching when he was ready to pack up in a few days. Just about fifteen minutes later, he was dropping into bed clad in only a pair of sweats, ready to submit to dreamland, or black nothingness for the next five hours. Whatever came first or at all.

Unfortunately, neither of it came, and an hour later, Keanu still laid in bed wide eyed. There was no real issue, but thoughts of Y/n kept him awake. Nothing in particular, it was more like a jumble of everything over the past two decades. Well three, kind of. Twenty nine was the exact number. They had met when she was three and he was four, at a park in the town they had grown up in. He was  the new kid and she was the girl who had been nice enough to be his friend. They had been inseparable since then.

And now they were thousands of miles apart and she was all he could think about.

Without thinking much of it, Keanu turned on his side, grabbed the phone and without caring about excess charges or the time, he dialed the number for her apartment. 

It rang for a while and the disappointingly went to voicemail. He huffed and frown. Then it really hit his sleep-deprived mind; the time difference! After checking the old-fashioned alarm clock and some quick calculations, Keanu found that it was probably just around four pm, which either meant she was still at her office or in her car, on her way home. And for the sake of being able to fall asleep soon, he hoped it was the former.

Quickly, he punched in the numbers and waited for her secretary to pick up, hurriedly asking to be put through to her office, neglecting to provide his name. “Hello?” 

“Y/n, hey,” he smiled at the sound of her voice, just that was enough to make the make the night better.

“Keanu!” Y/n greeted with a little more enthusiasm, “Wait, isn’t it like one in the morning there? What the hell are you doing up?”

Keanu laughed quietly at her concern, “It’s quarter to two,” he corrected, “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Thankfully he wasn’t there to see it when Y/n blushed, “Well aren’t you sweet?”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, he didn’t even feel tired as he fell into easy conversation with her, “Like you didn’t already know.”

She hummed, searching for a witty come back, “Well, even if I did, we haven’t spoken in so long that it’s easy to forget.”

“Ouch,” Keanu feigned offence, slapping his hand to his bare chest, “Twenty-nine years and I’m still forgettable.”

“Oh shut up,” Y/n playfully dismissed with a giggle. Her tone sobered when she asked, “It really has been that long, hasn’t it?”

“It has. I can’t believe we still like each other. You put cream in your coffee,” he noted with mock disgust.

Y/n rolled her eyes, “Okay Mr. Four-Sugars.” The line went silent or a while and Y/n thought that he might have fallen asleep on her, picturing him with the phone forgotten in his lap as he slouched down, lashes fanning over his cheeks as soft snores controlled his even breathing. “You still there?” She probed quietly.

“Yeah,” Keanu breathed, “Just thinking.”

“About?” Y/n’s voice was musical and soothing and Keanu itched to tell her how he really felt. The only thing holding him back was the feeling that he should do it in person instead of over the phone. That and the worrisome thought that she might not feel the same. 

Despite the debate going on his head, his confession almost left his lips, I’m in love with you. Almost. He missed the moment by a hair and Y/n hurriedly blurted out, “I have to go! One of my clients just got arrested. Again,” before she could even finish, it sounded like she was packing up to leave.

“Is everything okay?” Keanu asked, worry edging his tone.

“Yeah,” Y/n searched under a stack of papers for her car keys, “It’s just, you know, he’s one of our biggest clients. And I’m his lawyer. And the IRS has been investigating him. So you know, no big deal or whatever.”

“It sounds like a big deal Y/n. Are you going to be okay?”

Y/n huffed on her end, finally taking a breath, almost swooning at Keanu’s concern, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I have to go, but thanks for calling. Bye.”

“Bye,” the line clicked dead and Keanu replaced the receiver and leaned back into the headboard with a defeated sigh.

Opportunity; missed.

1998 Months after his missed opportunity over the phone; Keanu still hadn’t confessed his feelings. After that, the moment never seemed right. There was always an interruption or too many people around. Too quiet or too loud. It was never really right. Worst yet, Y/n seemed oblivious to the whole thing. She kept going on dates, rambling on about that one guy from accounting. Keanu didn’t admit it, but it kind of stung.

Even as he stood outside of her front door, Keanu tried to think of the right moment, a way to get her alone. It was the night of her thirty-third birthday party. He had helped her plan it, mostly over the phone, listening to her get excited over music and decorations. Keanu had listened for an uncountable amount of hours, and he would again if it meant spending time with her.

Letting out a shaking breath, Keanu tried the knob, eyes widening at the amount of people filling her living room and kitchen. After a few minutes of searching, Keanu found her near the drinks table with a cup in hand, surrounded by female friends, “Y/n,” he smiled, trying to integrate himself without drawing too much attention.

“Keanu!” Y/n’s face lit up and she pulled him into a hug, “You’re here!”

“Of course,” he laughed, giving her an affectionate squeeze, ignoring the stares of her friends, “It’s your birthday. Happy birthday Y/n.” When they broke, he held out a bouquet of flowers, the little card reading, ‘Wishing the greatest girl the happiest of birthdays’. The words were scribbled in his handwriting. “It’s the worst card, I know,” he dismissed.

Y/n dropped her shoulders, “I love it. Thank you,” she kissed his cheek, “I’m going to put these in water. And away from the drunk people. Come with?”

“Sure,” Keanu followed her to her crowded kitchen, offering a quick hello to her family. Then, he trailed behind her as she headed for her bedroom, placing the glass vase near her bedside. 

Then it hit him; they were alone, tucked safely away from intrusive eyes and ears. There couldn’t have been a better moment. 

She was already near the door when he tried to stall, “You changed the color,” Keanu gestured to the walls.

“Uhh, nope. Just had a fresh coat put on. When powder blue starts looking like grey, you know it’s time to repaint,’ Y/n smiled, already turning around.

“Wait!” He called, probably louder than he needed to.

“Alright,“ Y/n seemed confused, but she had entertained stranger moments with him, “Everything okay Ke?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Can we sit?”

“I don’t see why not,” Y/n was first to plop onto the bed, patting the spot next to her. He hesitated, but finally sat so their knees were touching. “Are you gonna say something or....”

“I am. I want to,” he rambled, suddenly more nervous than he had ever been, “Y/n,” he began with a deep breath. There he was, going to lay it all on the table, hoping he might be in good enough graces so she’d feel the same. If she didn’t, then he might lose his best friend, his rock for the past thirty years. His one constant, the woman who had gone from just a girl down the street who he’d have lunch with every day, despite the teases that he was friends with someone a grade younger, to his home. That’s what she was, four letters encompassing everything that Y/n was. Home. “Y/n,” he said again, “I think......I think I might be in love with you.”

Y/n pulled her lower lip between her teeth, tiling her head as she shifted to regard him curiously, keeping her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She felt the same, she had for a long time, but Y/n never expected that she’d get a moment like that. One where he confessed his feelings. In fact, for almost a year, she had thought that something like it could only exist in her fantasies, but there they were.

Her mind raced, recalling memories, him telling her about other women he was interested in; she had been privy to the retelling of secret dates and the times where he’d tell her that it wasn’t going to work between them, that he didn’t want to hurt anyone but he didn’t see things going anywhere. Or worst yet, when they had broken up with him. God, she had hated seeing him heart broken. Not moping really, but putting up a façade that was only dropped around her. The little despondent frown that he’d wear for a few weeks, the long talks on the phone where she’d tell him that it was their loss, that he was great, that any woman would be lucky to be in his life. That she’d take all the heartbreak away if she could. Keanu would just chuckle sadly and say that he was just glad he hadn’t lost his favorite girl. 

“Y/n,” he interrupted her thoughts, “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Can we just go back and pretend it didn’t happen?”

Y/n scoffed a quiet laugh, “That would be a waste wouldn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” His brows furrowed, half with worry half with confusion.

“Well,” Y/n’s hand rose to cup Kean’s face, her thumb caressing his cheek, “I‘m in love with you too.”

