#its already slipped through my fingers like when the sun was setting over the sandy shore and i tried to cradle the ocean in my small hands

[absinthemindedly]

Just kinda the vibe lately ~

[naughtystiel]

Golden light bathed their surroundings, vivid green leaves of a tree that they were sitting on looked like tiny pieces of stained glass against the sun. On the other side of the tree, on a thick branch was Dean, his eyes sparkling with joy when he glanced at Castiel. Small shadows danced on his features like a kaleidoscope, so mesmerising it was hard to look away.

Castiel’s fingers fumbled with the hem of a tee that he once had stolen from his best friend, so long ago the material started to wear thin in some spots. It was battered, but it was his favourite piece of clothing he owned. As he chewed on his bottom lip, pleasant breeze tousled his dark curls that gained a few lighter strands from the time spent out in the summer sun. The wind carried Dean’s quiet humming, one of songs that they used to listen to on an old walkman. Sometimes they sat on a hill and stared at the night sky, sharing a set of earphones, accompanied by music from a mix tape they had created together.

The branch creaked underneath him as he shuffled in his spot, trying to change his position. His best friend gave him a curious look, his face pressed against dark bark as he wrapped his arms around the tree, “What are you doing?”

Clumsily, Castiel hung his legs over and swung back, his arms now swaying slightly, the tips of his fingers brushing long grass underneath him. In result, the gravity pulled his tee down, covering the blush that spread over his cheeks, “Hanging.” He mumbled and Dean barked out a laugh, “Yeah, I can see that now. Don’t stay upside down too long or all the blood will rush to your head.”

Suddenly, Dean jumped off the tree and walked up to Castiel. A brush of fingers on his torso made Castiel shiver, but all Dean did was lift the tee up to expose his friend’s face, and grinned, “It’s already working, buddy. Your face matches the shade of fuschias in my mom’s garden.”

In lack of any good comeback, Castiel stuck out his tongue like a child and tried to swing himself enough to be able to reach the branch again. His fingers slipped on the crumbly bark before he could get a good grip, but instead of the hard landing that he embraced himself for, was met with a pair of strong arms. For a second, relieved about being saved from possible bruises or fractures, he laughed. Then, it occurred to him that he was, in fact, still upside down and his rear end was shoved right in Dean’s face. Squirming in the tight grip, he tried to wiggle his way out, but instead made his friend lose balance and they tumbled down to the ground. Once more, embarrassed, Castiel crawled away from Dean who was laughing so much his whole body was shaking, “Are you okay?”

Dean nodded and swatted a blade of grass away that kept tickling his nose before pushing his hair back, “Yup, all good. Let’s go!” Before Castiel knew it, his legs were carrying him after Dean, who held his wrist while running towards bikes that they had left nearby. As they cycled on a path that divided two endless fields, wildflowers scattered all over them, they tried to let go of the handlebars, spreading their arms wide open. Any negative thoughts fled from Castiel’s head and got replaced with the carefree feeling, with pure joy of just existing in the moment. Sweet scent of flowers followed them and Castiel took a few deep breaths that filled his lungs with the smell of contentment. The feeling travelled through his whole body, seeping through his bones right to the core. In this moment, nothing else mattered.

An uneven sandy patch made his front wheel swivel and without his palms on the handlebars, the bike turned right into the tall grass that cushioned his fall. Before he could get up, Dean’s hand was already waiting for him, reaching out to be grabbed. So, with a grateful smile, Castiel accepted and got pulled up, “Dude, you gotta stop falling.” His friend teased, but Castiel’s heart quickened its pace. Combined with the previous rush of adrenaline, it was basically hammering against his chest.

“I can’t.” he blurted out, but before Dean could question him about his strange answer he grabbed the bike and jumped on, pedalling as fast as he could, “We’re racing to the lake!” he called out behind his shoulder, a mischievous smile on his face.

“You’re cheating! Stop distracting me then!” Dean yelled back, quickly mounting his own cranky bike. It was hard not to laugh around him and it was one of the reasons why Castiel was glad that he could call Dean his best friend. In fact, his only friend, but spending time with Dean made him feel like he wasn’t lacking anything and judging by how Dean acted around him, he felt exactly the same. Some would say that they acted like kids, and perhaps they were, a pair of kids with scraped knees trapped in bodies of people who had already lived for over twenty five years. Selfishly, he hoped that it would stay like this for many more years to come.

The path they followed turned right, but there was a shortcut through a field with short green grass that Castiel decided to take. Soon, he let the gravity do its thing and the bike accelerated on its own, speeding down a hill. A sound, close to a howl of joy, erupted from his chest when he lifted his legs up, tightly holding onto the handlebars, so he wouldn’t fall.

Again.

Dean’s own laughter could be heard just behind him, so Castiel knew his friend was catching up with him. All too soon, the lake appeared in front of him and when he pulled onto the brakes, they didn’t work. Panicked, he tried to stop the bike, repeatedly pulling onto the brakes, but it did nothing against the speed he had gained cycling down the hill. Then, accepting his fate, he held tight and let himself go down with his ship. At first, the cold water was like a shock to his body that was warm from being exposed to the sun, but soon enough it became pleasant. His head resurfaced from beneath the lake, his wet curls sticking to his forehead. Heavy drops of water dripped down his face and eyelashes, making his vision slightly blurry. To his surprise, he found himself not being injured, apart from a small scrape to his elbow.

“What the hell happened?” Dean laughed, jumping right onto Castiel that was attempting to fish his bike out of the lake. When he managed to push Dean off, uncontrollable laughter echoing around them, Castiel swung his arms so they made contact with the surface, and splashed his best friend right in the face. After a short splashing war, they were both breathless, with huge grins on their faces, “Peace?” Castiel panted, reaching his hand out to Dean, who nodded and shook it. Together, they got the bike out to the small wild beach and rested it next to Dean’s. Once that was done, they took off their tees, leaving only shorts on, and hung them on a bush to dry.

The sky started to turn dark blue with a layer of orange hues dividing it from the trees on the horizon. The atmosphere shifted alongside with the changes in their surroundings, from energised to more sedated.

Castiel had known Dean for so long, that they were able to communicate without the need to use words. With a small nod, they started gathering twigs and small branches that later got placed in a pile on the sand. Back in the water, they found some bigger stones and used them to surround the wood. Dean reached into his pocket, the wet shorts still clinging to his body, and pulled out a lighter, “Here goes nothing.”

At first, there was no flame, but after shaking it a few times an orangey glow appeared. Their gaze locked and Castiel wondered if his eyes were mirroring the happiness that he could see in Dean’s. Using some dry leaves, they set the bonfire aflame and sat down, their legs crossed. The gap between them was small, but immediately Dean scooted even closer, so their knees brushed.

The warm glow danced on their features and the cracking sound of wood slowly being burned by the fire created a comfortable bubble that they occupied. They sat there, enjoying the private smiles and glances in between songs that they sang, warmth spreading within Castiel that wasn’t caused by the bonfire in front of them. With Dean, he felt content, whole. There wasn’t anything that he would change about their friendship.

Perhaps, apart from one.

His fingers itched to entwine with Dean’s, he wanted to rest his head on his friend’s chest and listen to the steady and comforting heartbeat. Finding out what Dean’s lips tasted of was a mystery that he wanted to solve, so so badly. But he restrained himself, for years.

The songs died out as time passed, the sky darkening with every minute until stars started to appear and lazily blink over their heads. Castiel got up, wiping off any sand that stuck to his shorts, and checked on their tees that were now dry. When he turned to pass Dean his, his friend was right in front of him, an unreadable expression on his face. Something shifted in Castiel’s stomach, concern and worry replacing the carefree feeling, “What’s wrong?”

Dean reached out for his tee, but his fingers lingered on Castiel’s, “Nothing, I just…” he trailed off and shook his head, finally grabbing the piece of clothing and pulling it over his head.

“Dean, we’re best friends. You know you can tell me anything.”

The man visibly hesitated and chewed on his bottom lip, averting his gaze away, before taking a deep breath and locking his gaze back with Castiel’s, “That’s the thing. What did you mean when you said that you couldn’t stop falling earlier? Do you ever wanna be-”

“Yes.” Castiel blurted out, cutting off Dean’s question. He could be wrong, maybe Dean didn’t intend on finishing it with more, but God, he hoped he was right, because otherwise he would fall apart. Now, that the possibility was so close, he would do anything to launch himself onto it and hold tight.

A pair of soft lips connected with his and Castiel’s heart rate quickened once more. The kiss was slow, tender and they poured every unspoken feeling that accumulated throughout the years of their friendship into it. Now, it could bloom into something more. But maybe, it was always there, slowly creeping up until it quietly settled down and waited to be discovered.

When they parted, their foreheads rested against each other. Without any more hesitation, their fingers entwined with a soft brush, “This is love. Right?” Castiel smiled and Dean nodded, “Yeah and there’s so much more on my tongue so take a bite and let it linger.”

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Nothing But A Scratch

Ivar x Princess reader

Word Count: 3155

Warnings: Tiny mention of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, Ivar may be out of character (Shrugs).

Summary: Ivar is wounded during battle.

My entry for @maggiescarborough’s 400 Followers Writing Challenge! Congratulations Sophie! 😊❤️For some reason, I always write more than 2k for your challenges 😂

I’m not exactly sure what to say about this. I struggled quite a bit writing it. I’m really hard on myself 😅Hope ya’ll enjoy!

Prompt: The character gets seriously hurt.

According to google translate (An unreliable source, I know), moron in Russian is Debil.

Thanks to @shannygoatgruff​ for beta reading

...

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself.

The enemy sword was swift, the blade slicing through his armor and deep into the flesh of his belly.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when blood began to pour from his wound and past his lips, the adrenaline pushing him forward.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when he swayed on his feet, his crutch no longer of use to him.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when his legs twisted, and his body collided with the muddy ground, completely vulnerable and surrounded by his enemies.

…

Ivar dreamed.

He dreamed of Kattegat in the days of his youth, back when he trailed behind his older brothers through the dirt with his hands, only to come to the painful realization that he would never be like them. He dreamed of his mother and her tears, his pride separating them despite how much she pleaded for him not to go.

He dreamed of the salty waters of the Northern Sea and the unforgiving winds that destroyed their ship, splintering it to pieces. He dreamed of Ràn dragging him into the depths of her dark abyss, collecting another prize for her realm of the drowned.

He dreamed of England’s sandy shores, of land ready for the taking, and of the weak-minded men who ruled over it. He dreamed of little Prince Alfred, now a King, holding out his hand to offer him friendship in the form of a chess piece.

He dreamed of Ragnar in the way he remembered best, tired, and decrepit in his final days, a hermit, and yet, in his eyes, he was still the greatest man who ever lived.

It is not your time yet, Ragnar told him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

He dreamed of Kiev and its massive wooden gates, golden palace walls, and luxurious Byzantine silks. He dreamed of the ambitious Prince Oleg, and of sweet, sweet, Igor. He dreamed of emotionless puppets made to stand with perfect posture while he still struggled to keep up with his own.

He dreamed of the Rus princess with the mysterious umber eyes, always seeking him out in a room. He dreamed of her dark hair hidden under white and gold silks, and of the jewels that adorned her neck and wrists, as befitting a princess.

He dreamed of her smile, never fully reaching her eyes, and of the way her fingers stroked his cheek at night when the fires burned bright against the darkness when her maids kept close watch outside her door.

He dreamed of the smooth expanse of her skin, of her gasps of delight, and her moans of pleasure. He dreamed of her mouth on his, the urgency they both felt as she left crescent moon shapes over his shoulders, clinging on to the precious time that seemed to slip away.

He dreamed of the day he stole her away from her brother, away from the shelter of the Kievan court, and into the safety of his arms. She watched her brother die that day, by the hands of her own nephew, her dark eyes glossing over, but never daring to let the tears fall.

He dreamed of making her his wife, of her in a crown of wildflowers and the sun illuminating the different shades of her hair.

He dreamed of her smile, finally reaching her eyes.

He could hear her calling out to him, begging for him to come to her.

Ivar, please, she cried, Wake up.

He tried searching for her, arm outstretched and fingers reaching in futile attempts. It was impossible, his body fighting through what felt like tar. He sunk deeper into the darkness, away from her soothing voice, and into Ràn’s abyss where Ivar the Boneless was forgotten.

…

It had been a week before he had shown any signs of consciousness.

7 days of fever, chills, and silence that had him teetering between Midgard and Valhalla.

For 7 days his army laid low after their truce with the Saxon king. For all the attacks Wessex had endured from the Northmen, he valued peace over war, forgiveness over vengeance. A true Christian king.

Alfred was not ruthless.

For 7 days the heathen army waited impatiently, wondering whether the youngest son of Ragnar was to survive, or whether a funeral was to be organized. Some believed he would die. Of course, the wound he received at the hands of a Saxon warrior was a deadly one. A deep gash across his stomach had been opened to infection, causing the fever to take hold of him the first few nights. His legs, more shattered than ever, would make surviving seemingly impossible.

But still, they waited.

The former princess of Kiev waited by his side, as still as a statue of a saint. She kept watch over him at night when the rest of the army was asleep, feeling more lost than she ever did in her brother’s court. She prayed for his soul rigorously, cross clutched tightly in her hand, hard enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

7 days of uncertainty, of prayer and fasting, of fear and loneliness. 7 days of hope and hopelessness, surrounded by untrustworthy men.

But still, she waited.

…

It was the dead of night when Ivar broke from his delirium.

He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. He couldn’t hear the screams of his fellow warriors, the clashing of sword against sword, nor could he smell the scent of iron spewing from the blood of both enemy and ally. It was just...darkness.

Perhaps he was in Valhalla, he thought, though if that were true, then the stories were wrong. It was rather underwhelming.

But no, he was not in Valhalla either, not by the scent at least. It smelled of dried herbs, and of that revolting root the Rus princess often drank as a tea. What was it again? Ginseng?—

And then he forced his eyes to open, lashes ripping apart after spending days glued together.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he felt as if he were suffocating under the pile of furs thrown over him. His heart was beating erratically, nearly bursting from the confines of his chest as his body fought to stabilize itself.

He wheezed, his throat feeling dryer than the deserts of the Silk Road. His tongue darted out in an attempt to wet his cracked lips with little success.