“I......” Keanu trailed off. Of all the scenarios he had cooked up in his head, they all ended in rejection of some sort. In fact, he hadn’t come up with one version where Y/n had returned his feelings, “I...don’t know what to say.....”

“Then, maybe kiss me?” She giggled and suddenly it was the best sound in the world.

“Okay,” Keanu leaned in, but as they were nose to nose, he paused again, “For the record, I thought you were gonna-” 

He didn’t finish as Y/n pressed her lips to his, fingers sliding to curl in his hair. Their slow, sweet kiss felt different to everything that either of them had ever experienced. If felt filled with love, passion, decades worth of it.  When they broke for air, Y/n laughed quietly, pressing her forehead to his, “You know, for a man of few words, you talk a lot.”

“Shut up,” he teased, caressing the back of her neck, “Can we do that again?”

“I’d hope so,” with that, he pulled Y/n back in, his lips moving against hers.

And just like that, two kids from Canada found that maybe, just maybe, all those summer afternoons spent playing ‘wedding’ might turn into something that wasn’t just a game. Maybe, even if it had taken thirty years, they could spend the next three decades and counting becoming what they had dreamed of.

(Another) A/n-Soooo......I loved doing this, a lot. Would you guys be interested in a drabble or, dare I say, a fic on their lives some years after? I might write that *shrugs in indecision*.

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 15

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on on Mayans M.C. are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

15.

“What the fuck did you do?”, Nina almost screamed. Filip moved his hands in a calming gesture. “Calm down, las’. There’s still a shitload of 7-year-olds downstairs”, he said. “I’m sure the mom is over the hills at the Mayan parade you’ve had set up!”, Nina snarled. She panicked, and began heaving for breath. She almost tripped over her own feet to reach her bag with her inhaler, but Tig made it to it before her, dug it out, and threw it to Filip; who pressed the canister top, and held it to Nina’s lips. She sucked in the powder, and felt air returning to her lungs. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”. “It’s fine, Nina. Everything is fine”, Filip said, and rubbed her back soothingly.

Nina ran for her bag. ”I can’t be here right now”, she said. “Good, because you won’t be for long”, Filip said. “What are you talking about?”. “You’re going home, little sister”, he smiled. She scoffed at him, and grabbed her bag. Before she could reach the stairs, T.O. once again blocked her way. “My knee. Your balls. Move!”, Nina growled. “Try me, kid”, T.O. grinned. She tried for pleading instead. “You don’t know… Please just let me go. I can’t go back. I can’t do that to… Please!”. The sound of feet on the stairs made Nina’s knees buckle, and T.O. swept her away to go sit on a stool by the bar. “Please, Taddarius…”, Nina whispered. “This is how it has to be”, T.O. replied. “Now keep your ass in that seat until we tell you otherwise”.

The Sons all gathered to greet the incoming guests. Bishop came up first, giving Filip a half hug. “It’s cold as fuck up here”, he said. “It’s 70 degrees, you didn’t come to Alaska”, Filip laughed. Bishop gave him a friendly smile, before greeting Tig. The rest of the Mayans came up behind Bishop, each in turn greeting the Sons. Nina wanted to crawl into a hole, but they all seemed to pretend like she didn’t exist; at least for now. Only EZ shot her a half smile, as he came up behind the full patches. She looked down at her hands, unable to return the gesture. When she finally lifted her eyes again, she scanned the faces of the Mayans. She saw that neither Gilly, Creeper or Angel was among them; and she was unsure whether to feel relieved or distraught at the fact that her former lover wasn’t there. Of course he doesn’t want to see me, she thought to herself. Nina didn’t know why they were there. It would be in MC fashion to throw her into a van, and drive her back to Santo Padre, to force her to fulfill her one-year promise, or lock her up in a dark room with a couple of rattlesnakes as punishment for going back on her deal; but she was also sure that SAMCRO wouldn’t let her get hurt, so the snakes seemed less likely.

Rat came up the stairs. “The mom decided to take the kids to the Chuck-E-Cheese down the road instead”, he said. “Good riddance”, Filip grinned. “Means we can break out the whiskey. Nina…?”. He looked at her meaningfully. Take you place behind the bar, he seemed to be saying. She slowly got to her feet, and slipped behind the counter, taking down the top shelf scotch. It was set up next to the framed picture of Jackson and her, at Nina’s no-baby-on-the-way-shower. Jax had a cigarette hanging from his lips, and his arm hung casually over her shoulders. In his free hand, he held a packet of condoms and birth control pills; and his grin was brighter than the sun. She’d always been impressed at how he’d managed to smile so widely, without letting his cigarette fall from his lips. Nina looked happy and a bit drunk in the picture, and her eyes were locked on her brother; full of awe and familiar love. Tearing herself from the memory of one of the happiest nights of her life, Nina lined up a row of glasses, and began pouring. Her hands were shaking, and she spilled some of the whiskey on the counter.

“Let me do that”, EZ said, having appeared next to her. Nina swallowed thickly, and handed him the bottle; before wiping her hands. “It’s a long ride to take from San Pad”, she said quietly. “We made a pitstop in San Bernardino”, EZ said, and shot her a look. “Oh…”, Nina said, and had to swallow again to wet her throat. “And Creeper, Angel and Gilly are holding down the fort at the scrapyard, I take it…?”. She deliberately didn’t mention Angel first or last, to make her seem indifferent. “Not exactly… Creep and Gilly are”. He sounded like he wanted to say more, but decided against it. Nina sighed deeply. “EZ, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I’m just sorry”, she said bellow her breath. “I know, hermanita”, he said. “We’re good”. He shot her a smile, that reminded her how too precious for this world he was, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him.

Gathering the glasses on a tray, she went over to serve the bikers, who had gathered around a couple of tables. Serving first Filip and Bishop, her eyes met the Mayan’s for a split second. His gaze was enough to make her want to fall to her knees and plead for forgiveness. He didn’t look angry, or even like he wanted an apology; but he did look like he had a couple of things he wanted to say – it just wasn’t the time. Once she got to Coco, he looked up at her, and winked slyly. A smile ghosted her face, and she went back behind the bar.

The bikers all sat and shared road-stories for a while, with the Mayans needing to relax and feel solid ground under their feet. Nina grabbed her cigarettes, and started for the stairs. Tig got in her way, and gave her a knowing look. “Not running… I just need a moment”, she said. She held out her little finger. “Pinky-swear”, she added. He smiled, crooked his own finger with hers, and kissed her forehead; before letting her pass, and walk down the stairs.

---

A couple of broken balloons and an unused piñata littered the floor of the ice-cream shop. She picked up the brightly-colored cardboard mule, and set it down on the counter, before getting behind it, and lighting a cigarette. Digging through the freezer, she found the strawberry-marshmallow ice-cream, and scooped a couple of spoonfuls into a bowl; immediately digging in. She sat for a while, smoking and eating the ice-cream, and stared into the dead eyes of the piñata. It was probably full of small packets of organic raisins, and Nina frowned at it; before punching it, and making it fly across the room. It broke open, and revealed bags of dried apricots. “Would have been better with condoms…”, she muttered to herself, and put some more ice-cream into her mouth.

“What did he ever do to you?”, Taza said from the doorway. Nina gulped down the frozen treat, and smiled embarrassedly. “She was full of shit…”, Nina replied. Taza chuckled, and went to sit across from her. “Got any pecan?”. She dug through the freezer again, and fixed a bowl for the VP; topping it off with some whipped cream and a bright cherry. “Dig in”, she smiled. Taza took a spoonful in his mouth, and smiled brightly. “This place sure as hell beats the scrap-yard”, he said. “Just wait until I whip out the sprinkles”, Nina grinned.

It was strange sitting there with Taza. They’d spoken when she was with the Mayans, but they hadn’t been especially close. She respected and liked him though; and knew that she would have come to care for him deeply, if she’d stayed longer in Santo Padre. “How have you been, kid?”, Taza asked. Nina couldn’t lie. “Not good”, she muttered. “All of this… I feel like shit for going back on my promise to you”. Taza raised a meaningful brow at her. “And you miss Angel”, he said. Nina nodded. “But this is how it has to be. I can’t go back to Santo Padre. It’s not safe”. “We’ll keep you safe”, Taza said. “It’s not about me”, she replied.

Tazza sighed. “I was in love once… He was my one and only; and when I lost him… I was destroyed. I threw in my patch, and gave up…”. Nina was surprised at the sudden sharing of heart. “But you’re still Mayan", she said. “This isn’t the first patch I’ve worn", Taza said. “Years ago, I rolled with Palo. I was a Vato”. “You?”, Nina askes disbelievingly. Taza gave her a soft smile. “I wasn’t always the intelligent gentleman outlaw you see before you now”. Nina let a smile ghost her face. “Well, if you were going to pick up a cut again, you chose the right patch, in my opinion”, she said, before frowning deeply. “If my opinion even matters anymore”. “It does, kid. You’ve become family to us”, Taza said. He took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "But the reason I’m telling you this, is because Angel is family as well. And he’s not doing very good right now”. A jolt of pain and fear went through Nina’s body. “What did he do?”, she whispered. “He did what I did, when I lost my Davíd…”, Taza said, and let go of her hand.

Realization struck, and Nina felt her already broken heart break even more. “He left the club?”, she croaked. Taza sighed deeply. “He came on the lot a few nights ago, drunk off his ass… He threw his cut at Bishop’s feet”, he said. “I believe his exact words were; None of this shit means shit anymore. Fuck this shit”. Nina frowned deeply. “He’s not exactly eloquent when he’s drunk, is he…?”. Taza chuckled. “No… But he was speaking from the heart. He seems to have lost his meaning to everything”, he said. “To Angel, his path with the club lead to you. When you left… that path didn’t make sense anymore”. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. That’s why I left”, Nina said quietly. She chewed her lips for a moment. “And I hate that he is in pain… but at least my leaving didn’t get him killed. If I’d stayed…”. “He would have died?”, Taza asked. “Not him”, Nina croaked. “Hmm”, Taza said shortly.

Before tears could reach her eyes, Nina turned around, and threw her bowl into the sink. She cleared her throat, and shook herself. “Besides, Daniella will get him back on track… In whatever way she can. She’s pretty dead-set on being in his life”. Taza frowned. “You should come upstairs; listen in on the meeting”. Nina felt a chill go through her. “What did you do?”, she croaked. “She wasn’t the snitch!”. “We know… Still; come on”. He got to his feet, gave the piñata a slight kick; and went towards the back door. Nina followed behind him; heart racing, and worried about what she was about to hear.

---

“Welcome to church!”, Filip said, as all the bikers had sat down. Nina slipped through the door as quietly as she could, and went to take her designated seat by the door. She had her own chair there, for when she was asked to join a meeting for one reason or another. It wasn’t often, but it would happen on occasion, when SAMCRO were planning to receive out of town guests, and they needed her to set up the party; or when they needed to prove to themselves how very gender-inclusive they were. She still couldn’t sit at the table though. EZ was stood next to the chair, leaning against the wall, as he had the time, she’d been called in to templo at the scrap-yard.

Filip continued. “So, you’ve come to take away our girl again”, he said. “We have, yeah”, Bishop replied. He sat at the opposite end of the table, facing Filip. The great presidents were convening. “She promised us a year, and she left after less than a month”. He shot Nina a look, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Is that all? Because if it is, I’m sure we can come to some monetary agreement”, Filip said. “Nina claims it would be unsafe for her to return to San Pad. I know we agreed that we’d let you take her back there; but we’re not about to force her to go anywhere, unless we’re absolutely positive she’ll be in no danger”. “We kept Nina perfectly safe while she was with us. Any fear she felt was unfounded”, Taza said.

“You’re wrong!”. The words fell from Nina’s mouth, before she was able to stop them. “I’m sorry”, she muttered. “No, my love. Continue”, Filip said. Tig nodded encouragingly at her. “I can’t go back… It’s not about my own safety… Just, please!”, Nina pleaded. “You year is not up, and we need you at the clubhouse”, Bishop said calmly. “That’s it? You came to Charming six man strong, driving for 8 hours; just for Nina’s well served whiskey sours?”, Filip chuckled. “Might be her perky attitude”, Tig said, and looked at Nina. She grimaced at him. “Look! So cute…”. Nina desperately tried to make up a reason why she couldn’t go back to Santo Padre. Daniella would call Sala the moment she saw her; she was sure of it. Those two little boys would be dead within hours. In the end she sighed. “Ok… I’ll go with you… But not to Santo Padre. Take me somewhere else, lock me up in the dark and… sell my kidneys. I don’t care, I just can’t be seen in San Pad!”.

Bishop frowned deeply. “We’re not gonna hurt you, Nina. We care about you… But our club is in deep shit without you”. “What are you talking about?”, Quinn asked. It was one of the first times Nina had heard him speak at the table. He was still growing into his confidence as a member of SAMCRO; after his years as a nomad. Bishop looked at Nina. “Someone killed Daniella. We believe it was the Vatos Malditos”, he said. Nina gasped, and almost slid from her chair. “Oh god… Oh fuck!”, he croaked. “She was… What happened?”. “Someone let it slip to the Vatos that the woman who killed Palo’s primo was hooking up with Angel; and publicly, that was Daniella”, Hank said. Nina shot an angry look at Bishop, reminded of his master plan of making Angel treat Daniella as his old-lady. “Involved; like…?”, Rat asked. His pureness was almost too much to handle. “What, you wanna know the positions?”, Coco chuckled. “Probably doggy… reversed cowgirl… Sixty-nine…”. Nina pulled off her sneaker, and threw it at the Mayan’s head. He ducked, and narrowly escaped her attack. “That’s my sister you’re talking about”, Filip growled. “She’s a lady. Good old-fashioned missionary is more like it. Good access to the tits…”. Nina took off her other sneaker, and threw it at Filip, hitting him in the chest. “Ow!”, he exclaimed, and threw the shoe back at her. The was a rumble of chuckles around the table. “Are you done laughing at my sex-life?”, she sneered. “Fucking wannabe man-whores probably wouldn’t know a good wheelbarrow if it hit you in the face!”. “Are you sure you want her back?”, Happy chuckled. She shot him a venomous look. “What’s a wheelbarrow?”, Rat muttered. T.O. whispered in his ear, and Rat visibly blushed.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Bishop’s former words hit Nina again. “Daniella’s dead? Do you know if she talked to anyone before she did?”. “As in ratted?”, Riz said. She nodded. “She didn’t. We know she wasn’t the snitch”, Bishop said. “A couple of days after you left, Angel broke a bottle of tequila, and threatened to shove it up her infected cunt, if she didn’t talk about what she knew about you. She spilled the beans on what she’d figured out, but swore up and down your secret was safe with her”. “It was kind of sickening to watch, actually”, Riz said. “Angel was taking her home, when he was crammed between two vans on the road. One of the drivers shot Daniella in the head with a .38”, Bishop said. “Angel…?”, Nina rasped. “He’s fine… physically. His bike was pretty banged up, because one of the vans bumped in to him”, Taza said. “He managed to drive it away, but it died out about two miles from Daniella’s body”.

Nina got to her feet, and began pacing the floor. She was hyperventilating, and shaking her hands in front of her; feeling a prickling sensation under her skin. “She… made me leave”, she rasped. “Daniella made me leave”. “How, niña?”, Coco said. Nina met his serious expression, and tears began falling from her eyes. “She found out about Abel and Thomas”, she said, and looked at Filip. “She said that if I didn’t break it off with Angel, and left Santo Padre, she’d let VM know about them…”. Once again heaving for breath, EZ came over to her and pulled her into his arms. “Do you need your inhaler?”, he whispered. “No, I’m just… Fuck”, Nina replied, and let herself be enveloped in his embrace.