Moving was an issue. He couldn’t. It hurt.

His attempt to sit up failed as a yelp ripped free from his lips, croaky and in pure agony. He fell back against the makeshift cot with a grunt.

The pain was excruciating, hot, and vicious in his lower abdomen, like a raven fighting to claw its way in. His legs, though always in a fragile state, felt worse than they had in the years since adopting the use of his braces and crutch.

He struggled to crane his neck, quick to map out his surroundings as best he could. He was in his own tent, that much was evident, as he always had it specifically set to his liking. His weapons were laid out in a corner, along with his ruined armor, crutch, and leg braces. The useless things landed him in a cot, fighting for survival.

“My love?” Her voice was enough to calm his wild heart, his neck snapping in the direction of her voice.

The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from what he could only assume had been days of weeping. Beside her was a steaming cup of tea, producing that horrible smell of Ginseng that made him want to gag. When had she the time to steal the root before they left Novgorod?

Wrapped around her wrist was her gold beaded rosary, bright and shining in the candlelight. She held the cross tightly in her small fist, knuckles white from the pressure. He wondered how long she had sat by his side, praying, waiting for him to recover.

Her fingers dropped the cross, her soft hands reaching for him. Ivar could feel her hot tears drip over his bare chest as she leaned over him.

“Ivar—” She choked his name, sobs already taking hold of her body as she cupped his warm face, “You’re awake! Thank God!” More tears poured from her eyes as her mouth quivered. She lowered herself to her knees, grabbing his hand and placing kisses on the surface.

Ivar wanted to wrap her in his arms, to tell her he was fine, that the gods have not taken him yet, but his arms felt as fragile as his legs, weak from days of disuse. Instead, he brings his fingertips to her flushed cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.

“Hey,” He croaked out, using his thumb to catch another falling tear before running his fingers through her hair, “Stop crying, please, love.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. He sounded more like an old toad than a human, but it was enough to bring her weeping down to mere whimpering.

“It has been days, I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, sniffling before continuing, “I feared the worst.”

The princess was far more worried for his well-being than he ever was.

Ivar was quite content with the idea of falling in battle and ascending to Valhalla. She had not agreed with such sentiments.

It is not your time yet, his father had said to him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

“It is not my time yet,” He repeated Ragnar’s words, his hand continuing gentle motions through her soft hair, “Valhalla will have to wait a little longer, hmm?”

“Valhalla,” She hiccups, shaking her head, not fully understanding the Viking fascination with death, “Not with the way you throw yourself in battle.” She mutters, wiping her eyes.

She stood, going to the far side of the tent to fetch a bucket with a wooden ladle. She brings a hefty scoop of water to his lips, holding his head up carefully to aid him.

He drank like a mad man, the water running past his chin and down his neck.

“Debil,” She chastised him lovingly in her native tongue, eyes still moist, “Idiot. Where were your warriors?”

“Fighting for themselves,” He gasps, the cold water soothing the dryness of his throat, “Or have you forgotten the ways of war?” He croaks, his lips curling into a smile.

“What would I know of war, my love?” She offers, setting the bucket and the ladle aside once he had his fill, “Or have you forgotten I was but a sheltered princess.” She tried to make a joke of it, but she only sounded miserable saying such words. She brings a hand to smooth down his wild hair, braids unraveling into a long-twisted mess.

“In war,” Ivar begins, eyes fluttering as her nails scratched at his scalp, “You either survive or die.”

“And I suppose you wanted to die then?” A bitter tone was followed by a bitter smile. He cleared his throat, his tired eyes watching how her expression shifted through so many emotions.

His reply was honest. “If that is what the gods intended for me, then so be it. It would have been an honor.”

“What honor is there in taking me from my home, and leaving me to live out my life away from my own family and amongst men I do not know?” She snapped, though the anger was short-lived, and she lowered her eyes.

She was intrigued by Ivar from the moment she had set eyes on him, like a moth to a flame. She was happy to have left with him, happy to have relinquished her title and to have left such a sour life behind. Ivar offered her freedom, adventure, and love, things she never understood the meaning of in Kiev, but she was a fool to believe he was invincible. She had seen him rally crowds to chant his name, had seen his strengths despite his weaknesses, and yet, he bleeds red as every other man does. War takes the lives of men, and Ivar was not immune to such a fate. He welcomed it.

“You are all I have in this world, Ivar.” She spoke gently, as she did when he dreamed of her. Her fingers shifted to trace over the dark lines inked upon his heated skin. The fever had barely broken, but at least he was conscious now. “Please, my love, all I ask is that you stay alive.” Her lips quivered, “I do not think my heart could bear to see you like this again.”

Ivar felt his heart sink.

He knew she wasn’t made to live in a war camp amongst warriors. She was born into a life of gold and silver, into luxury that so many others could only dream of, and yet, she chose to go with him, a fallen king with worthless legs and a heart as dark as coal. He once had the world at his feet. He would do it all again, for her. He had to.

“Do you regret it?” He finally asked though something within him feared her answer.

“Regret what?”

“Regret leaving Kiev with me?” He reiterated, observing her features for any hint of disappointment.

“No,” The response was immediate and without hesitation, “I have been happier with you than I have been all my years in that palace.” She sighs, her hair creating a barrier between them when she lowered her head, “Oleg was not a good man.” Her words were laced in sorrow. Her brother's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

“You deserve more than this,” He said, eyes closing for a moment before bringing them back to her. Her dark brows curved up in a worrisome expression he’d seen on her many times before. “You have given up so much for me, a lonely cripple,” He chuckles when she made noises of protest, “Only the gods know why.” She considers him in silence, noting how unreal the blue of his irises were.

“Ivar?” She questioned, setting her palm on his warm chest and over his heart, silently thankful it was finally beating at a normal pace.

“You’re a princess, my love. The battlefield is no place for you.” He places his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“All I ask of you is to stay alive.” She spoke softly, her lips curving into a smile, though it wasn’t enough to reach her eyes. “I will not ask you for anything else.” She feared being alone, and rightfully so. She’d been alone all her life in the Kievan court, as expressionless and empty as those Byzantine puppets Oleg was so fond of, donning smiles that never reached her eyes.

“My sweet girl,” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Come, I wish to embrace you.” Planting both hands firmly on the sides of the cot, he forces himself into a seated position, groaning all the while, feeling the fire burn in the pit of his belly. He grunts, eyes screwed tight as he forced himself upright.

“Ivar!” She scolds, more worried than anything else, “Stop moving! You’ll fester your wound.” She peels off the furs to reveal the gauze wrapped tightly around his mind section, the once white cloth now stained red. “Christ. I must call the healer.”

“Don’t,” Ivar pants, tugging her wrist and quickly bringing her to his side, “Please. I wish for a few minutes to ourselves before I must face the world in this weak state. Grant me this one thing, hm?”

“But your wound—”

“What, this?” He jerks his chin down toward his abdomen with a tired smile, “It is nothing but a scratch.”

“Ivar.” She warned him.

“Princess.” The amusement was clear in his tone, artfully masking his pain. He gripped her waist, tugging her forward and into his arms with a grunt. She smelled of the English forest and of summer blossoms. “I will never leave you.” He mutters the promise into her waist, still ignoring the pain, “I will give you everything you deserve, my love.”

“What of your army?” She questions quietly, fingers dancing over his bicep, “And the Saxon king? Your brother tells me he seeks peace.” Ivar scoffs.

“And he shall get it...for now.” He concludes with an angry twitch of his brow.

“What do you intend to do?” She laid her cheek over the messy strands of his chestnut brown hair.

“Recover, and take you away from this miserable land I should have never brought you to in the first place.”

“Oh, Ivar,” He felt her plant a kiss upon his hair, “I belong wherever you are.” He grunts, gripping her tightly as if she would slip right through his fingers like sand.

“Marry me.” He mutters into her soft linen dress, suddenly feeling as shy as he did when he was a boy.

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.” He said, louder this time, needier, a plea falling from his lips as he tightened his hold on her. He shifts his head to look at her, imagining her with a crown of wildflowers nestled in her soft tresses. Her eyes grew round at his statement, lips parted as if to speak.

“Truly?” She asks, “Or has the fever gone to your head?” Ivar rolled his eyes fondly.

“Why would I bother asking you if I did not mean it, hmm?” His chin lightly grazed her abdomen as he peeked up at her through his lashes. “I will make you a queen, lay the world at your feet if you allow me.”

How many tears could this woman produce? He thought though he was more than satisfied knowing they were tears of joy when she erupted in giggles.

“I accept,” She wiped her eyes before arching down to place a kiss on his lips, “But, under one condition.”

“Oh?” Ivar pulls away from her, brows raised, “Go on, what is it?”

“You must drink the ginseng tea,” She offers, taking the lukewarm tea and offering it to him, “The healers would prescribe it to Oleg whenever he came back wounded from battle. It will revive your strength and clear your body of infection.” Ivar eyes the cup wearily, nose flaring at the abhorrent smell. He didn’t like it.

“It smells horrid.” He complained.

“You fight battles against fearsome enemies, and yet, are too afraid to drink an herbal tonic?” She scoffs. Ivar narrows his eyes, considers her words before muttering under his breath.

“...Very well.” He takes the cup from her, face pinched after taking a sip, “Are you satisfied now? Will you marry me?” She nods fervently, her hands laced together in her joy. A blinding smile settled on her lips like never before.

It finally reached her eyes.

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @leilabeaux​ @shannygoatgruff​ @inforapound​ @walkxthexmoon​ @hecohansen31​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @peachyboneless​ @fuchsiagrasshopper​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[oumaheroes]

Earthbound: Gabriel’s Story

Written for @needcake, whose wonderful and ongoing encouragement has spurred me to explore new directions.

Context: Hundreds of years after the fall of Earth, mankind is slowly starting to return. Some people have a stronger urge to return than others, confused by fragments of memories from a life already lived.

Word Count: 3570

Characters: Portugal

Arthur’s story can be found here.

Matthew’s story can be found here.

---

Gabriel is six.  He’s at the doctor’s, which he doesn’t think that he deserves, and to protest this offense he does not answer when he is spoken to.

‘Gabriel? Can you answer some questions for me?’

The lady doctor looks nice enough; she doesn’t look scary but that’s not the point and Gabriel presses his lips together and picks up a plastic shape. It’s solid and brightly coloured and he has some like this at home. He likes to build with them, usually, when he can get them from the other kids for long enough, and on the rare occasions he’s left alone with them undisturbed he builds high high towers and pretends they’re castles.

He turns this one, red and smooth, over in his hands and lays it on the small plastic table he is knelt in front of with finality. It will be a part of a dungeon.

‘He’s always like this,’ His foster mummy Anita speaks from behind him, over his head, ‘he has these funny moods where he won’t speak at all, and then when he’s not eating it just gets worse. Never had a kid like him.’

Gabriel feels his presence swallowed softly underneath her words as the conversation passes over and around him as if he were not there. He picks up another shape. This one is round at the edges and is blue. It can go at the top.

The Doctor gently taps the table by his elbow. He turns to find her crouched next to him; eyes slightly too wide behind large glasses. She smiles, ‘What are you building?’

He shrugs.

‘Ah,’ She ponders the beginnings of his construction with interest, ‘Well, the biggest I’ve seen someone build with these is about this big,’ she gestures with her hands to her chest and Gabriel is forced to look at her.

That is quite high.

‘I can go bigger.’

The doctor raises an eyebrow sceptically, ‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘the girl who built it didn’t have to go home for dinner.’

‘I don’t have to go home for dinner,’ Gabriel retorts, immediately. Mummy Anita scoffs and Gabriel flushes, looking away.

‘Do you not like dinner?’ the doctor prompts, softly.

Gabriel shrugs again.

‘I don’t like Option 3,’ the doctor says. She reaches under the table and picks up another shape -yellow, a triangle- and puts it near him.  Might be a good turret ceiling, if they leave him alone to build high enough, ‘that’s what I hate. But my favourite is Option 17.’

‘I don’t like any of them.’

‘No? You must like one of them, there are so many!’

Gabriel shakes his head and continues to stack shapes, ‘they all taste funny.’

‘Funny?’ the doctor glances at Mummy Anita who shrugs.

‘None of the other kids say that. We’ve had the machine checked out- I eat from it. It’s fine. Even tried him on other machines but he says they all taste funny.’

The doctor looks back at him and he tries to look unbothered by their discussion, ‘Why do you think food from meal machines tastes funny? What’s strange about the food?’

It’s an easy enough question, but one that Gabriel can’t really answer- not even to himself.

The best way he can describe it is that food from machines just tastes wrong.

All meals come from food machines. They’re in every home and school and all taste the same; a catalogue copy of meals for everyone to have. But there’s a dryness to everything, something that sticks bland and metallic in his mouth and no matter which out of the many hundreds of options he tries, Gabriel hates them all. There’s something wrong about them, he thinks, something unnatural that he never wants to taste, no matter how used to it he knows he should be. Food from machines is all he’s ever eaten.

They don’t grow things on his colony; vegetables or fruits or grain. There’s no room in the towering stacks of buildings, stretching into the dusty orange sky. The colony is a jumble of things, a jungle bleached colourless and lifeless despite the scattering of people that scrabbled through its warrens.

There is no room for fields here. No farms for cattle to roam. The machines feed them: food materialised from the collective memory of humanity. Gabriel has heard in the playground at school that other human colonies, the ones further off into space where their communications cannot reach, make their own food from scratch, like the people of the olden times of Earth. This seems bizarre to him. What difference would it make, if you made a meal from things instead of a machine? All of their neighbouring colonies do the same as they do and this is all anyone of them have ever known.

Either way, the taste is lifeless and empty so Gabriel avoids eating as much as possible, giving in only when his tummy hurts with an ache that needs to be filled with something, anything, before it will think of going away.

He doesn’t know how to put this into words, so he turns away and adds another block to his tower, hoping that the adults will leave him alone. The doctor on his side sighs and taps something into her e-tab, looking back over at Mummy Anita.

The conversation begins again, over his head, and Gabriel slips away.