“That absolute gash!”, Filip roared. Nina heard something break, and turned to see that Happy had picked up his chair and slammed it against the wall; making the legs shatter into small wooden splinters. Rat got up, and found a new chair for Happy. “I’ll call SAMDINO. Make sure Nero’s farm has some security for a while”, he muttered, and slipped out of the room. Happy sat down, and Quinn patted his shoulder calmingly. Tig looked like an actual nuclear bomb had gone off inside his head, and he had murder written all over his face. “Did they bury her yet? Because I want to rape her corpse with a knife!”. “She was cremated two days ago”, Taza muttered.

“Who are Abel and Thomas?”, Riz asked. “Jackson’s sons”, Filip said, his face grim. “He sent them to Norco with his ex-wife before he died; to keep them safe from the life… Hurting them – even threatening them – is a death sentence”. “Well, VM got there ahead of you”, Bishop said. “Nina, I’m sorry that you felt the need to keep this from us. We would have helped”. “Daniella had Sala on fucking speed-dial. You wouldn’t have been able to do anything”, Nina said. She pulled out of EZ’s arms, and stepped over to the table. Without another thought, she sat down on Rat’s free chair. Filip gave her a short nod. “I was just trying to protect my nephews”. “I get that”, Bishop said. “And I hope you know that we hold no grudge against you for leaving. I just wish we’d known, so this could have been cleared up sooner”. She gave him a sad but thankful smile. “And we still need you back”, Taza said.

Rat reentered the room, and when he saw Nina in his seat, he simply got another chair, and sat down next to Coco. The Mayan gave him a crooked smile, and nodded. “Packer is on his way to Norco”, he said. “I called Nero too, and he’s on high alert. He’s gonna call in his old gang-relations. The boys are safe”. Nina sighed deeply. Abel and Thomas would be safe; she knew it. Now she just needed to know the next step for herself. “What do you need me for?”, she asked Bishop. “Well, first of all, we want our brother back at the table”, Coco said. Bishop shot him a look, which Nina couldn’t quite read. “Palo figured out Daniella wasn’t Gael’s killer either”, Bishop said. “How?”, Nina asked. “Because the snitch sent him a picture of you and Gael dancing the night of his death”.

“Fucking hell…”, Filip said, receiving agreeing groans from the rest of the table. “Does he know where Nina is?”. “No, he hasn’t linked her to SAMCRO, but he remembers her from the party”, Taza replied. “He wants us to hand you over, Nina”, Bishop said. “It’s either that, or war”. Nina let out a muffled whimper. “Well, that’s not happening”, T.O. said. “Nina is our family, and we’re not handing her over to be killed”. “And neither will we”, Bishop said. “She’s family to us too; and beyond any unwritten rule about not letting family get hurt, we don’t want her dead”. “So what are you suggesting?”, Tig asked. “Well, as you’ve probably figured out, we’ve got a snitch in our clubhouse”, Taza said. “We know it’s a woman, because Palo let it slip that she’s been in contact with him on the regular”. “We need to draw her out; get rid of her somehow”, Bishop said. “And what better way than give her to Palo, letting him think it’s Nina…?”. Nina’s eyes widened at his words. “We’ll bring Nina and the snitch to a location we’ll set up with the Vatos; show Nina to Palo; and then switch her for the snitch, last minute”. “What is this? Mission Impossible? You can’t just put a Nina’s face on a different woman…”, Tig said. “That’s your problem with this plan? You want to let another woman get killed because of me!”, Nina said. “No! I can’t spend the rest of my life looking for women to take my place in front of Palo’s gun, whenever he figures out, he killed the wrong person…! I’m done. No one else is getting hurt on my account”.

She stood up, and stormed out of the room. Filip followed her, waving at the others to wait in church. He closed the door to church, to give them some privacy. “Look, whoever this woman is, she was willing to let you get killed. For money or whatever; I don’t care”, he said. Nina went over to face the bar, and took a firm hold of the railing in front of it; as if it would keep her from exploding in rage. “I am not letting this happen. I swear on Jax’s grave, I will run back to the border on my bare fucking feet; and throw myself in front of Palo’s gun. I’m done! I can’t have another life on my conscience!”. “Nina Teller!”, Filip growled. He only ever used her full name when he meant business. “You owe your Jackson to live! He loved you and cared for you; had you take his name when he got guardianship of you, to get you out of that loveless place you called a home up until you were 16… You are his sister! If he were here, he would not let you throw away your life like this”. He put his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to look at him. “And I won’t let you either. I love you, kid! Like a sister… like a fucking daughter; and you know what that means…”. Tears were forming in his eyes, and Nina threw her arms around his waist, and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry… but I can’t let this happen. There has to be another way”, she said.

“You have to”. Nina pulled away from Filip, and saw that EZ had come out of church to join them. “If you don’t, Angel’s gonna get himself killed”. Nina shook her head confusedly. “What are you talking about?”, she asked. “Angel’s planning on crossing the border to kill Palo. He wants to keep you safe, and he thinks taking out Palo and VM will do that”, EZ said. “He won’t make it within 10 miles of Palo, before he’s dead!”, Nina exclaimed. “You’re right…”, EZ replied. “But he’s gonna do it anyway… He’s broken, Nina. Doesn’t give a fuck about himself or anything else anymore. You have to come back with us, and convince him that this plan is better than his own. He made me swear not to tell Bishop, but…”. “I’m not gonna let him hurt himself…!”, Nina exclaimed. “He’s already hurt”, EZ said. “But this is suicide”.

Nina went to sit down on a chair, feeling her knees beginning to give under her. “So… either I let someone die in my place, or Angel kills himself; is that what you’re saying?”. “It’s the only plan we have… And going through with it – keeping you alive like this – is the only way I know to keep my brother alive”, EZ said. He sat down across from her, and took her hands. “I’m begging you… For me; for our pap… Please…”. “What if he already…”, Nina began in a panicked voice. “He promised to wait until I came back. Pap is keeping an eye on him”, EZ said. “Does he know you’re here?”, Filip asked. “No. If he knew there was a chance, we’d bring Nina back, he’d shoot out the tires of all our bikes, and probably set them on fire”, EZ replied. “He thinks she’s in danger in San Pad”. He gave Filip a meaningful look. “She’s not. You’ve got my word… if that means anything coming from a prospect”.

Filip stepped over to the table, and EZ got up to face him. “What is this woman to you, prospect?”, he asked. “She’s my hermanita. My little sister… and I love her”, EZ replied. “Then your word matters, brother”, Filip said, and placed a firm hand on EZ’s shoulder. He looked at Nina. “You are getting on the back of this Mayan’s bike, and letting him take you back to Santo Padre”. “Filip, I’m…”, Nina began. “No discussions! When I saw you in San Pad, you were alive… happy, for the first time in forever. You’ve been a fucking wreck this last week; even worse than I’ve ever seen you before”, Filip said. He took her hands, and pulled her up to stand. “Relight that flame inside you, luv’. Fucking shine!”.

Her Angel was in pain, and he was going to get himself killed. Nina couldn’t let that happen; and now that she knew that Abel and Thomas were ok, she wasn’t ready to let the chance of any kind of future with him slip through her fingers. She knew that she wanted to find a way to avoid anymore death, but for now, Angel was her focus. “Tell them I’ll go”, she said. EZ sprang for the door to church, closing it behind him. She heard muttering from inside, before it opened again, and the Mayans all streamed out; the Sons at their heels. Coco came straight up to her, and pulled her in for a tight hug. “I fucking love you, ma’”, he said, and kissed her temple. Nina smiled at him, before she turned to face Bishop. “I’m sorry I left the way I did; but my reason was valid. I know you know that”, she said. “I’ll give you your year, and whatever time after that makes sense; and I’ll go ahead with your plan for now… As long as you admit that your plans have a tendency to suck!”. “Yeah, pimping out Angel was not my best move”, Bishop admitted with a smile. “We love you, kid. I love you. And I promise to do whatever I have to do to keep you safe…”. “Are you fishing for a hug?”, Nina smirked. “No, he doesn’t hu…”, EZ began. Bishop put his arms around Nina, and pulled her in for a tight embrace; taking every Mayan in the room by surprise. “Tiggy, call Lyla, and make them clear out of Nina’s place, before she comes by to get her things”, Filip said. Nina winced. “You know what? No… After what’s probably gone on there today, just burn that shit”, she said. The Sons all laughed.

Nina looked around at the faces of her Mayan family. “Let’s go home”.

---

[7deadlycinderellas]

in the dark of the moon, i planted, 3/4

Ao3 link

The snow falls lightly as Arya pursues the Brotherhood’s boy on Nan’s back.

As she rides away from the inn, she tries to ignore the pain in her heart. Leaving in the morning had been harder than she had ever expected, even knowing she would soon return.

She’d taken the knife she’d given Gendry, a more practical weapon. She’d left Needle on her side of the bed, a promise to return. As if he wouldn’t know from the half dozen kisses she’d pressed on him, in front of a couple of the children even.

The boy is easy enough to follow. The snow is not heavy enough to hide his tracks, and Nan rides slowly enough that Arya can match their tracks with his, not that she thinks anyone would be following her.

The ride takes near a day, Arya pushing Nan’s pace, slow enough that they don’t need to rest. She eats the bread and cheese she took from the inn while still in the saddle. Eventually, she hears noise ahead, that tells her the boy has met up with other members of the Brotherhood. She takes to riding parallel to the road after that, hidden in the trees, Nan’s gentle gait keeping them from making too much noise.

She listens closely, trying to make out the conversation.

“Two of them this time?” the boy asks.

“One is a woman, the other practically a boy. Picked them both up coming south, the woman’s carrying a Lannister sword.”

Arya’s stomach sinks.

“You ever think of just letting these poor fucks go?”

“If we didn’t catch any, the Lady might start hanging us instead.”

There’s a rough laugh, but there is no mirth in it.

Arya continues to follow. The day goes on, and the sky gets darker and darker. Days are short in winter, after all, and the snowy sky can’t help. By the time the men begin to slow, the sky is nearly black. They meet up with other riders, one of whom is leading the horse with two figures aboard, bags over their heads.

Eventually, they reach an area where the trees are heavier and the ground slopes upward. Arya dismounts Nan, ties her to a tree, and begins following on foot. She pulls her own cloak tight over her face.

The crowd grows, and Arya only recognizes a few of the men. They all stand around in a clearing near a cave opening on the side of the hill. About half of them look drunk, and half of both groups have bags under their eyes, eyes that are wide, as though they’ve been frightened for a long, long time.

In the back, Arya stills, when she recognizes Thoros of Myr. He sits at the head of a fire, next to another seated figure, wearing a cloak with a heavy hood.

One of the Brotherhood pulls the prisoners from their horses, their hands tied and heads still bagged.

The hooded figure stands, and Arya can’t really hear much of the conversation. One of the Brotherhood pulls the bags off the prisoner’s heads, and Arya squints to try and get a look at them.

One is tall and fair, and something about how they’re standing makes Arya think it’s a woman. The other isn’t tall at all, and his broad face seems almost simple. With a twinge, Arya realizes he doesn’t even look as old as Gendry.

There’s argument, and yelling on both sides. The hooded figure raises a finger and there’s more arguing. She pulls a sword from the taller figure, examines it and her voice gets louder and more insistent, though Arya still can’t make out the words. One of the other men begins to shout in return, when Thoros stands, speaks, and his words quiet the crowd.

Carefully, Arya steps closer, mindful of the crunching of the snow. She manages to make out him saying,

“It’s late, we’ll pass the sentence at dawn.”

The men disperse, and the fire dies down. The hooded figure is led by Thoros back to the cave.

The man who lays down to sleep outside the cave is one who to Arya looks the most drunk. She wonders if it’s his job as guard that drives him to drink, or if he just drew the short straw tonight. She gives him enough time until she can hear him snoring deeply. That was just one of the Brotherhood’s problems, they were far too fond of their drink. Or maybe it was their work that led them to drink.

As she approaches, Arya feels fear rise in her throat. She’s felt fear so very many times, fear for her own life, fear for others whom she loved, fear as she was utterly certain that she was about to come face to face with the stranger. This is an entirely different sort of fear. At least when she feared death, her fear would come to an end. She doesn’t know where this will go.

She remembers before, how worried she was when she was with the Brotherhood, how she had wondered if her mother would take one look at how dirty she was, and send her back. Her mother and her have never seen eye to eye on things, but she’d always been sure she loved her, or so she thought.

Maybe it won’t matter. Maybe her gut it wrong and it won’t matter.

The cave is small, but Arya is still quite small, though she suspects she’s reached her full adult height. She creeps, as quietly as possible, and eventually the cavern opens up into a larger area, large enough for a fire and a bedroll.

The hooded figure sits upright at the sound of her approach. The hood falls, and Arya’s breath is stolen from her chest.

Her hair is shock pale and half gone. Her face seems to be made of wet paper, still bearing the scratches from before her death. She is Catelyn Stark, or she used to be anyway.

Her eyes frighten Arya. She’s never been frightened of her mother before.

And the wound that took her life, the gaping slash across her throat still hangs open. When she opens her mouth, her hands reach up to pinch it shut.

“Who are you?” the thin raspy voice demands.

Arya remembers how unsure she was at the thought of her mother seeing her again, seeing her ragged and living among rough men. She’s still unsure, at her seeing her now, grown and broken.

Instead of speaking, Arya merely lowers her hood.

“Mother.”

Lady Stoneheart approaches, and touches both sides of her face. The touch chills Arya, down to her bone, and the Lady’s expression makes it worse.

Arya feels her hand linger on her knife.

An hour or so later, Arya emerges from the cave, and wipes the blood from her knife. As silently as possible, she uses the bedroll to pull the body. She’s grateful, this night, for all the wood chopping and child wrangling she’d done in the last years.

She has no way to build a raft, and the nearest water is more of a stream than a river. She has no arrows, so she simply lights a stick from the embers of the campfire and tucks it into her arms before setting the corpse adrift.

And for a moment, she sits on the bank and weeps. She weeps for her mother, for all her hopes, that thing in the cave was not her. Her mother died at the Twins, even though her body found a way to keep moving a little longer.

She hadn’t know she would have to set her mother free, but during the time it the cave, there was nothing else she could do.

She thinks on the Lady’s words, how she had cried out to her daughter for vengeance against every Lannister, every Frey. She hates that she has often felt the same urge, longed for the same blood to spill. She likes to think she wouldn’t stoop low enough to condemn two people to death over a sword.

For Lady Stoneheart had admitted, that was the only evidence they had against the two prisoners.

She weeps at the thought of what her father would think, of what had become of his wife, of his daughter. Ned Stark was an honorable man they always said. He would swing the sword himself, not have a band of men hang his condemned.

Would she have ended up just as bloodthirsty if she hadn’t found Gendry again, hadn’t found the inn and surrounded herself again with people?

She remembers Polliver, and that man outside the Twins. How sweet their deaths had been, yet how her heart still felt as empty and dead as the Lady’s face afterwards.

She stands, and pulls her cloak up again. She looks down the road, towards where she left Nan. She gazes further, back to the inn. It’s late, and Arya’s bones ache with exhaustion, but she could be back before tomorrow night if she rode now. She could be back in Gendry’s arms before another moon could rise.

But she cannot be Lady Stoneheart, she cannot be heartless.

The prisoners are being kept tied to a tree, their heads still bagged. Arya cuts their ties, and she feels the taller one rouse.

“Quiet,” she whispers, “And follow me.”