When Gabriel is thirteen when he realises that something about him isn’t quite right. It’s not his problem with food, although that has never improved, things taste as stilted now as they ever have done. No matter what meal option he tries, and no matter from which machine, there is the same blandness to everything, a cotton covering that prevents him from tasting what everyone else says he should.

But lack of taste is the least of his concerns.

The word most used to describe him by adults is ‘unfocused.’

This isn’t something he thinks is fair, but he understands how they think that, he supposes. He can often be found staring out of a window or escaping off into space, eyes glassy and face slack. He doesn’t agree with the term ‘unfocused’ because Gabriel is very focused on doing just that.

Escaping.

It is easy. So very, very easy. Like a quick breath in, he can switch off today effortlessly and take himself away somewhere, mind’s eye overlaying reality to wash his surrounds bright and true and better. He can take himself to a place so perfect it can only exist in his mind- soft sandy beaches in front of scrubby mountainsides that soar and roll up and down in sharp curves, all under a sky so blue it burns. Cyan rivers wend down corridors and curl around the legs of his classmates, a cliff face leans out of the drop of a window, a dark cupboard hides the maw of the unknown- damp caves that drip drip drip with depth and cool his older, sun-burnt skin.

If he closes his eyes and truly does focus, he can go even further- bite down and taste Brazilian gold, hard and cold as it hits his teeth to send shivers of warning up his spine. A dropped pencil or a creak of a floorboard snaps into the crackle of a fire, hot and close and his mouth waters with the promise of flame kissed meat and the smell of woodsmoke.

As much as he enjoys this, he realises it is a problem because it is not something that anyone else does. Not anymore, at least, and never as well. Children used to play pretend, of course, when they were younger- it was normal. Gabriel always seemed to be the best at it, somehow, better able to call to mind a place for their games with a vivacity no one else could hope to compare to and it was fun- something he excelled in. He made all of their games, a playmaker in setting the stage and lifting another world to blanket the dusty playground and wrap them all in colours.

But his friends have grown out of such things. Their thirst for the imaginary cooled and then tapered off entirely whilst Gabriel’s hunger for it only grew and grew until he could travel miles in the blink of an eye, drumming fingers playing a marching song to set the pace and propel him onwards.

Why be here when he can be elsewhere? Why would he ever choose otherwise, when elsewhere was a paradise unlike any other. Any colour, any texture, any smell or taste, and all blended and whirled together to spill a storm of yearning through his waking days.

Maybe he could write, he thinks. He is sixteen and thinks that, maybe this is why he does this. Maybe this is something that is normal after all, if he can put what he is feeling to paper and share it with others. If it is productive, it is good, after all. If it creates something tangible, if it is something that others can use and enjoy then it is something worthy; it has value. When it is just for him, it is strange; adults watching with dark and wary eyes, muttering condemnations that shackle him with labels.

It is the way of things.

But writing is harder than it looks. Words only describe so much and are too flat, too rigid to encompass the entirety of what he feels and sees. On paper, the world of his daydreams regresses to shapes like the coloured blocks he used to love as a child- useful for building something, yes, but ultimately something controlled and solid, changeable but unmoving and limited. Gabriel’s imagination isn’t like this, it is constantly new and fluid, forever showing him more and more and more with a detail words can never capture, never truly express.

He dreams of orchards, of fruit so orange and full and clear to him that he can see the speckles of dust in the dips of its skin, the dew that sits on the leaves in the morning. He feels himself, brown, large hand scarred with mistakes and history, close about it and pull; feels the tension as it resists on the branch before a gasp of a break. The leaves of the tree swing back and the fruit is full and firm and he can taste it, taste how full it will be when he peels back the skin and bites down to flood his mouth with sweetness.

He feels air that is cool and tastes of salt, wind that pushes and tugs at his clothes, of a floor of wood that moves and bucks in angry waters of grey and blue. Unknown jungles where the air is thick and hot, arid plains where the sun scorches the rocks, and damp misty hills that whistle ancient secrets across the miles and twist his heart until it breaks.

What is that.

Why is that.

He doesn’t know.

When Gabriel is eighteen, the foster home he is in releases him.

‘You can stay, if you want,’ Anita gives him a measured look, up and down, from beneath her eyelashes, ‘but you’ll need to start paying rent. Benefits stop for you now so I can’t keep you about for free.’

Gabriel blinks at her, ‘But, I don’t have a job.’

Anita’s face remains impassive, ‘Then you’ll have to find one.’

‘How?’ he is angry, all of a sudden. Older children had never stuck about after their eighteenth birthday but he always imagined that they had left of their own accord, that they couldn’t wait to leave. Now he wonders how many of them were forced out, where they went, ‘I’ve never had one before.’

‘Your school should do something about helping you find one. Or, here,’ she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out her e-tab. The paint of the old thing is chipped but it still works; the screen flashes bright and the contrast with the dark office room washes her face flat and white in the glow. After a moment, she holds out the tab to him, ‘there are some programmes about. Take a look at them and sign up to some.’

Gabriel doesn’t take it and her arm hangs there, suspended and stiff between them. Eventually, she sets down the tab and pushes it towards him, ‘I’ll give you two months, if you want to stay. You should be able to find something in that time.’

‘What do I do if I can’t find anything?’ there is a tightness in his chest. He does not like it here, does not really even like her but the taste of betrayal is thick on his tongue and catches in the back of his throat to prick at his lungs, ‘what do I do? This isn’t fair.’

Anita looks at him, hard and cold, ‘Life isn’t fair. The quicker you learn that, the better off you’ll be.’ With that she motions with her head towards the door behind him and tabs on her computer, bringing it back to life.

The conversation is over.

Gabriel clenches his jaw, spins about and opens the door. The e-tab he leaves on her desk.

He moves his way through the house and out to the street. Night has fallen and the glow from their fat, orange sun hangs warm and faded behind the horizon. It looks like a painting; abstract- not real. The cut of the skyline is wrong, too sharp and small and alien all at once and he hurts with the urge to close his eyes and drift away on the tide of his dreams to somewhere better.

He can’t. He needs to do something, needs to go somewhere, needs to eat. Food machines are everywhere, but they cost money that he doesn’t have and the fear of hunger for the tasteless pushes him into the tangle of streets.

Gabriel is twenty-two. He found a job, eventually. It was the spur of the moment, out of desperation, but it’s not all that bad, in the end. He is a builder.

The monotony of manual work allows him to loosen his mind, lift himself out of his body as he lays dun-coloured bricks down in careful order, one by one by one. He builds a home under his hands but his mind is away, far far into grasses so tall they tickle his cheeks and he reconstructs himself into a reality he can control.  

This brick can be the dungeon. This brick can be a turret. Gabriel can be elsewhere.

This is enough. It is enough, he tells himself. It is more than enough; if he gets better, he can actually do that, actually build the castles of his dreams. Maybe he could be an artist, or an architect, maybe he can design a whole new colony that has fancy machines to replicate wind or bodies of water to recreate a sea deep and blue enough to have come straight from the Earth itself.

When he thinks about this too deeply, it hurts.

The ancient planet sings to him from the files of history, a stunning colourful thing that hangs suspended in time. Oh, what he would give to be there. To see the oceans and feel the grasses of fields that are somehow so very green. What he would give for the possibility see it, just once. Any part of it.

The pictures he’s seen, the videos and the stories that are collected into binary are the only things left of humanity’s original home- something so colourful and incredible that it is hauntingly impossible. Gabriel’s dreams must be modelled on it, he knows, they must have a grain of truth in them because only his imagination can compare to the flat, coded remains of Earth. Nothing man-made can be so beautiful, nothing built by mortal hands produce such unkempt beauty.

Gabriel feels like he was born in the wrong time, made and moulded to explore something older and wilder where he can go and go and go and always see something new, unending and natural. This lost opportunity, this missed moment and incorrect assignment whips a storm in his heart and brings tears to his eyes but passes, eventually. He is not a man for regret, not a man to dwell on what he cannot have and he consoles himself with the idea that maybe, one day, he can help to build a new world that rivals the one in his dreams.

When Gabriel is twenty-four, one of the human colonies fails. As the colony collapses, life systems screaming into the vacuum, the population spills into the sky, desperate to get away however they can. As one of their closest neighbours, despite the distance, Gabriel’s planet catches a lot of them.

They arrive in huge patchwork ships- cobbled together with speed, not precision. They’re falling apart and can barely cling on and the people they contain are scared, panicked things; exhausted by the constant and very near threat of death they press beseechingly into their new home. His planet is full, really, too full to take on so many but they have nowhere else to go, no place else to stop and so they flock into streets and public buildings, cawing for food and water and housing.

As a builder, Gabriel is in high demand and is immediately put to work. Hastily constructed houses spring up, growing the towns outwards and into the desert. There are no domes here- Gabriel’s planet can sustain itself and for the new arrivals this is bewildering.

Gabriel begins to talk to one of them. She is old, feather light skin wrinkled and soft, and she flutters like a bird about the building site, eager to offer help in any way she can. It’s sweet and Gabriel softens to her instantly, sensing she feels a displacement similar to what he does. A kinship of the unbelonging.

Every afternoon she arrives and as soon as his shift ends, he lowers himself to the ground and goes in search of her. They take tea together in the shade and talk existence to rights.

‘You remind me of my grandson,’ she says one day. Gabriel avoids talking about her planet or her family, or anything to do with what brought her here. He does not know what parts of it will cause her pain and he has no wish to do that to her. She must feel enough when she is alone, he knows, when she has time to mourn what she has lost and it is not his place to bring that sadness to other aspects of her day. She never offers anything and so the subject lies between them, an elephant in the void of space.

When she says this, then, he is surprised and curious, ‘Oh? How so?’

She smiles, ‘He’s a dreamer too. Always thinking of things when he should be focusing. He makes a similar face to the one you do.’

Gabriel blushes, ashamed to have been caught drifting off whilst in her company.

She sees his embarrassment and laughs, ‘Oh no, don’t worry- it’s fine. I used to love watching him float away somewhere. I used to say he was going off to Neverland.’

‘That’s a nice description for it,’ it’s an old Earthen story Gabriel was fond of growing up- a tale of a journey to somewhere else, ‘What was his name?’

‘Is,’ she corrects firmly and Gabriel nods apologetically, ‘Is. His name is Peter.’

‘Peter,’ the name fits a fellow daydreamer. The boy who never grew up. Gabriel decides to ask, tentatively, ‘Where is he?’

The old lady looks wistful, ‘Earth,’ she says with a sigh, ‘He and his parents managed to get passage to Earth but I wasn’t able to. We’re too far out to send any communication- I don’t want to think about what they believe became of me.’

Gabriel blinks once. Twice. Tries to speak, ‘Earth?’

She frowns at him, ‘Yes, don’t you know?’ Realisation hits and she shakes her head, ‘Oh, I forget that you don’t hear much this far out. Earth was declared habitable a few months ago. They’re starting a founding colony there to see if humans can survive there again.’

‘Wh- what?’

She looks at him, concerned, ‘Are you alright? You’ve gone awfully pale.’

Gabriel can’t really understand her, her voice feels like its coming from one end of an endless tunnel and his heart is hammering too loudly in his chest to focus on her. He stands, shaky, and she clutches at his shirt hem, ‘Gabriel? Gabriel, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ his heart pounds canon fire, a boom boom boom that disorientates him. He smells smoke, smells fire, smells death, ‘I thought- I thought it was gone, Earth was gone.’

‘It was, but they travelled to investigate about a decade ago and they’ve been researching it- dear please sit down.’

She tugs at him but he shakes his head, a ghost of understanding in his mind that slips away like silk, ‘Can we go? Who can go- can I go?’

She looks scared, ‘Yes, but there’s a waiting list, you need to get your name down- Gabriel!’

---

He doesn’t wait for her to finish. He takes off into the centre of town to the public buildings, pushing his way through crowds to get there faster. He won’t waste one second more, will grab hold of what acutely feels like a delicate second chance with both hands and won't dare to let go.

AN:

This was my first time writing Portugal as a character with a voice and it was both challenging and very fun to do. There are so many amazing Portugal writers out there to inspire me and I hope I have done him justice for any of you who read this!

The full fic can be found here on A03. It doesn’t include Portugal, but explores this AU a whole lot more with a different cast of characters.

Thanks for reading!

[p4lparker]

A Touch Of Lips

Birds twittered outside the window, and sunlight leaked through the slits in your blind. You could feel the warm body underneath you. Head resting on a chest which rose and fell peacefully, you tilted your head up, hands coming to rest underneath your chin as you stared at the blonde. His face was so peaceful, still marred with painful looking bruises and cuts; his eyes covered from you in sleep, but his mouth was quirked slightly a smile painted on them even in unconsciousness, his lips looking so inviting that you couldn’t restrain yourself. You pushed up on your hands on his chest and placed a gentle kiss upon him. It was only supposed to be a peck, but when he began to respond it soon turned into a lazy series of smooches.

“Well that’s an amazing way to wake up..” JJ whispered against your lips, not wishing to part from you for too long, you both were smiling into the kisses. You shuffled off of him slightly, wrapping you arms around his middle and snuggling into him, as your arms rearranged around him you brushed against his lower body- feeling his hardness against you made you blush madly at the memory of last night. You could remember the way he felt in your hands and the desperate noises he whimpered out as you pushed him closer to his release. As the hay images flittered across your mind’s eye you felt a rush of heat flow through you and settle in between your legs. JJ stiffened at the brief contact, the slightest brush of hands or lips and it sent him in to a bubble of lust. His lips moving more furiously over your own- hands ventured along bodies- whispered moans filled the heady air surrounding you both. Until there was a knock on your bedroom door, you pulled away from JJ quickly, rolling to the side and off him before pushing him off the bed as the door opened to reveal your father.

“Morning sweetheart..” He smiled, his eyes caught on the black boots at the foot of your bed and cargo shorts. He rolled his eyes and wiped a hand over his face tiredly. “Morning JJ or John B.. “ Your Dad kind of growled out; it wasn’t that he disliked the boys, he just didn’t take kindly to the fact that she was either sharing a bed in with one of them in the chateau or one of them was crawling in to her bed here, and no father wants his little girl sharing a bed with horny teenage boys.