The three figures step carefully through the snow, Arya looping around to muddy their footprints in the snow. Eventually, they reach where she has Nan tied, and Arya is ecstatic that she is still there, not stolen or released. She pulls the bags off both of the prisoner’s heads.

“Don’t you know how dangerous it is to be traveling these parts with a Lannister sword? Not just this bunch would take exception to it. Nearly this whole kingdom still suffers under the heel of the crown,” she asks, keeping her voice low, and her hood tight.

The taller one- the woman- answers.

“The sword was given to me to keep an oath, and I intend to do so.”

Arya raises an eyebrow

“A knight then? What sort of oath might that be?”

“I’m no knight,” the woman starts, and Arya suspects she’s said the same words too many times. “My name is Brienne of Tarth. This sword was given to me to protect the daughters of the deceased Lord, Ned Stark.”

Arya is momentarily struck dumb, but Brienne continues.

“I have aided in the return of his eldest to her place in Winterfell, and I intend to do the same for the younger.”

Arya’s breath is stolen from her.

“Winterfell was taken by the Boltons after they betrayed the Starks at the Twin..”

Brienne shakes her head.

“It was retaken. Lady Sansa was in the Vale for a time, in disguise and under the guardianship of Lord Baelish. She initially refused my help, but I stayed close.”

Arya’s heart leaps. If she had stayed with the Hound, would she have been reunited with her sister?

“She discovered that Baelish intended to wed her to Ramsey Snow. She came to me then, and while Baelish was in King’s Landing, she revealed herself and marshalled the support of the other lords and knights of the Vale. I rode with her north to Castle Black to see her half-brother Jon Snow, and where Lord Stannis Baratheon had been planning to unseat the Boltons with his own army.”

Arya is still disbelieving. She does note that Brienne calls Stannis Lord rather than King. And she is elated to learn Jon is apparently still alive, even if still at the wall.

“It’s good we did too. Without the support of the Knights of the Vale, Stannis’s army might well have splintered after the rumors that the priestess with him was pushing him for a blood sacrifice to ensure their victory.”

Arya’s hands fly up to cover her mouth. As much as she wants to believe her home belongs to Starks again, the idea of Stannis, of her having set foot there makes her want to be sick.

“Do you believe it would have worked.”

Brienne’s smile is grim, and Arya suspects she shares in her distaste for Stannis, though she doubts it’s for the same reason.

“The two armies were victorious, but Stannis and his wife were killed in the battle, and there has been no sign of the Red Woman. Stannis’s daughter Shireen was stolen away from camp by Stannis’s hand when he deserted, she is at Winterfell under Lady Stark’s protection. Some of Stannis’s men who remain alive seem to believe she would have been the chosen sacrifice.”

Arya’s insides twist. Gendry was bad enough, the worst to her mind, but she cannot fathom a man who could convinced, through any means, to murder his own daughter.

“Shall I begin to spread this story among the south then?” Arya asks, trying to keep her voice light.

“I will remain in the south until I find Arya Stark. I don’t suppose you’ve heard any word? A highborn girl, though she might not look it, perhaps seven and ten years old now, with brown hair and gray eyes?”

Arya squeezes her eyes shut beneath her hood. She forces her mind to recall all the people she has pretended to be since she had last been herself: Nan, Arry, Arya with no family name.

“I may have,” she admits, and Brienne’s face lights up, even the quiet boy beside her looking pleased. “But I don’t know if she will go with you. She’s become awful untrusting.”

“If you could-”

Arya remains quiet.

“I will speak to her. If she is willing to meet you, where shall I tell her to go?”

The quiet boy speaks up.

“Last time we came through here, there was a boy at the inn at the Crossroads who knew her. Might she be more open to it if there was someone there she already knew?”

The boy is clearly not as simple as he looks, and this is confirmation that these are the same people Hot Pie mentioned speaking to those years ago.

“I will speak to her. Do you know how to get to the Crossroads from here?”

Brienne looks at the boy (she thinks Hot Pie said his him was Patrick or something), who looks, even in the moonlight, rather worn.

“We will rest for tonight and set off in the morning.”

Arya nods.

“There’s a bridge out, so you may need to go around the long way. It shouldn’t be more than a few days walk.”

“Will we still have to worry about the Brotherhood?” Patrick-or-something asks.

“They remain in these woods, but their Lady will be calling for no more hangings. Without her, they are no more dangerous than any other. They claim to fight for the smallfolk, sometimes they even do.”

“We should go north as soon as possible.” Brienne insists, “Lord Baelish has no doubt heard from his many spies what has happened up north even if the smallfolk have not, and somehow I doubt he will be proud of his ward going around his back like that.”

Not like that was his style at all, Arya thought grimly

She mounts Nan and nods to them, before riding off.

It’s close to the middle of the night, the moon high in the sky, but Arya can’t bear to stop to rest. She pushes Nan on, rubbing the old mare’s neck in gratitude and promises her so many sugar cubes for the friend and stolid stead she has been for her all these years.

They keep riding and Arya tries to keep her mind off the Brotherhood, or the perverse thing in her mother’s skin. She thinks of Gendry, back at the inn, and imagines Sansa, at home in Winterfell.

Would Sansa be happy to see her? Was Winterfell even still home?

Arya thinks she hears someone riding behind her at some point, and turns in the saddle. When the sound gets louder, she pulls the reins and dismounts, holding her knife.

The long gray snout is the first thing she sees, and then the dark gold eyes appear.

“Nymeria?”

Arya approaches her apprehensively, one hand extended. Her stomach threatens to leap into her chest. Nymeria’s teeth begin to show and Arya feels her chest tighten, but then she extends her tongue and laps at her hand. When Nymeria quits licking, she rolls onto her back and Arya explodes with glee.

They ride so long that she gets to see the sun come up, in that moment that the snow has paused. Her eyes droop, but she will not stop. Nymeria trots on beside her.

It’s close to noon and the clouds have closed and the snow has begun to fall again when the inn comes into sight and Arya’s heart sings.

When she enters the clearing to the front of the inn, Nymeria sits on her stomach between two trees, watching her.

“I know,” Arya tells her, “You’ve been wild for so long, you’re not a pet. I would not ask you to go among people.”

She’s untacking Nan at the stable, and brushing her and filling her trough from their meager bag of oats, when she hears a squeal.

“Willow! Arya’s back!”

She doesn’t see which of the children run past yelling that, but it puffs her up all the same.

When she comes in the front door of the inn, Willow interrupts her scrubbing to come up to her.

“Arya!” she says, excitedly, squeezing her shoulders, “Never leave again, if you must, at least take Gendry with you, he’s been miserable to be around the last day and half.”

“Really?” Arya asks, her voice feeling strangely small.

Willow nods.

“Snapping at the boys, not eating his meals. He’s out in the forge now if you want to see him.”

Getting off Nan, Arya’s exhaustion has hit her like a sack of bricks. But she has to see Gendry before she goes upstairs.

He’s in the forge to be sure. The fire’s lit, and he appears to be beating the hell out of a hinge. He’s removed his shirt, and is shining with perspiration.

Arya stands back, enjoying the show.

As soon as he puts down his tools, she’s upon him, cheek pressed against his chest, inhaling in his scent. She doesn’t want to shock him with the touch, but she can’t help wanting to hug him.

“You shouldn't go around being mean to people just because I’m gone,” she sniffs against his chest. When she pulls back, the look he has on his face, watching her, eyes wide and grinning. It makes the breath disappear from her throat.

“You’re back,” is all he says.

Arya smiles.

“I am. I have so much to tell you too, but…”

She yawns.

“I really need a nap. If I’m not up for supper, wake me. I’ll eat and bathe, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

She holds both of his hands in her own for what seems a lifetime before she pulls away and heads upstairs.

She doesn’t even change, just pulls off her boots, flops onto the bed, and sleeps.

The dreams come again, images of the Lady’s hanging face, her pointing finger, how little blood there had been on the knife. She dreams she kills her again, but the figure keeps rising, and squeezes its hands over her neck, squeezing out the life from her, again and again…

She’s eventually woken by a hand on her back, and jerks a little.

“You alright?” Gendry asks.

“Sorry,” she says, “Bad dreams.”

“Well, supper’s ready.”

Arya’s stomach growls, and she laughs. Gendry grabs her hand.

“C’mon, lets get food in you.”

Arya sits up and just looks him up and down for a moment.

“My mother would have hated you,” she blurts out.

Gendry steps back a moment, and Arya feels awful for a second. She stands, and continues.

“She would have hated you. Even aside your low birth, your dirty profession and your being bastard.”

She reaches out and grabs him.

“And not even a little bit of that matters, because it doesn’t matter to me.”

Her eyes radiate sincerity as she stands on her toes to kiss him.

“What on earth happened to you out there?” Gendry asks.

She throws an arm around him. Her stomach growls.

“Let’s go eat and I’ll tell you everything.”

Supper is just a thin soup and sawdust thinned bread, but it fills Arya up all the same. In fact, she’s quite glad that it’s not too heavy on her stomach as her and Gendry sit in their corner of the kitchen and she tells him everything that’s happened in the last day and a half.

His face goes through every single emotion it seems, horror, fear, joy. He looks horrified when she tells of what had become of her mother, confirmed that whatever his faults, Beric had given up his life for that. There’s a bit of petty joy in his eyes when she tells of Stannis’s death and the Red Woman’s vanishes. But when she tells him,

“Brienne should be here in a few days, and if we don’t linger we should be able to get to Winterfell before the worst of winter begins.”

His face sticks on sadness, defeated sadness. Arya’s stomach drops.

“What?”

Gendry looks away from her, hiding his face.

“I guess this is goodbye then.”

Arya feels her insides go cold.

“You don’t want to come with me?” she asks, her voice small.

His face shifts.

“Do you want me too?”

“Of course I do, you bloody idiot!” she exclaims, jumping to her feet. Her voice takes on a shrill, yelling tone, though she’s still trying to keep it down .

“We’ve been living together, sleeping in the same bed for over two years! We slept in the mud and sleet together, just so we could keep each other safe! You found me when I was in the worst period of my life and kept me from drowning in it!”

She burns as she says it. All these years, and he still thinks of her as “milady”, somehow more important than him, as if he could ever be unimportant. Her voice softens.

“After all of that and you think I would leave you behind? Didn’t I just promise you that I wouldn’t?”

He’s still seated, so she’s looking him straight in the eye. She spares a look around the inn, to where Hot Pie is clearing the supper dishes, and Willow comes in to help wash up, listens to the sounds of the orphans laughter echoing through the walls.

“I could be happy here,” she says, her voice quiet, “With you, and the children, and Jeyne and Willow and Hot Pie. I could be happy here forever. But I want you to see Winterfell, I want my brother and sister to meet you. I want them to know what you’ve done for me.”

He reaches out and carefully wraps his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder.

“I couldn’t sleep last night without you,” he admits, “the bed felt empty, but it still smelled like you. I thought it would be easier if I just got used to you being gone, so that it wouldn’t hurt all over again if you left again.”

Arya wiggles and kisses the side of his neck.

“I promised you something else before I left.” she whispers, a hint of lust, “And I intend to keep that promise.”

She pulls back, and Gendry’s pupils are so large his eyes look black.

“I need to close up the forge,” he says.

“And I need a bath,” Arya replies.

He nods, and stands.

“I’ll meet you upstairs.”

[enchanted-prose]

#17 Blackberry Night ii

this wasn’t in my original outline for the series but here we are

Word count: 2,358

Characters: Tobias, Amarinda, Jaron, Imogen

Notes: huge shoutout to my darling beta, and also to my girl lu for being a tobias/amarinda stan

Enjoy!

Tobias didn’t always enjoy grand parties. They were too loud, too crowded. He picked at the color of his pale gold coat. Good thing he and Jaron decided to enter the great hall at different times, otherwise he’d be hearing comments about how poor he looked in the color he’d chosen.

Jaron’s leg caused too much pain to bear with talking to pompous nobles, Tobias and Harlowe both agreed to do the talking. 

The more nobles Tobias spoke to, the more he realized how much he didn’t fit in.

It was easy to ignore the divide between Tobias and the other nobles when he wasn’t around them. He avoided speaking to them unless he absolutely had to. Typically it worked. 

Some time ago, Roden explained how he was able to avoid unwanted conversation. He frowned slightly, lowered his brow, and always kept his posture straight. Nobody wanted to talk to somebody who had business to attend to.

However, Roden was far more intimidating than Tobias. It took several tries before Tobias was able to successfully avoid being cornered and questioned by a noble.

Too many people were at the Blackberry Night festivities, avoiding conversation was impossible.

When would he see Amarinda?

She was much more gracious at declining an invitation to tea from the eel eyed lord of Eberstein. When Tobias declined invitations, he felt rude, and was probably perceived as rude. He tried to avoid stepping on as many toes as he possibly could.

He was running out of excuses.

“I am so sorry Master Powys, my wife and I already have existing plans.”

“Ah! I can’t attend, I agreed to give medical attention to the poor in lower Drylliad!”

“Amarinda and I are going to be assisting the queen with washing her new cat, it’s been scheduled for months.”

“Unfortunately, Bymar holds a festival for their patron saint of cheese that day, and we can’t miss honoring him and risk ruining all of Bymar’s cheese product.”

There was no sign of Jaron or anybody else Tobias could talk to. He tugged at the sleeves of his coat. Glittering dust floated from the ceiling and was caught on the creases in Tobias’s coat.  The dust clung to his lashes.

It was more of an annoyance than a pretty thing.

Tobias rubbed the glitter out of his eyes, and threw himself into the crowd of dancing guests. He’d find Roden near the sweets table, he was sure of it.

Though his confidence took a blow when he reached the table and found no sign of his friends.

Now lonely despite the sea of people, Tobias made his way back into the center of the room, hoping that by some fluke he could locate Jaron. 

Both sides of the great hall were lined with trellises covered in plants; they formed tiny rooms complete with swinging trellis doors. One of them shifted ever so slightly. Jaron had to be hiding in there. He had to be.

Tobias wasn’t sure who he’d turn to if he was wrong again.

He’d almost managed to ignore the sudden wave of silence. Everything halted, from the dancers to the musicians. Nobody said a single word.

 His wife was responsible for the sudden reverence in the great hall.

 Amarinda walked down the stairs with her arm linked with Imogen’s. Her tardiness was easily excused; she captured the attention of everyone in the room.

One of the trellis walls wiggled, and Jaron’s head poked out from behind it.

The musicians began to play again, this time their piece started with a shy intro, playing with the softness a doe carried as she walked through the woods.

His face burned. You’d be a fool not to agree that Amarinda’s brilliance rivaled the legends of Carthya’s magical residents.

Her chestnut hair tumbled down her back, a gold net covering the top and sides of her head, framing her face in the process. The gown she wore boasted a high collar and wide, sweeping sleeves that threatened to brush the ground. White rosebuds clung to the hem, trailing up to bunch together at the edge of her gold bodice.

Jaron had forced his way over to Imogen; Tobias didn’t remember seeing him move.

 Was it allowed?

Was he allowed to speak to such an ethereal-

Of course he was! Amarinda was his wife!

Tobias pulled up the collar of his coat, smoothed back his hair, and marched through the bowing crowd. He’d married her, it was allowed. He’d married her, it was allowed.

“Somebody will write a sonnet about the way you look tonight,” Tobias blurted once he’d finally reached Amarinda. “After I have, of course.”

“I do love poetry,” Amarinda’s moonbeam smile was all too intoxicating. “Especially if you wrote it.”