“Breakfast is in the kitchen, I have to go to the station and don’t know what time I’ll be back later so I’ll see you when I see you sweetheart..” Your dad smiled at you softly, which you returned meekly, as JJ’s head popped up from the floor and peered at your dad stood in the doorway. You dad shook his head as JJ tried to not look to embarrassed at being caught out.

“And you… Get clothes on and get outta my daughters bed… You better not have defiled her Maybank or I swear to god..” He pointed a finger at the blond who flinched at the threatening voice.

“DAD! Get out! Go to work!” You cut your father off, mortification racing through your system quickly. You covered your face in your hands, you couldn’t tell if the room was hot or if your embarrassment was burning you alive from the inside out. You could hear your Dad grumbled as he closed the door and slam around the house before leaving for the day. The engine of the cruiser coming to life outside and driving away- but the shame unfortunately didn’t follow. The bed bounced as JJ jumped up on it, pulling you so you could bury your face in his warm chest instead of your hands.

“Has the ground swallowed us up yet?” You whispered and JJ just chuckled dropping a kiss to the top of your head and letting his hands rub up and down your back soothingly.

“Hey, at least we’re both kinda dressed and he didn’t walk in like ten minutes later.. cause then I think we’d all need therapy..” He laughed, your head flying up to stare at him mouth open and cheeks aflame. Your hands left his waist and felt for the pillow behind you before flumping him in the face with it. He sat and stared at you shocked. Eyes wide, mouth dropped open before grinning madly at you and reaching for his own pillow. And thus began “..the pillow fight to end all pillow fights” as JJ had dubbed it, the two of you running around the room wafting pillows at each other, laughing wildly as you both made contact. You were both to enthralled with whacking each other with pillows you didn’t notice John B crawling through the open window, until you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist and toss you onto the bed- a scream leaving your lips as JJ howled louder with laughter. You looked to your assailant and threw a pillow at him.

“You scared the shit outta me John B!” You crowed, before joining in laughing with your boys. The fight soon became an all out battle, unfair for you as you were being pummelled by the pair of them- your laughter was raucous and loud, and it continued until the two boys collapsed on the bed beside you worn out and breathing as heavily as you were. You all laid together, the boys entwined around you- trying to calm your hearts and guffaws of laughter to chortles, you swept your hair from your face with a huff before realising the contentedness that encapsulated you. You were happy here- buried between your boys, having ridiculous frivolous fun, them entwined around you happily, both just being there. You looked to JJ and waited for his merry blue eyes to find you, you stroked a hand over his face, you then looked to John B and grinned at his tan, freckled face and let your finger poke his cheek. The two leaned in and pecked each of your cheeks, causing you smile to widen into a grin that nearly split your face.

“I heard there is going to be a killer storm in the next couple of days so the swell is going to be immense.. So I was thinking we grab our boards and make the most of it before the tourons ruin our beach?” John B stated, as his fingers found your own and they began to wiggle play with the appendages. His calloused tips tracing over your own and around your palm and wrist- tickling the delicate skin there- you looked to JJ who just grinned, and so it was decided that was what the three of you would do. You patted John B’s stomach and moved to stand from the bed, JJ pinched your side playfully as you moved making you yelp. You collected the abandoned pillows from the floor and tossed them back onto the bed with the boys; they groaned at the impacts but laughed along regardless. You moved around the room; searching through drawers for a fresh bikini, you couldn’t decide between the yellow or pink one, holding part of both suits in your hand thoughtfully.

“Yellow..” JJ murmured from behind, you looked to him over your shoulder- watching as John B nodded emphatically. You smiled lightly and put the pink one back- then moved to your closet and collected some shorts and a t-shirt before turning back to the boys and gesturing for them to leave. They both just stared at you not understanding the issue, you sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Dude, leave so I can change..” You stated exasperatedly, the boys fumbled to get up and leave you to do as you said. You got yourself ready and piled your hair into a messy bun on top of your head as you tugged on the bandeau bikini and other clothes, you slipped your feet into your sandals and ventured out to the boys- grabbing one of each of their hands and pulling them behind you to the kitchen. You shoved a cooler into John B’s arms and began whirling around the kitchen making sandwiches and collecting soda’s and beers before popping them into the cooler. JJ helped pass you things and close cupboards etc as you whizzed around. When you were closing the lid to the cooler, you pushed John B to the front door and JJ jogged to grab your board from the back porch, the three of you venturing out to the Twinkie- and the moment you stepped foot out the door, the sun began slamming its heat into you. You all settle into the van and set off for the beach; you had raced JJ to try and get shotgun, but the blonde had won, and now you sat in the back of the bus, head propped between the two as John B concentrated on the roads which were beginning to become busy with summer-fun-seekers and JJ concentrated on slipping a new juul cartridge into the pen before breathing it in. He held it to your lips, letting you take a hit and smiling as you took it like a champ.

The ride to the beach was filled with tunes and chatter- and before you knew it you were pulling to a stop in a parking space and the three of you sprung from the van, you tugged the cooler with you as you hopped out. JJ had already climbed up onto the roof of the Twinkie and was handing the boards down to John B, once JJ was back on the ground and not precariously leaning half off the roof; you all jogged down to the sandy beach. The air was warm, and the breeze was gentle- it was a glorious summer’s day, but the ominous black clouds pulling themselves from the horizon slowly told you the waves today would be sick. You all ran close to the shore line; spreading out a couple of towels and propping the cooler between them; you watched as the boys stripped off their shirts and shoes, you eyes watching their movements making your mouth go dry, as they stood before you in all of their tan gloriousness. You mind quickly reminding you how those taut muscles felt under your hands and the palms of them tingled.

“See something you like Y/N?” JJ asked teasingly, his face donning a grin fit for the devil himself, John B stood beside him- equally as taunting. You huffed as the flush ran through your body- you’d been caught ogling them, and you couldn’t even play it off. You ignored the comment with a sniff, and proceeded to tug of your shirt and shorts- feeling their eyes on you, you raised a brow before turning to your board- grabbing it and jogging off to the water. Wading your way into the cold waves you stood and let your body regulate to the temperature before sliding onto your board and paddling out to wait for a wave. The boys followed close behind, the three of you floating on your boards as you waited for the waves to begin roiling. The wind picked up as the sky began to darken; you turned your gaze to the once busy shoreline, and watched as the masses began to pack up their belongings and flee the sand as the first few drops of rain splattered onto them, you tilted your head to the sky and let the rain drizzle onto you. As the waves began to get more wild, you waited and began paddling back to shore- the crashing wave chasing you down, when it was upon you- you leaped up to your feet keeping low to keep your balance as you felt the wave take you. Arms out to the sides to keep your balance, you swayed your body with the waters movement below- cutting turns and twists into the wave. Letting out a whoop of joy as you rode the wave for as long as possible before the swell dumped your body in the water below. The boys followed your lead and began chasing and riding their own waves.

You stayed in the water for as long as you could- before your skin was beginning to turn blue from the pouring rain and the freezing ocean. The heavens had opened and the rain poured over you all, but it didn’t stop your laughter or joy. You let the waves push you further into the shore, sliding off your board and wading through the knee deep water until you were able to collapse on the soggy sand- waves lapping at your feet. John B followed you out, dumping his board next to yours before sitting behind you; his wet chest to your goose bump covered back, legs either side of your own, arms locking around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your neck- the both of you watching JJ surf more waves, he was the better surfer out of the three of you. John B brushed his hair back with on of his hands before reaching round and pulling your face towards him and kissing you gently. He smiled into the kiss, before swaying the two of you to an unheard song. He pulled away and pecked the tip of your nose making you giggle- the rain still poured over the pair of you, both watching and whooping as JJ showed off his skills. You sighed happily and leaned against John B’s chest, resting your hands around his forearms- both watching on as the waves became more and more wild, when JJ was dumped from a wave for the fifth time in a row he decided to make his way back to shore to you both. As soon as his foot stepped back on soggy sand, sinking in slightly- thunder cracked and lightening flashed over head. You felt your heart start at the surprising noise- your breathing gasping as you flinched further into John B’s chest. He laughed at your reaction and pressed a kiss to your wet crown before tugging you up- reaching for both of your boards as you collected the cooler and your soggy clothes. You all ran to the van- you diving inside the back of it and wrapping a blanket around your shivering frame, after hoisting the boards back into place on the roof, JJ joined you. Slithering into the blanket with you and wrapping himself around you, as you both shivered together. John B jumped into the cab, starting her up- shaking his long curly hair from his face like a dog before urging her out of the parking spot and down the much quieter roads.

The storm was becoming more violent outside, thunder crashing and lightening flashing more frequently, you could all feel the wind push against the sides of the Twinkie as John B steered her down the familiar path to JJ’s dwelling. As you neared the house you could feel JJ stiffen behind you, and it had nothing to do with him being cold- it wasn’t a home, it could never be called that. A home was filled with love, not terror. The chateau was home, with you and John B- and as he pulled into the dirt track drive you all breathed a sigh of relief as it was empty. Meaning the elder Maybank was working so JJ would have some peace and safety for the night. JJ kissed your cheek laughing as John B raised a brow and pointed to his own, before leaning forwards and dropping a kiss on the brunettes cheek also- he grabbed his gear and an to the door, waving wildly at the pair of you before disappearing behind the door. You slide yourself forwards and clambered into the passengers seat next to John B who began the drive back home. One hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh- covered with goose bumps, he turned up the heat and tried to get the radio to play, but the storm interfered with the signal. The music being drowned out by whitenoise and crackling- as the monster of a storm raged outside. You noticed visibility out the windshield was getting worse, and it made you wonder how John B was able to even see.

Thunder bellowed overhead, and John B swerved to the side of the road; a gasp and a yell leaving you both at the sudden movement. And then pained groans as the Twinkie dipped over the shoulder of the road- lurching you both forwards uncomfortably, you continued to roll forwards until John B remembered to slam the breaks on. The jarring impact of you stopping flung you back against your seat. John B lifted his hands from the wheel and looked over you with worried eyes. When he was sure you weren’t harmed in any way, he wrangled the bus into park and switched her off. You couldn’t see through the wind screen; the rain was coming down in thick sheets. The clashes of thunder were coming every other second and rumbling so loudly within your chest it felt as if your heart stopped beating regularly.

“I can’t drive in this! It’s not safe… looks like we’re camping out here for a while ‘till she passes…” John B called to you, trying to be heard over the cacophony just outside. You nodded and moved to the back of the Twinkie, he followed; the two of you piling all of the blankets and pillows back there in to some sort of comfort, it was like building a fort. Once you were content that it would be comfortable, you flopped yourself down into the blankets, making grabby hands at John B until he laid next to you. You giggled as he snuggled in wrapping himself around you like a blanket himself. He reached one hand from you to your phone- abandoned on the floor, scrolling through it until he found your music, he chose a playlist and let it play aloud. The then switched out of the app and opened up the camera one; holding the phone to face you both, he pushed his face against your own until his lips were pressing into your cheek. He snapped the pic, the tell-tale shutter sound shielding the music momentarily- before moving his lips to cover your own, in a gentle kiss. Again the shutter sound echoed, and you laughed at his cheesiness. But let him have his mini photoshoot all the same. Secretly enjoying every moment as your heart swelled and a warm, fuzzy feeling settled within your stomach. When he was happy he’d captured the moment well enough, he let the music play and let your phone rest near your heads. He let his eyes close and laid on his back before snuggling your head to rest on his chest, you laughed, leaning up and pecked at his cheek before settling back on him once more.

The wind howled around you, the rain pattering down quickly and never-ending upon the roof above, thunder booming making it feel like it was shaking your very being and lightening flickering, lighting up John B’s peaceful face in a darkly beautiful way. He had his eyes closed still, but his lips quirked.

“You’re staring…” He whispered, turning his face to you, before opening his dark eyes and staring back at you. You just smiled gently back at him and he let a huff of air pass through his nose- almost like a laugh. You could feel yourself relax and your breathing slow, and sleep was calling to you both, dragging you towards it peacefully. Until a particularly loud burst of thunder ripped through the sky, making a yelp leave you as you clung to John B.

“Hey, you’re okay.. I got you..” he murmured, one of his hands raising from your waist to tilt your face up towards him- he then leaned down and kissed you. Trying to let his lips calm you, but as his supple lips met yours, and his tongue swept along your bottom lip- they did the exact opposite. The gentle kiss became the spark that ignited flames within you, and his gentle hands smoothing over your skin only coaxed them into an inferno. You manoeuvred yourself to hover above his lips, legs straddling his waist- one of your arms supporting you, the other resting against the side of his face as his lips danced with your own, you pulled away slightly and his pouted lips followed you- making you giggle before meeting him again and kissing him with fervour. You opened your mouth and let your teeth nip into his plump bottom lip, making him groan as he opened his mouth and let your tongue in. You explored his mouth, tongue stroking against his. Hands began to wander, his large ones cupping around your bikini clad backside and squeezed- pulling you closer to him, moving you back and forth on him. You could feel him, and from what you could feel he was feeling the heat all the same- your bottoms becoming damp as your arousal settled there. Your ground yourself on him- languidly, this whole entanglement was leisurely and passionate. His fingers trailed up you back and tugged at the material covering your chest from him- you leaned away and pulled the bandeau top up and over your body and head. As more skin was revealed his eyes marvelled at you, focusing solely on you, taking a mental photograph- memorising the ethereal way your skin glowed in the striking lightening. His hands moved slowly ghosting over your soft skin and cupping your breasts, thumbs moving over your hardened nipples and toying with them gently, the moan slipping from you made his pupils blow and mouth drop open.

You lunged forward again and captured his mouth- kissing again, his lips always welcoming. You hands venturing down his body, tracing over his abs- feeling them contract under your palms- then lower to palm his growing hardness. He stiffened and whined at the contact; the storm outside almost drowning his noises out, you fingers fumbled with the waist band, tugging until he got the message. You pulled back and helped him push his shorts off his body, when he was free you scanned your eyes over him. He was different to JJ, not bigger, not smaller- just different but non-the-less pleasing. Your mouth went dry as you saw the blushing head leaking pre-cum. You let the pads of your fingers trace over it and spread it around, lifting it to your mouth and suckling the taste of him from the tips. You had to fight the urge to go back for more. And John B jut watched you eyebrows so high in his hairline you wondered off-handedly if they would ever return to their usual place. His mouth was wide in an O shape, but no sound escaped him, but he could’ve watched that image of you on a loop in his mind until the end of his days; as he was positive nothing would ever be that enticing. That sexy. You licked your hand thoroughly before letting it wander along his shaft- his head falling back against the floor of the Twinkie with a thump. You let your hand squeeze and run along him building up a smooth pace; not too fast or too slow, and he seemed to appreciate it, if the moans leaving his plush lips were anything to go off. You pressed kisses against any flesh your could; nibling and sucking your mark into his left pec. Smiling at the blossoming bruise that formed- you watched as he was lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You moved your lips down his body kissing and licking against the tan skin, soon enough your face was where your hand was working him. You don’t know what made you do it, but your mind couldn’t keep up with your body- as you surged forwards and let your lips meet the blush head of him. He was lost in the sensation, until he felt something new but not unwelcome- his head popping up and staring at you eyes wide- brows furrowed. You were looking at him for his reaction, and you weren’t disappointed, the look on his face spurred you on, as you wracked your brain for anything you could remember from watching porn. You tentatively opened your lips and left open kisses on the tip.

“F-f-f-uuuuck!” john B whispered, his hands pushing his hair from his face. His response pushed you on. Your mouth opened and took him inside, you bobbed your head down as far as you could before hollowing out your cheeks and sucking on him. You watched him from beneath you lashes, his hands were fisted in his curly locks and tugging at the ends of the strands and his face was screwed up beautifully in pleasure. You moved slowly, taking him in and out of your warmth- moving your wet hand over the parts of him you couldn’t fit into your mouth. His moans made you hum in appreciation- you picked up the pace slightly and pushed him further into the confines of pleasure. And he was so close, so, so close to that delicious release- he wasn’t lasting long, especially when you swiped your tongue over him teasingly as you gained confidence. As he could feel the familiar tightening in his stomach, he tried to let you know to pull away. When his frantic hands tapped at your shoulder you pulled back- he sighed out and took himself in his hand and pumped himself quickly.

“mm gonna cum..” He grunted out as he pumped his hand quicker until spurts of white coated his hand and some landed on your chest. His eyes couldn’t decide whether to screw shut tightly or stare at you wide eyed. He was wrong, this was the most beautiful and sexy thing he’d seen; you covered in him. Once he had ridden out the aftershocks of his release he lunged towards you and kissed you furiously, passionately- his lips slowing until it became more his more familiar languid style. His fingers found their way to your bottoms and began to stroke you over the material. Before slipping underneath- you moved your hips against his hand and tried to gain more friction; chasing your elusive high. John B began shifting his weight until he could roll you beneath him; his hand slipping from the front of your bottoms to the sides and began to tug them down. Once you were bare for him his fingers returned to our most sensitive area- and yours began their exploration of him once more you could feel him begin to harden again, as you both teased eachother. Lips fused in a never ending kiss. You lifted your legs, and began to wrap them around his hips, dragging him towards you. His fingers working you to your end swiftly- pads of his fingers circling and drawing figure eights on your clit, your peak came and you rose with it moaning out loudly at the sensation. He pulled his lips from you, your eyes focusing on his features he looked directly into your eyes, panting slightly.

“Wait!” You gasped out, as your mind began to clear- the look on John B’s face surprised you, you had expected disappointment, not the gentle smile he was sporting. He nodded, not needing an explanation- he pulled his hands from your core, licking your taste from them before rolling off of you. He pressed his lips against yours lazily and kissed you- the way you were beginning to love. He tugged you to rest against his chest once more, pulling blankets around you both as you snuggled toget

[please-buckme]

I’ll Never Be The Same.

Hayden Christensen x reader

Warnings: a lil sad, fluff, smut. NSFW 18+ You hooligans!

Words: 2.1k

Request: Hi! So umm I’ve never done this request thing before since I haven’t been on here that long. But I really want you to continue the Ewan x Reader x Hayden 😂...but like with just Hayden 😳 Could you do it where the reader and Hayden meet up the next day and just to get to know a lot more about each other and then.....go at it like bunny rabbits, after all he said he wasn’t finished sooo....😂😳💀Request from @missgirlnoname 🥰💕

Part 1

Masterlist

A/n: I wanted this to be kind of like their physical representation of a melody. How their bodies intertwin and mesh as if made for you one another. I hope I did a good job of trying to portray what I’m seeing in my head! 💕

The morning sun crept its way through the thin hotel curtains. Your eyes stung when you opened them to the blindingly white room. Squinting now, You rolled over, taking in a deep breath, trying to wake up your exhausted body. The pain from last night's events finally sat in as you slept, every move hurting more than the last. A smile crept across your face as you recall everything Ewan and especially Hayden had done to your body. The aches and pains being totally worth it, with the pure ecstasy they brought you.

Your hands traveled down your still naked body, landing in between your thighs. Hesitantly, you massaged the sore muscles in your legs, wincing every so often. Had they really been this aggressive towards you? You weren’t complaining, you’d just never been this sore after sex. But you’d also never had a threesome, so maybe that’s the difference? You bit your lip trying not to let out a pained sigh since Hayden was still sleeping beside you.

When massaging your thighs didn’t seem to be making a difference you lifted your hands to your lower stomach, massaging the just as tender muscles. “Ow” the word slipped from your lips when you hit a sore spot.

This did wake Hayden up slightly, rolling over onto his back, exposing his beautiful chest and abdomen. He was just as beautiful in the mornings, except his face was sleepier, more puffy, making him look almost angelic. You ran your eyes up his body until you met his eyes, his already staring into yours.

“Good morning.” His deep, groggy morning voice making your sore walls throb.

“How are you so beautiful in the mornings?” You smile, making a deep chuckle vibrate through his body. “Like you can’t even laugh without turning me on.” You admit, laughing yourself.

“Mmm, already ready for round 5 I see. Come here then.” He smirks while whipping the sheets from his body, exposing his immaculate morning wood.

You sigh, biting your lip in frustration, “There’s just one problem with that?”

“And that is?” He sat up, looming over you. He’s awake enough now to see the bruises left all over your body and how your hands knead at your skin.

“I- uh, I don’t think I can move.” A shy smile fell on your lips, breaking eye contact with him now. Hayden threw his head back laughing. “It’s not funny you jerk- ow.” You went to slap his shoulder playfully, forgetting about your soreness momentarily.

Hayden pushed the sheets off of the both before straddling your waist. “When I said I was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk, I guess I meant it.” He started massaging just above your hips, making you wince again. “Shh I got you. Just relax and tell me something.”

“Something like what?” You ask.

“Where did you grow up?”

“Oh here and there. My daddy had a job where he had to travel a lot so we traveled all over the country.” You laughed, thinking back at the memory of it being just the two of you. “He used to call me his co captain when we would drive to a new location. It’s stupid but it made me feel special.”

Hayden smiled repositioning his hands to your hips now, “So you’re a daddy's girl?”

“Ow- well I- um, I- I was but he died. A couple years ago.”

Hayden’s eyes went wide, “oh I’m sorry. We don’t have to-“

“No it’s okay.” You interrupt. “He was sick. I took care of him for 2 years before he passed. I’m glad he’s not in pain anymore, ya know. Like I miss him everyday but I’m happy he’s in a better place.”

“Are you religious? You believe your dad’s in heaven?” He dug into you a little deeper, making your hips jolt.

“Mmm, I don’t know what I am. He just told me before he died that he’d be looking down on me everyday. I guess I’d like to believe that.” He hummed above as if in agreeance.

“Would he have been proud of you last night.” He grinned.

You sighed, laughing. “He was a huge Star Wars fan. He’s actually the one who got me into it, so maybe.”

“What’d he think of me?” Hayden asks, sliding his hands to your outer thighs.

“Uh, he only got to see ‘Attack of The Clones’ but he liked you. Darth Vider was his favorite so the idea of Vader’s backstory blew his mind.” He smiled again exposing his beautiful, toothy smile. How could someone so beautiful want to set here and listen to you just.. talk. And he’s not even just someone he’s The Hayden Christensen. As much as it pained you, you reached your fingers up to his arm, tracing the muscles softly.

“I would’ve loved to have met him.” Hayden says without realizing what he had just triggered in your brain. He ‘would’ve loved to have met him’. Did he mean as a fan or as your dad? You knew all you’d done was slept with Hayden but to you he meant more than just sex.

“It’s too bad he didn’t get to see you in ‘Revenge of The Sith’.” You say.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Oh it was hands down your best performance out of everything else you’re in.” You smile up at him. He smiles back at you, leaning down to your face, twisting a few strands of your hair in his fingers. This all felt so natural. It was almost as if you’d done this every morning with him. The muscle relaxing, the conversation, the hair playing- everything. With Hayden you felt at home for the first time in years.

“You didn’t just like my movies because you think i’m hot right?” He smiled, still twirling the same strands of hair.

“Oh that’s the only reason I ever watch your movies.” You giggle, letting him know it was just a joke. “But no of course not. Hayden you’re an amazing actor, truly.”

“You’re not just saying that to get in my pants?” He joked.

“Baby, I already got into your pants.” You can’t push back the feeling of wanting to kiss him, so you do. Just a light peck, that he welcomes.

“What was that for?” He asks.

“I don’t know. I just really felt like kissing you.” He smiled softly, almost as if he was being bashful. This cute, shy side of Hayden made you want to kiss him even more. Something in the room changed though. You mean this kiss would mean something different than the last one did. When you captured his lips again you didn’t pull away and neither did he. It wasn’t the heated kiss he’d given you the night before, this kiss was passionate and longing and a hint of neediness.

“Do you leave today?” He asks, rushing to lock his lips with yours again.

“Yeah- at 3” You answer.

“Good.” He presses his hips down onto yours, earning a pained moan from you. “Oh gosh i’m sorry. We don’t-”

“No. I- I want to. I want you.” your eyes stare into his, not wanting to look away from those beautiful pools of blue. Your hands find their way to his luscious, sandy curls, massaging them at the back. He smiles slightly again, then leans into you again.

This time he’s gentle and patient with you, caressing your curves as if they were made for him. When you break free to catch your breath Hayden discends kisses down your neck. Right now you were his and he knew it. He wanted you so bad and the only way he could express his feelings was to make love to you, instead of the rough fucking he’d given you the night before.

This was also weird for him. He and Ewan had done this many times before. Not once did he massage their aching bodies, let alone bring them back to his room. You were different and he knew that. He also knew that once you left the room it ended. He couldn’t be seen with a fan and you had to go back to your life. Things had to be the way they were before you met.

You gasped when he licked a stripe between your breasts, not expecting it of course. His hot breath fanned over your skin when he laughed at your reaction. “I can’t make you feel better, would you like that?” He says, kissing just below your belly button..

“God, yes.” Gently he spreads your legs, trying not to hurt you in the process. You gasp at the feeling of his face once again between your legs. His thumb massages your sensitive nub just before he takes your cllit into his mouth, devouring your bundle of nerves. You feel him suck and bite and lick all at once, making you throw your back back. Delicate moans leave your lips as he continues his actions on your clit. Your hands find his hair again as you pull him closer to your core.

“Oh god, Hayden.” Your back arches at the sensation, adding a new level of pleasure. “Keep doing that, yes.” He did as you asked but sped up, bringing you to your shattering climax. He helped you ride out your climax, then when he was done he kissed you clit again. Such a subtle action but yet so sweet, almost as if he were claiming you as his.

When he eventually made it back up your body you couldn’t help but kisses, really kiss him. It was hungry yet still full of passion, “I love tasting myself on your tongue.” You hum.

“I love the taste of you on my tongue too, babygirl. You’re sweeter than the rest.” You groaned into his mouth, needing him more than you did last night. You reached down between your bodies and aligned him with your still swollen entrance. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

“I need to feel you- please.” His member enters you slowly, both of you hissing at the contact. A tear falls down your cheek and he pauses inside you.

“Should I stop?” He worries.

“No, no. Keep going. I’ll adjust.” He pushes until he bottoms out at your hilt. He stays there, peppering your face in kisses while he waits.

He whispers sweet things into your skin, “You’re doing so good, babygirl. You’re so strong and beautiful. I’m never gonna find another girl like you.” This only makes you cry more. If everyday with Hayden was like this you wouldn’t mind the fame or the fans, as long as you get this side off him when you two were alone.

He slowly pulls out of you once he feels your body relax a bit. He groans, kissing you again as he comes to pull in and out of you. His pace doesn’t change and that’s when you knew this was more than just fucking to him too. Instead of pounding into you he was taking his time, kissing your bruises, whispering sweet nothings, making you feel.. loved again.

You reach out to press down on his lower back, letting him know he could move a little faster. He takes the hint, spreading your legs higher up to your chest, making you gasp. “I’m never going to forget this tight little pussy. How it clinches around my cock.” He huffs as you can tell he’s reaching his climax. “I’m so weak for you, baby. I’m about to cum and we just got started.” Everything he’s doing and saying brings you over the edge again, making you cum with Hayden not far behind. Hayden helped you both ride out your highs before pulling out of you, continuing to pepper kisses along your body. “I could do that with you for the rest of my life.”

-

Once Hayden’s lips finally tired themselves out he offered to start a shower for you. When you’d showered off both and and Ewan you got dressed. Hayden gave you one of his shirts which you were over the moon about but simply said thank you. Once you had all your stuff together he walked you to your room. “I had a great time.” he said just before you opened the door to your room.

“I did too.” You smile whilst jiggling the key from the door. “It may have been a little routine for you but this actually meant a lot to me.. Thank you.” You smiled down at your feet, a little embarrassed by your confession.

Hayden grinned, “Nothing about you was routine, Y/N” You looked back out at him, feeling the need to kiss him again. Hesitantly you did and he responded immediately, picking you up off the ground by your waist. Tears welled in your eyes but you blinked then away as he put you back down. “Until next time.” He says, kissing your hand.

“Next time.” When you go to pull your hand away he grasps it tight before finally letting go.

-

Taglist: @haydens-moles @valkyrieofthehighfae @cocassedoodles @basicanti-socialb-tch @alyssa-skywalker @stefslightsaber @alideetoo @princessxkenobi @midnightanixx @luminarahan @missgirlnoname @adovranakin @skylerrae-solo @skkye @rougestardustjedi69 @romaniansweetheart

To be added to taglist

[makbarnes]

Chapter 4: You'll always be safe with me

Chapter Summary: After a rough night Lee treats you with sweetness on this Saturday.