“You look- you look absolutely stunning. Not that you don’t already always look stunning, it’s just- ah, I don’t know. Not quite sure of what I can say. If I wrote stories of magic and enchantresses, you’d always be my heroine.”

“And you’d always be my hero, Tobias,” Amarinda countered. She reached for his hand. “Dance with me?”

He took her by the waist, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The music grew louder; other couples joined the dance. Jaron and Imogen, Kerwyn and Mistress Orlaine. Several other young nobles twirled along with the rest. Tobias bit his tongue, praying his cheeks would return to a normal shade.

“I heard you used Saints Brigge and Naoise as an excuse to not go hunting with Master Previn,” Amarinda said.

Ah, Saints. Tobias’s face only burned fiercer. “I couldn’t think of anyone else, and I know how important Bymarian cheese is to you, we can’t risk their anger.”

“You’re absolutely right we can’t. Cheese carries far more value than we give credit.”

“I hope you’re not angry about not going hunting, you weren’t with me, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”

Amarinda laughed, and clung to Tobias’s shoulder as he dipped her. “Hunting is fun with the right company, but Master Previn has outdated views. He probably wanted us to accompany him so he could tell me about why I need to stop promoting trousers for women.”

“Maybe we should go hunting so you can wear trousers to anger him.”

“As funny as that would be, I’d rather face anger because of a declined invitation than turn Master Previn away from the crown. There are better battles to fight.”

“Battles like forcing Jaron to sit down and rest?” Tobias nodded towards Imogen, who was limping Jaron to one of the trellis walled spaces.

She nodded, “Exactly like that.”

Tobias raised their clasped hands, and guided her in a circle around himself. He remembered the first time he’d danced with her; truly, genuinely danced. It wasn’t as grand as Blackberry Night, and it never would be. They’d danced around the fire while smuggling Amarinda to Bymar during the Avenian war. Fink served as their musician by drumming on a log.

She’d taught him the steps to a Bymarian barn dance.

He practiced them in the privacy of his chambers after the war ended, only to be caught by Roden, which led Tobias to teaching Roden the same steps and a silent pact between the two of them to never speak of the experience again.

Roden occasionally served as Tobias’s partner when he couldn’t get the steps right. Tobias led, but he didn’t feel like he could ever truly lead a dance when his partner’s size rivaled that of a war torn bear.

Every practice session paid off when Tobias had the chance to lead Amarinda across the floor into the sounds of Bymarian pipes and drums.

Although the same couldn’t be said for Roden, who’d practiced the woman’s part too long and couldn’t quite get the man’s steps. 

He’d never forget the way Amarinda glided across the great hall’s stone floor after their wedding.

“I’ve been considering asking Jaron for a few days’ leave,” Tobias blurted as the music changed to a light reel. He tucked his left arm behind his back, and held his right as straight as he could while still holding onto Amarinda’s hand. “Just to escape to the countryside. Libeth, maybe.”

“Are you still thinking about the attack the Faola led against you?” Amarinda frowned.

“No, not really. A little, actually, but not often enough to put pressure on my work.”

It wasn’t quite a lie. Tobias had been in enough mishaps to understand when he was safe and when he wasn’t. The day after he’d been attacked had been-

Unpleasant.

He woke up the morning certain that somebody was watching him, only to find that Fink was waiting at the foot of his bed to deliver a message. Every creaking door reminded him of the way the Faola’s saber slipped from the scabbard. 

But he’d been safe in the castle the entire time.

Eventually, he recognized that. Recognized that he was no longer in danger.

And then he was able to continue on with his schedule as he always did.

“Where would we go?” Amarinda asked, pausing with the music.

Tobias shrugged, “Anywhere. To the south, to Mendenwal. I’d even go to Eberstein, even if there’s not much to do there.”

All he needed was Amarinda and he’d be fine.

Although a book would be nice too.

There was nothing more pleasant than the summer sun lazily pushing its way through trees while Amarinda was curled up in the crook of his elbow, reading the old tales of knights and vengeful spirits.

“Mendenwal is always very nice this time of year,” Amarinda mused, reaching to cross arms with Tobias as the dance continued. “There’s a village I’ve heard of that plants fields and fields of tulips. I’ve always wanted to go see them.”

“Then we’ll go,” said Tobias.

“And leave Jaron to his own devices?”

“He has Mott, Roden, and Imogen.”

“I don’t- I don’t know if I’d be able to look at flowers and eat chocolates knowing those three don’t have your voice of reason. Especially not after this most recent attack,” Amarinda took several steps back, a frown tugging at her lips. “I don’t think I can dance any longer, Tobias, there’s a lot of things on my mind.”

Tobias held out his elbow for her to take, “Then tell me what they are.”

They’d spent many a late night discussing Feall. Discussing Mireldis Thay. Saints, they’d even discussed Jolly, but that conversation quickly turned into a debate about a mandolin’s superiority to a lute.

He hadn’t had the chance to ask her how she felt about Renlyn’s confinement.

Amarinda soon took the lead, bypassing the trellis rooms and heading straight for the gardens outside. 

Distant music from the taverns fought for control against the uniform notes coming from the castle. The garden remained largely untouched, they were magnificent on their own with their immaculate shrubs and bursting vines.

And it was much less crowded than the great hall.

“I’ve been considering asking Feall about his relation to Mireldis Thay. He’s claimed so often that she wants to kill him, but perhaps he wants to kill her/ first,” Amarinda said. “Renlyn and Feall have been nothing but civil to each other. He accompanies her to lower Drylliad and when she wants to walk at night. Why wouldn’t she kill him during one of those outings?”

“To preserve her name so she can return to normal life once her goal has been reached,” Tobias shrugged.

“That’s what I thought. But why? Why does she want him dead so badly? And Renlyn never outright confessed to being Mireldis Thay, she was dancing around the question, almost like she was telling us what we wanted to hear rather than what we all needed.”

“We’ll speak with Feall when he can string together a coherent sentence, I promise,” said Tobias. 

“I’d feel much more comfortable leaving knowing we’ve done all that we can to help.”

How could he argue against that?

Tobias just didn’t want to admit that he was afraid that maybe there wouldn’t be a clear end to the Thay’s mess.

People disappeared all the time, they stole names, became new people. Tobias was ready to move on. He didn’t want to waste time searching for ghosts.

Especially after Renlyn’s humiliatingly calm reaction to being accused of treason.

He’d been so sure that Jolly’s hints were true. But perhaps Jolly’s claim to love Mireldis Thay more than he feared any king carried more weight than Tobias expected. Fear changed a person. It made them say things they’d never dare to think of just to feel safe again.

Jolly’s inability to tell Tobias where Mireldis was hiding technically fell under treason. He was aiding an assaulter of the king.

Would he really risk his neck for a woman he’d never been seen with?

Jolly of Angelmarr, a troubadour.

Tobias looked at Amarinda. A slight frown tugged at her lips, and her nose was crinkling as it always did when she was deep in thought. Intelligence burst from her dark eyes. She was forming a plan. A quiet plan; one that would bring her the best outcome at the lowest cost.

He knew he loved her more than he feared any king.

“We’ll fix what we can and then we’ll go to the tulip fields in Mendenwal,” Tobias slipped his arm around Amarinda’s waist, pulling her nearer to him. “And we’ll eat chocolate and say we’re going to be calm and not get involved in some whirlwind adventure and do the exact opposite.”

“Can we bring Jaron and Imogen? And Mott? And Roden?” Amarinda asked.

“If that’s what you want. We can turn it into a grand party, I’d do whatever you asked.”

“Even grew out a moustache?”

The thought of a line of hair covering his top lip made Tobias snort. “I’ll draw the line at a mustache.”

“Good,” Amarinda smiled. She reached up, and trailed her pointer finger along Tobias’s chin. “Mustaches are incredibly unflattering, and I’d make you shave it immediately anyways.”

He’d think about mustaches over dark deeds done by dark ghosts of the past any day.

The distraction was a welcome one.