Word Count: 2.5K (near)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Your eyes darted all around as you searched for Lee. With every minute that passed your heartbeat picked up and you clutched your blanket tighter. Your hand shook as you tempted yourself to open the door but decided against it. Tears pricked your eyes as you waited in the seat and tried to calm yourself. You wiped away the tears that clouded your vision and sniffled up the snot that began dripping from your nose.

“Please be okay, Please be okay.” Your mouth was buried in the fur of the kitten stuffy and you hid your face in the white fur. Your fingers played with the ribbon around its neck and tucked your knees into your chest. You kept your eyes trained on a spot in the treeline, as your nerves got the best of you and you picked at your exposed skin at your wrist. You whimpered with every pick from your nails and you tried to keep yourself calm and not continue it. It felt like hours as you waited for Lee to come back and hoped you wouldn’t be out there all alone. After your tears were dry and your wrist had blood rising to the skin you felt a rush of relief come over you as Lee came back and leaned against the car. You quickly unlocked your door and jumped into his arms. Lee hugged you tightly as he caught his breath against the car, Lee wiped the streaks of tears away and kissed your forehead roughly. You tucked your face against him as he picked you up and put you in the car. He kept you snuggled up against him as he rubbed your back slightly as he waited for his deputies to come back to their cars. He knew they were all okay and he also knew that you must have heard the shot from Carl’s gun after one of the idiots dropped it. He wrote down his information he had on the case and rushed back to the car as fast as he could. He felt guilt rile his gut as he saw a glimpse of red on your wrist, picking it up he sighed heavily and you avoided his eyes.

“Oh Kitten...what’d you do?”

“Nofhing.”

“Are ya lyin’ to me? I’m not mad Kitten, Just tell me what happened.”

“I was scared and worried and I didn’t mean to. I just started and couldn’t stop. I’m sorry.” Your tears stained his shirt as he ran his thumb over your worn skin and just held you.

“Kitten I’m so sorry. My dumbass deputy picked up his gun and dropped it. The damn thing went off and I had to write everythin’ down so I could file a report when I got back. I was hoping you had gone to sleep.” Lee adjusted you to cuddle into his side before he started the car and sped to the station. Your whimpers had subsided and you had easily fallen asleep from the lack of adrenaline. Lee smiled and kicked open his door as he lifted you into his arms, your arms lazily held your kitten. He walked into the office and settled you on the couch before ripping his notepad from his pocket and quickly dialing his sister’s number. He sighed as he watched your sleeping figure on his couch and cleared his throat when he heard the line click.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Sandy, It’s Lee. Carl’s been found dead. I need to talk to you.”

“Fuck off Lee.”

“Sandy! Now listen to me. Carl’s dead with his own gun and you know somethin’. Meet me at the station tomorrow or I’ll have a warrant on your ass.”

“Whatever big brother. I gotta trip to Virginia planned out” Sandy slammed the phone down and Lee rolled his eyes as he sat down in his chair and filled out a report. He left Sandy’s name off as next of kin to hopefully give her enough time to get her story straight. Lee felt in his gut that something wasn’t adding up.Glancing at his bottom drawer and watching your steady breathing before leaning down and sliding open the cabinet. He picked up the glass bottle and set it gently on his desk. He glared at the bottle and back at you, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth he set the bottle back down in the cabinet and walked over to you. Lee gently picked up your head from the couch and moved to sit under your head. He ran his fingers through your hair as you snuggled in his lap.

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

You rubbed your eyes softly as they fluttered open to see Lee’s feet resting on his small coffee table, his relaxed hand was laying over your waist and he was asleep as he leaned on his hand that was propped up on the arm of the couch. You sat up and yawned into your hand before nudging Lee’s shoulder.

“Lee? Lee?” You shook his shoulder lightly as he jolted awake to see you sitting up next to him and the sun just starting to rise out of his window.

“Hey Kitten. Awake already?”

“I just missed you too much.” You scooted closer to him and he instantly pulled you onto his lap. Lee checked his watch and his eyes shined up at you and a smile grew over his lips.

“I have an idea. You get changed ‘M gonna pack up your things.” Lee kissed your cheek as you happily moved off of him and he grabbed the file he had left on his desk and laid it out on his assistant desk for Monday. Carl can wait, nobody gave a shit about him anyway. You changed in the station’s bathroom while Lee packed up your things and he hung up his uniform in his small closet. He pulled a yellow flannel over his white tank top he kept on under his uniform. He slipped on his extra pair of brown slacks before turning his head to see you walk in wearing an ice pink babydoll dress. Your hair was tied up behind you with a matching ribbon and you kept your eyes from Lee. He tucked his arm around you and guided you out to his patrol car, opening the door for you. He slid in next to you behind the white wheel and smiled as he took off down the street. You watched him take a few turns before pulling into a gravel covered area and guiding you out. Lee opened his trunk and wrapped a blanket around his arm as his fingers laced with your own.

“Where are we?”

“Watching the sunrise Darlin’. It’s Saturday. Thought we could do this and then take you home, breakfast, spend the day together.” Lee smiled as he stopped you and laid the blanket out in the grass. You settled down against the blanket and pulled Lee down next to you, He gave you a chaste kiss before slipping your pacifier into your mouth. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of the pinkish clouds and bright orange sun coming over the edge of the world. Lee fiddled with the bottom of your dress and a blush came over your features as his fingers traced over your skin. You adjusted yourself closer against him and shivered a bit as you felt the heat coming off of him. “Cold baby?” You nodded your head without an answer and he moved to hover over you. “Bet I can warm you up.” Lee winked as he pressed his fingers against your hot core and smirked up at you. “Bad girl, no panties?” Lee reached up and slowly slipped the paci out of your mouth.

“You didn’t pack any.”

“Caught me.” He trailed his nose over your legs as he pressed sweet and soft kisses to your skin. You took the opportunity to move onto his lap and press yourself against him. You linked your fingers together behind his neck and moved just enough for him to slip his pants down a bit. You chewed under his ear as his hand came around to hold your balance.

“D-daddy!”

“I got ya, Doll.” Lee easily moved you to lay back against the blanket again. He hiked up your skirt in his hand and pulled it to the side. You wrapped one leg around his waist, giving him a better angle. “Shit. You’re so perfect.” You flooded your ears with compliments and teases as he slowed the pace down to have you begging under him. You whined as he smacked our hand away from your clit, for going too fast. Lee pulled himself out of you far enough to earn a whine and have you pull him back against you. “I think we can let me play this time.” You nodded your head and arched up to him as his hot breath fanned over your nipples. Grinding against his hips as he teased them with his mouth you tilted your head back a bit just enough to see the orange fading and it becoming morning. You laughed when Lee moved you onto your stomach and hiked your ass into the air. You made no effort to muffle your moans as he surprised you with a bone jarring pace. He had a hold on your hips and his other arm wrapped around toying with your needy clit. You tensed as you held back your impending orgasm, Lee ran a hand up your spine before holding your neck and pulling you up to rest on your knees. As you leaned your head back against his shoulder he dropped his hand to cup your breast.

“P-please.”

“Go ahead Kitten.” Lee bit into your neck as you let yourself fall from your climax and almost lose balance. Lee lowered you back to rest on your hands as he pounded into you through your finish. “Such a good girl.” You heard him grit through his teeth as he spent himself inside of you. Lee gave your ass a playful bite before kissing up your spine and helping you relax against him. You hummed happily as the sun had the sky resting at a natural blue with yellow glowing through the small amount of clouds. Lee rested his head on your chest before hearing your stomach growl lightly. He let you sit until you started kissing him again and he pulled you to the car to leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day Lee had gotten you home and the breakfast had grown cold after you lured him to the shower. You laid against him, resting on the sofa, your eyes closed softly as Lee pet down your back.

"Hearing a knock at your door he adjusted for you to relax against the couch and peeked out of the chain he locked.

"Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same. Where is she?"

"I can say, I don't know who you are talkin about but you better brush off the attitude." Lee puffed his chest a bit before opening your door slightly to show his badge.

"I see her on the couch."

"You don't see anything. Leave."

"Why don’t you make me Sheriff?" The man laughed a bit before he heard the door slamming and he was pinned against the brick wall behind him. Lee spat towards his feet before bringing himself inches from the other mans face.

"Leave or I’ll have you smilin on the side of a milk carton."

"L-lee?" You rubbed your eyes as the door opened and your eyes locked with your ex boyfriends. "Why are you here Dalton?"

"Your Brother told me where to find you. Come back home. Don't be with this dick."

"No. Lee come back inside."

"Close the door Sweets. I'll be back inside in a few."

"He's not worth the trouble Sheriff." You leaned against your doorway with a glare hooked onto your target. Lee’s shoulders attempted to soften as you spoke but he fought the urge.

"Don't let there be a next time." Lee pushed him against the brick before moving you back inside and watching him leave through the peephole.

"Sorry, Ill handle my brother."

"Not much of a brother if he gave that ass your location."

"Siblings." You shrugged your shoulders as you wrapped your arms around his front.

"Tell me about it." He sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You have a sibling?”

“She’s not good for much but she’s family.” Lee rubbed your arm as you snuggled into his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later on as you ate in Lee’s lap with a smile you felt a weird tinge of pain in your stomach and quickly moved off of Lee’s lap.

“What’s wrong Sugar?”

"Nothing, I just uhm, have to go to the bathroom." You stated blankly before walking to your bathroom. You sucked in a deep breath as you pushed your hair back. Splashing some cold water on your face you felt panicked and you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to ride this out without Lee finding out. It made no sense, your body would always try to shut down hours after you saw your ex. Call it a late fight or flight response. You held your head down to your knees. "You are safe. You are safe. Safe. I am safe." You raked your nails down your arms and paused when you heard a small knock.

"You okay Kitten?" You cleared your throat before stuttering out a yes. You heard a sigh and footsteps clicking away from the door. Biting hard on your bottom lip you steadily opened the door and headed back to the kitchen. You grabbed a small throw blanket to wrap over your arms before sitting down next to Lee.

"Baby, Look at me." He guided your chin to face him and pouted at your tear stained eyes. "Why're cryin?"

"It’s nothing Lee."

"Hey, don't shut me out."

"I don't want to talk about it. Please." Your voice was lower and he could easily tell your switch. He kept his eyes down a bit as you sat in silence for a few moments. You glanced at him a few times before feeling guilty and tears flooded your eyes again. You sniffled against the blanket you had tucked in your hand while you pushed your plate away from yourself. "Lee?"

"Yeah Kitten?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you Sweets?"

"Cause I didn't wanna talk about my problem." Lee turned to cup your cheek and bring your forehead to rest against his own.

"You'll talk when you're ready. Don't ever let anyone force you into talking to them."

"I had a mini anxiety attack in the bathroom due to the visit from Dalton."

"Princess, you shouldn't worry about him."

"I know. I wish I could just rewrite over the memories."

"I have a few ideas of how I can do that."

"Lee, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Wanna at least try?” Lee stood up and offered you his hands before leading you to stand by your window. “C’mere.” Lee led you out to your small fire escape and hand you stand facing out as he kept your body still against him. “Take a deep breath...I’ll do it with you.” You smiled when you felt him suck in a large breath and you followed. You closed your eyes and hummed as he kissed your neck. “On three, let it go.” You nodded your head. As Lee began to count. 1. Unknowingly to yourself Lee had a different idea and he was determined to distract you from the problem. 2. Lee held your sides gently as he brought himself closer to your ear. 3. You pushed back against him as he started tickling your sides and you both tumbled inside of the small window.

“Lee!”

“Got ya to laugh. That’s all I needed.” He helped you up to your feet and twirled you once in the room. “Now about this brother… Need me to arrest him?”

“I don’t think you could arrest the new town treasure.”

“Plant some over shore accounts?”

“I will handle it.”

“Such a big girl.” He pinched your cheek playfully as you led him to the kitchen to clean up from dinner. “Clean Law man.”

“Yes Ma’am.” You kissed his cheek as you walked into your room to call home.

NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

[chalametdarling]

T.C. fluff:  Being Timothée’s co-star in an upcoming romantic drama, and having a long weekend off together to explore the coastal European city you’re filming in

“Wow, this is beautiful.” You hugged your rolled-up towel close to your chest, the view of a crowded beach, sparkling crystal blue water and colourful umbrellas lining the sand awaiting you. 

“Oui, c’est très beau,” Timothee agreed, playfully nudging your shoulder, guiding you to follow him down onto the sand. You slipped off your shoes and the two of you began meandering through the endless sea of warm sand and towels, eventually finding vacant real estate between a young family and a group of women bathing in the sun. It was Timothee’s idea to explore the French town you were filming in together while you had a few days off, and as you laid down your towel, and Timothee retrieved containers of strawberries and savoury biscuits from his backpack, you couldn’t believe you’d thought of spending your Friday any other way. 

You talked and ate and waded into the water, splashing each other and jumping over waves. And when you weren’t doing that, you alternated between reading your script and a novel while Timothee laid on his stomach, headphones on, head resting on his arms.   You couldn’t quite tell behind his sunglasses, but judging by how you’d finished reading an entire chapter and he hadn’t moved a muscle, you assumed he’d fallen asleep. Under the sun block and daylight, his pale skin seemed to glow. His hair a perfectly messy mop, grains of sand nestled into the ends of his curls. Timothee really did have perfect features. You could objectively see that now that you were really looking at him. Bold eyebrows poking over the tops of his sunglasses, strong nose, angelic lips- “You staring at me?” You quickly looked out towards the water, resting your chin onto your knees and hugging your legs. “No, just checking if you were awake.” He rolled over, stretching out. “I am now.” Checking the time on his watch, he added, “Shit. We’ve been here for hours.” He reached out and picked up one of the few remaining uneaten strawberries by its stalk while you packed away your books into your bag. “Do you feel like getting dinner?” he asked, tossing the leafy remains into the pile you’d made as you ate.   “Yes,” you eagerly nodded your head. Laying out on the sand all day really worked up your appetite. Already feeling drowsy from the fresh air and too much sun, you followed Timothee’s lead from the shore to the row of bars and cafes lining the beach. He led you inside the doors of a quaint pub; one hand holding the door open, the other on the small of your back. A live band was set up on the raised stage towards the back, playing acoustic French music for those enjoying meals and post-work drinks. You found a seat at the bar, sharing bread and wine, your heart swelling the more time you spent learning the workings of Timothee’s mind. You could’ve sat all night with your chin in the palm of your hand, listening to him rattle on about his favourite directors and film theories and character studies, then abruptly stop himself with an embarrassed laugh, running his palms down his thighs. “Anyway,” he laughed, shaking his head. He finished his drink, then tuned into the DJ who’d since replaced the initial band. “Wanna dance?” Several drinks in and hours of dancing later, you were still on the dance floor with a drink in hand.  As the night went on, every time your head spin subsided, Timothee was either dragging you through the crammed bodies back over to the bar or replacing empty glasses in your hand with overflowing cups of alcohol. After the fourth glass exchange, you put an arm around his neck to pull his ear down to be level with your lips. While your thoughts were still somewhat coherent, your words were a little slurred. “Timmy, maybe you should slow down a bit.” As you were speaking, the ABBA remix playing faded into Kid Cudi, and you watched as your words fell onto deaf ears. Timothee’s face lit up and he shouted, “FUCK YEAH!” raising his free arm above his head. Your eyes followed his movements as he sang along to every word, big grin on his face, never stopping to breath; only pausing for a sip of his drink.   Before you knew what was happening, your back was against the wall and Timothee’s lips on yours. But just as quickly as he had kissed you, he was pulling back, flicking his hair back and shouting the next lyric through a tipsy grin. As the chorus started for a second time, he caught sight of you watching him, wide eyed and in a daze, and set his empty glass down as you reached to grab his waist. He stepped in to kiss you again; this time harder, longer and deeper.   The remainder of the night became hazier and hazier; only blurred visions of licking salt off the back of your hand and clinking shot glasses, jumping and spinning around the dance floor, and your fingers getting caught in Timothee’s salty curls remained. * An instant ache shot through the middle of your forehead as you blinked your eyes open, and you groaned. Sheer confusion washed over you, your mind unable to piece together where you were or what day it was, until you spotted a familiar black backpack against the wall and a bottle of cologne on the dresser. Ah, Timothee’s place. Timothee’s bed, to be specific. Slowly rolling over and rubbing your eyes to look behind you, you discovered you had the bed to yourself. The other side was practically untouched, blankets still tucked under the mattress. A door creaked open, and Timothee emerged from the adjoining bathroom, dragging his feet behind him. Seeing you were awake, he changed course and climbed onto the intact side of the bed, mumbling out, ‘Morning’ in a deep, soft voice. He sat with his back to you, and the one hand cradled to your chest itched to reach forward and trace down his spine. You weren’t sure where the urge came from. Maybe because of the way his hooded eyes, drunk on tequila and European air, remained locked on yours for hours last night. How his strawberry lips sponged kisses on your cheek and neck as you waited at the bar. How his hands had so delicately clasped around your cheeks when he kissed you for real over and over and over again. It would’ve been so easy to push back the covers, walk your fingers across the mattress; to drag them up and down his back or affectionately twist the ends of his hair. But Timothee was leaning back against his pillows to lie down beside you before you could muster up the courage to do so. With interlaced fingers resting on his bare chest, he looked over to you. “How did we get home last night?” You yawned, nestling further down into the pillows. “We walked, remember?” “Oh, shit.” Timothee nodded, pursing his lips with a hum. “I feel like shit.” “You drank a lot last night,” you said softly. He licked his lips, covering his face with his hands. “Fuck.” He stayed like that for a few moments, rubbing his face, and you wondered if he’d forgotten anything else from the previous night.   “I should probably go back to mine.” He dropped his hands back to his chest, looking over again, voice gentle as he spoke. “You can stay if you want.” “No, I should go and have a shower,” you told him, rolling onto your back and stretching your arms out. Timothee’s fingertips ghosted over your neck with a small smile, and you instinctively moved your head back from under his sudden touch. “What?” He shook his head, bringing his hand back to its resting place on his chest, eyes still lazily drooped as he enquired about your plans for the rest of the evening. You pushed yourself up to sit against the headboard, your hand subconsciously hovering over the spot Timothee’s had just been. “You know we have work on Monday, right? I’d like to read my lines at least once before then.” After pointing out you brought your script out with you the previous say, he added, “You have all of Sunday for that.”   You pursed your lips with a sigh. He rolled over, holding his head up with his hand. “Come on, y/n.” You evidently didn’t need much convincing, because a few hours later, you were meeting Timothee for ice cream. Desserts in hand, you found a small table outside the ice cream parlour, shaded from the orange glow of late afternoon sun by an umbrella. The two of you sat looking out at the streets, sunglasses hiding both of your dark, hungover eyes, observing the strangers passing by. And when you had the chance, you stole glances at the boy sitting across from you. When you met him out the front of the hotel, his formerly dry, sandy hair was now shiny, the ends still a little damp. He smelled fresh when you hugged him, and his jumper was soft on your cheek. He’d complimented your turtle neck top, which reminded you… “By the way,” you said, pulling Timothee’s attention from the open roads to you, “I’m not too happy with you, Timothee.” He frowned, taking another lick of his ice cream. “What the fuck did I do?” You teasingly held his stare. “Oh, I don’t know,” you said, pulling down the high neck of your top to reveal your purple stained skin. A shy smile overtook Timothee’s face and he shrugged, laughing awkwardly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry?” “Funny is it?” you mused, sliding your sunglasses down your nose to look over the frames at him. Timothee licked his melting ice cream, then said, “No, but now that you mention it, y/n, I’m mad at you too.” You slid your glasses all the way off, placing them down on the table. “Really? Why’s that?” Timothee, with a cocky smile, tugged down the chunky collar of his sweater, revealing a light bruise at the very base of his neck. You instinctively lowered your face and hid your eyes behind your free hand. “Oh my god.” Through the cracks between your fingers, you saw him smiling, bringing his cone back up to his mouth. “Forgot about that, did you?”   Dropping your hands with a laugh, you reached forward, using your thumb to push back his collar again and run your thumb over the mark you left on his pale skin. “Sorry,” you mumbled with a little pout. With an exaggerated sigh, looking up to make eye contact with Timothee, you added, “What is wrong with us?” He laughed, putting his hand on your wrist and running his thumb over your skin. “It’s alright. I forgive you.” You shook your head in mock disapproval, but there was a buzzing in your chest as you felt his lingering eyes and warm skin on yours.   You strolled back to the hotel in comfortable silence. Despite being a bundle of nerves, it was nice being with him. He made you think, and he made you feel. A man adorned in a billowing linen shirt sat on the side of the street, guitar in hand, singing a sombre tune. You slowed down along with the few other strangers who had paused to listen to the man’s song, Timothee a few paces behind you, taking his sunglasses off as he slowed. A few moments passed, and Timothee leaned down from his place behind you so that he could speak softly in your ear. “He’s singing about his lover.” Timothee paused to listen to the next line. “He doesn’t want to live without them… he feels empty… and sick… he- he’s waiting for her but… he knows she’s gone for good.” Turning over your shoulder, you pouted up at Timothee, who reciprocated the expression. “That’s so sad.” Timothee nodded. His hair flopped over his cheek, and you noticed his eyes sparkling in the golden cast of evening light. Over his shoulder, a couple held each other, longingly looking into each other’s eyes, tenderly touching each other’s cheeks. As a loaded weight settled on your chest, you looked back up at Timothee. The space between his eyebrows slightly creased and he smiled. “What?” Clicking your tongue against your teeth, and shaking your head, you answered, “Nothing.” You both knew it wasn’t nothing. With a sigh, you snuck your hand between his arm and body, grabbing onto his forearm to lead him away. “Alright, I only agreed to ice cream. Let’s go.” It was quiet when you got to your floor of the hotel, so you tried to be as silent as possible climbing the stairs, so other guests weren’t disturbed. You and Timothee were work colleagues, and friends, and his room was only ten steps further down the hall, and you were almost positive that you’d definitely be seeing him again the next day; but as he lingered by your door as you rummaged in your bag for your key, you couldn’t help but feel a little sad you were saying goodbye. Once you retrieved your key, you looked up at him with a smile. “Alright,” you said softly. “This is where I leave you.” Timothee stood by your door, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes stuck on your face. He wasn’t budging, and you weren’t game enough to break first. His messy curls flopped over his eyes again, and you pushed them back behind his ears. He held onto your wrist, slowly lowering it down to your sides. Relationships with colleagues could get messy. Everybody knew that. What does this mean for us? The words were caught in your throat. You wanted to ask; to say it out loud. But you couldn’t bring yourself to form them. Why couldn’t you just be okay with enjoying the moment? Timothee inched his head closer to yours slowly, almost unsure if it was okay. You kept your eyes lowered. “Timothee,” you whispered. “Yes,” he whispered back, resting his forehead on yours. You slowly shook your head. “I can’t.” “Why?” You didn’t respond right away, eyes still focused towards the ground, and he nudged the side of your nose with his, then pulled back from you. “Hmm?” You sighed, closing your eyes and lifting your face to his. Very slowly, he took the sides of your face into his hands. Static in the air charged your movements as his lips grazed against yours. Somehow, you simultaneously had both a million things to say, yet nothing at all. You settled on hugging him, chin resting over his shoulder. It was nice hugging him; to have him holding you close. “Good night, Timmy,” you muttered, eventually breaking free. “Good night,” he said in reply, hands sliding out from around your waist. With tingling lips, you stood up on your toes for a second to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth once more. You unlocked your door, and while slipping inside your room, you looked over one last time at Timothee smiling. “Good night.”

[raviotherabbit]

royal pain in the ass - chapter 5

Chapter 5: Greatfish Isle The Zeldas find themselves stranded.

[first] - [previous] - [next] read it on ao3!

  △ ▲△

The first thing Dusk notices when she steps through the portal is the smell of salt, carried on a cool breeze. And then, almost immediately, her vision begins to swim and she doubles over in dizziness.

“You weren’t-” she swallows. “You weren’t lying…”

“I’m never getting used to this,” Artemis collapses on the sandy beach, draping an arm over her eyes. “Flora, where are we?”

“Well…” Flora exchanges a concerned glance with Sun, who shrugs in return. “We appear to be shipwrecked.”

“What?!” Dusk straightens herself out in an instant, finally getting a view of their surroundings. The island they’re on appears to have been ruined in some way, the ground torn apart as though wrecked by a great force. And, as far as the eye can see, there is only water.

“By Hylia, this can’t be happening!” Dusk brings a hand to her face in horror. “We’re stuck here?!”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Flora kneels down, scooping a handful of sand and letting it slip through her fingers. “We have our food supplies, and there doesn’t look to be any danger around here.”

“And we can sleep under the stars!” Sun chimes in. “Have you ever gone camping, Dusk?”

“No.” She crosses her arms grumpily. “I have not.”

“I’ve basically been camping since Link finished his quest…” Sun takes a moment to count on her fingers. “Almost two years ago, now. Trust me,” she places a comforting hand on Dusk’s shoulder. “You’ll catch on in no time.”

  △ ▲△

“So what are we thinking about for dinner tonight?” Flora holds up her slate as she asks, inspecting its contents. “Dusk, I must admit, your era was great for stocking up on supplies. We have the ingredients here to make quite the meal.”

“Shouldn’t we ration, though?” Sun asks, peering over her shoulder. “I mean, we don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here.”

“The Era of the Great Sea isn’t as desolate as it appears,” Artemis remarks, head poking up from where she’d been laying out her bedroll. “Sooner or later, someone is going to come by.”

“You know when we are, then?” Dusk pipes up from her seat at the fire, arms and legs both crossed.

Artemis nods. “It’s truly a beautiful time. A shame that we’re stuck here.”

“A shame indeed,” Dusk mutters under her breath.

“Ah, I remember hearing about it during my lessons,” Flora comments, but it’s all she says on the subject before turning her attention back to Sun. “How about some risotto? We can use pumpkin in it, if you’d like.”

“Really?” Sun’s eyes go wide,and she grips onto Flora’s shoulder just a bit tighter.

“Why not?” Flora flips to the page showing her supplies. “We’ve got everything we need for it.” She pauses for a moment, eying the scowl of their newest member. “Dusk,” she asks, causing her to perk up. “Would you like to help with dinner?”

“Oh,” Dusk almost seems a bit… confused, her head slightly tilted to the side. “Really?”

“Though Wild’s taught me a few things, I’m not the best chef,” Flora admits. “I’d appreciate the extra hands.”

With a bit of hesitation, Dusk slowly scooches over to Flora and Sun. “So,” she glances down at the Sheikah Slate. “What do I need to do?”

  △ ▲△

There have definitely been better pumpkin risottos, that’s for sure. The rice is a bit undercooked, adding an uncomfortable crunch to every bite. Not only that, the pumpkin is slightly goopy, almost spine-shiveringly so.

“Well, this is…” Artemis starts, but she doesn’t finish the thought.

“It’s made with love,” Flora grimaces.

“This sucks,” Dusk says out loud.

“I think!” Artemis deliberately speaks over her. “Because we’re out in the middle of nowhere, we need to start keeping watch at night.”

Oh. Oh no. Dusk’s stomach twists at the idea of that. Sitting around, basked in darkness, doing nothing but watching, waiting? You know what that sounds like?

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea!” Flora comments. “We can even separate into shifts, to minimize any issues that would come from staying up late.”

“We are in unfamiliar waters,” Sun jokes, earning a small laugh from Flora. “But seriously, it may be the best way to ensure our safety while we rest.”

So they agree, just like that?!

“Are-are you serious?” Dusk chokes out, the taste of pumpkin risotto growing even more sour in her mouth.

“Dusk, what’s wrong?” Flora reaches over to her companion, but Dusk jolts away as soon as her fingers brush her arm.

She stands abruptly, her cloak fluttering behind her. “Do as you wish, but I won’t be participating.” Without another word, she storms out of the camp.

  △ ▲△

Thankfully, at least in Dusk’s mind, her counterparts opted not to mention her outburst from the night before. The three of them seemed to have sorted the watch out amongst themselves, but just the thought of that causes a burning feeling of shame to ignite in her chest.

The next morning, the four set about trying to make their small fragment of an islet more comfortable. Artemis has been insistent on keeping a fire going, so they could catch the sight of any passing ships. Sun was more than happy to help her scavenge for kindling. But Flora…

“Malanya’s goddess-damned hooves,” Flora curses under her breath.

Perhaps a bit annoyed, Dusk pokes her head up from her rapier, which she’d been sharpening. Just a few feet away, Flora sits with her legs crossed, arduously attempting to drag a comb through her hair. And arduous is the right word, as no matter how hard she tries, she makes little headway in regard to the tangles.

Dusk places her sword to the side, deciding it will serve her well enough for now. “Do you need help?” she asks.

Flora startles at her words, but settles into a sweet smile when she realizes who’s speaking. “Oh, Dusk.” She holds out the comb. “If you’d like a try at this, go ahead.”

Taking the comb, Dusk silently takes a seat right behind Flora. She tenses slightly as Dusk gently grabs one of the locks, experimentally running her fingers through it.

“This isn’t so bad,” Dusk remarks. “It just needs a bit of maintenance.”

Flora relaxes with a deep breath. “It’s these ocean winds,” she explains, a huff of irritation in her voice. “It always gets bad when I travel, but especially with all the salt in the air…”

Dusk smoothly runs the comb through the top layer of Flora’s hair, removing some of the surface-level tangles. “I can only imagine. How have you been taking care of it before?”

“Typically I’d try to stay ahead of it, but…” Flora sighs. “I’ve fallen behind, lately. Everything has been non-stop since I arrived in Artemis’s time.”

“And how long has it been for you since then?”

Flora takes a moment, and peering around, Dusk can see her counting on her fingers. “Around five days, give or take. It’s just so hard to take care of, you know?”

It takes a great deal of effort for Dusk to swallow down her shock. “Well, if you don’t like it long…” She pinches Flora’s hair between her pointer and middle fingers, miming scissors, at a length just at the bottom of her neck. “Have you considered cutting it?”

“Cutting it?!” Flora brings a hand to her cheek, as if scandalized by the idea. “I- well, I’ve thought of it a few times, yes, but- I’ve never really...” With a strange focus, she twirls one of the strands by her face around her finger, before glancing back at Dusk. “Do you think it’d look good?”

“On you?” Dusk grins warmly. “I think it’d be great. Most of your tangles are in the lower half, so we could just cut them off.”

Suddenly, Flora frowns. “Oh, but we don’t have any scissors. I guess it was a nice thought.”

“I brought a dagger with me,” Dusk reveals, pulling said item from her boot. The handle is intricate and golden, yet not too flashy. “I could get the length down in no time.”

Flora chuckles. “You know, Artemis would kill you if you nicked me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Dusk surveys Artemis and Sun’s work at the firepit. Sun is currently demonstrating to Artemis the proper way to fan a fire, using a palm leaf.

“How do you know this?” Artemis asks her ancestor with a glint of suspicion in her eye.

Sun straightens, realizing Artemis’s implication. “I didn’t start any fires, Artemis, it was for a Loftwing ceremony-” At that point, though, Dusk stops listening, turning back to Flora.

“Then I’ll have to be careful.”

The first cuts are the most dramatic, slicing away the largest chunks of hair. Flora fidgets with her hands the whole time, but she has the poise to keep her head still for Dusk. Once it’s down to length, though, all that’s left to do is to clean up the edges.

Finally, running the locks through her fingers one last time, Dusk announces, “It’s done.”

Flora gasps with elation, and before Dusk can even lament their lack of a mirror, she pulls out her tablet. Much to Dusk’s surprise, when she points it back at herself, both of their faces appear on its screen. Her own shock and Flora’s pure excitement are reflected back at them.

“Oh, it’s amazing!” Flora turns her head back and forth, her new bob cut twirling with her. “Dusk, thank you so much for this!” She wraps an arm around Dusk’s shoulders, pulling her forward. “Smile!” she says, just before her slate makes a clicking noise.

By the time Dusk processed those words, though, it was already over.

“Wh-what was that?” Dusk stammers out.

For a brief moment, Flora looks at her with confusion. Then her eyes go wide, her mouth forming into an ‘o’. “I took a photo of us on the Sheikah Slate.” She holds out the slate for Dusk. “Do you want to see?”

Hesitantly, Dusk takes the tablet from Flora. She doesn’t have to do much after that because there, right on the screen, is a photograph of Flora’s sweet, smiling face. And Dusk is right next to her, looking towards her descendant with the most bewildered look on her face.

“Woah,” Dusk says, politely ignoring her less-than stellar appearance. “This is amazing.”

“I know, right?” Flora takes her slate back.

Struck with an idea, Dusk grabs a few of the strands of hair left on the ground, holding them up and shouting, “Hey, Artemis!”

Artemis looks between the hair in Dusk’s hand and Flora’s new cut. “What did you do to her hair?!”

Dusk waves the hair back and forth. “I got you more kindling!”

Flora and Sun’s laughs are worth the shade of red Artemis’s face turns.

  △ ▲△

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit with me?” Flora calls over her shoulder. She’s lounging on one of the sharp edges of their little islet, her legs hanging over and dipping into the sea below. “It’s a great way to cool down!”

“No thank you!” Sun responds with a smile. Together, she and Dusk are happily sitting under their makeshift canopy, constructed from their spare blankets and tied together both with stakes and to the sole tree on their shard of an island. Dusk’s own cloak has been abandoned, now serving as a barrier between them and the itchy grass.

“We don’t have bathing suits like you and Artemis do,” Dusk explains, with Sun nodding along solemnly, “So we probably shouldn’t get wet.”

Flora shrugs, but her resignation turns to horror as, suddenly, a hand wraps around her ankle. With a shout, she disappears past the ridge, into the ocean.

Oh, Lanayru’s tears!

“Flora!” they both shout, leaping to their feet and sprinting to the edge of the islet. When they skid to a stop, though, they don’t find a horrible sea monster attempting to snap its jaws around their descendant.

Instead, they’re just in time to bear witness to Artemis, waist-deep in the shallows, hefting Flora upwards and, despite her kicks of protest, supplexing her into the water.

SPLASH!

And, just like that, Dusk and Sun are soaked.

Artemis springs out of the water, laughing in a way a cat would laugh if it caught its prey. If Dusk didn’t know any better, with her wet hair and all her grace, she might have thought she was a mermaid.

“Rude.” Flora surfaces just behind Artemis, though she doesn’t emerge past her neck.

“You needed to stop delaying,” Artemis insists, crossing her arms. “I was getting bored on my own in here.”

“I was just checking on Sun and Artemis-!”

“Uh, hello?!” Dusk shouts and gestures to her dress, which is currently dripping saltwater onto the grass below. “Two sopping wet queens, here!”

“I’m not a queen,” Sun murmurs, though she’s mostly focused on wringing the water from the edges of her own dress.

“Can it, Sun,” Dusk orders, pointing an accusatory hand at Artemis. “You splashed us!”

Artemis rolls her eyes. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

“A little water?!” Dusk almost shrieks. “Do you know how much I spent on this dress?!”

Flora stops blowing bubbles to poke her mouth above the water. “Why did you bring an expensive dress on your time travel adventure?”

“Because as a queen,” Dusk refers to herself with her fingers on her chest. “I need to present myself nicely. In fact, I’m surprised you three don’t have anything nicer.”

“Anything nice I own has been eaten by moths by now,” Flora mutters. “Or malice.”

“This is my nicest outfit?” Sun reveals.

“Stop saying nice,” Artemis groans. “It doesn’t sound real anymore. Dusk, if your dress is ruined now, do you want to join us?”

Dusk gasps with indignation. “I would never-!”

“Fine! Fine!” Artemis waves her off. “Forget I asked. Go back to your castle or whatever.”

She almost leaps into the water then and there, just to give Artemis a piece of her mind. In fact, Dusk takes one sharp, threatening step towards, her fists curled into balls, when- “Come on,” Sun takes Dusk’s hand, and the contact grounds her in a way. “I know a lot of good laundry tricks. I could probably un-saltwater your dress.”

“You’d do that?” Dusk asks, almost confused as Sun guides her pack to their canopy.

“Of course,” Sun smiles at her. “Why wouldn’t I help?”

Artemis stands in the water, watching as Dusk and Sun retreat. Her lips are pressed together, eyes narrowed in, and Flora can’t figure out what she’s thinking for the life of her.

This kind of sucks.

Hylia, alright. She can figure this out.

For now, though, Artemis has made a grave tactical error, leaving her back to Flora while her attention is elsewhere.

As quietly as she can, Flora sneaks up behind Artemis. Then, when she’s close enough, she leaps at her back, pushing down with all of her might.

“I’ve got you!” Flora shouts, before realizing… Oh no. Even using all of her strength, she hasn’t pushed Artemis down an inch. And now, Artemis is looking right into her eyes, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

Wordlessly, Artemis flips Flora off of her back, and she lands in the water with a Smack!

“Ow,” Flora whimpers as she peeks back above the water.

With a sigh, Artemis dramatically brushes her hands off. “Now, that can’t be the best we can do.”

  △ ▲△

“Sun, this has got to end.”

That’s what Flora proclaims when she wakes Sun that night for her nightly shift.

“What’s gotta end?” Sun slurs, still half asleep.

“This fighting between Artemis and Dusk,” she crosses her arms. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ve noticed it too?” Sun asks as she rubs her eyes.

Flora shrugs, settling next to Sun’s bedroll. “I think just about anyone with eyes could notice that.” And then, without thinking, she adds, “It reminds me of Link and Revali.”

Just a little bit, Flora’s heart aches.

“Huh?” Sun tilts her head upon hearing this. “Who’s Revali?”

“Oh, Revali- uh,” Flora stammers awkwardly. “He’s a friend. Was a friend.”

Immediately, Sun breaks out those sad little eyes, as if she can guess exactly what happened to Revali. As if she knows anything about her Hyrule. “I’m sorry, I know it’s hard-”

“It’s fine!” Flora shouts, just a bit too loudly. Instinctively, she covers her mouth, though she’s relieved to see that Artemis and Dusk don’t stir within their own bedrolls.

“It’s fine,” she reiterates, quieter this time. “We need to focus on this, now.”

“Alright,” Sun pushes her blanket down, meeting Flora’s eye with a determined smirk. “How do you propose we do it?”

  △ ▲△

“See, this is the Cryonis Rune,” Flora demonstrates by summoning a pillar of ice in the shallow part of the water. “It can make ice.”

“Very interesting, Flora,” Dusk comments, eying the designs on the surface of the ice. “In fact, it’s kind of pretty, too.”

“Thank you,” Flora bows jokingly. “Obviously, it can be used to keep us cool during hot days. But also, they can be utilized as makeshift bridges across waterways.”

“Oh? Like from this island to another?” Sun’s acting leaves a bit to be desired, but she can at least keep the ball rolling.

Flora snaps her fingers at Sun. “Exactly! Now, I can’t be certain of where any proper islands are, but I can at least make my way over to one of the other land masses nearby. It could be good for foraging.”

Artemis raises her hand. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Of course, Wild has done it plenty of times,” Flora assures her.

“I don’t know if anything that kid does can be construed as safe,” Dusk murmurs under her breath.

Artemis’s eye slightly twitches at that. “Dusk does bring up a good point.”

“Oh for Hylia’s sake,” Flora pinches the bridge of her nose. “Wild is fine! He’s accident prone! Not safety unconscious!”

“Oh, last time he visited, we played this fun flying game!” Sun reveals with a small clap. “He kept jumping off the side of Skyloft, and I had to try and catch him with my Loftwing while he avoided me!”

“Sun just disproved your point, Flora,” Dusk points out, smugly.

“We’re getting off-topic!” Flora suddenly shouts. “I can only have three pillars up at a time, so not everyone can come with. Any volunteers?”

“Yeah, Wild was really good at that game!” Sun continues on as if nobody else spoke. “He almost reached the Surface once.”

“I said, any volunteers?” Flora states once again, drawing out the words to catch Sun’s attention.

“Oh, I-!” Sun clears her throat. “I’ll come with you, Zelda!” she says in a tone that is not at all natural.

Flora sighs deeply before muttering to herself, “Why’d you call me Zelda?”

“What was that?” Sun asks innocently.

“I said let’s go now!” Flora jovially swings her fist. “We don’t know how long we’ll be there, so we should get there as fast as possible.”

Artemis looks between the two of them, narrowing her eyes. Flora almost buckles under her scrutiny. “Alright, you two. Be safe, Dusk and I will be keeping an eye on you.”

“Yeah sure,” Dusk says, more focused on her nails than whatever Artemis is saying.

The climb onto the ice pillars is a bit slippery, but Flora and Sun are able to find their footing once they’re squarely on top. Slowly yet surely, they make their way towards the tallest of the island shards. They’d decided on it ahead of time, since it seemed like the obvious choice.

Occasionally, Sun keeps glancing back, meeting Artemis’s gaze every time.

“I think she’s onto us,” Sun whispers, tugging lightly on Flora’s cloak.

“Keep with the plan,” Flora assures her, though her voice is shaky. “Everything will be fine.”

Once they’re at the halfway point between the islands, Flora suddenly stops. Finally, she turns back, facing Sun.

“Are you ready?” she asks, holding her Slate up slightly.

Unable to bring herself to speak, Sun nods.

Without any hesitation, Flora pulls up the Rune once again. But this time, instead of creating a new ice pillar, she breaks the three they’re standing on.

For a brief, helpless moment, they’re weightless. Then gravity rushes in, and the two girls plummet into the sea below.

“Flora! Sun!” Artemis shouts, her hands on either side of her head in horror.

“Oh no!” Flora shouts, purposefully keeping her head just above the water. She thrashes with her arms around wildly.

Sun kicks up to the surface as well. “Dusk! Artemis! Save us!” Dramatically, she raises a hand to the sky.

“Idiots! You can swim!” Dusk doesn’t bother to stand, just cups her mouth as she yells at them both. “You’re not hurt or anything!”

“Uh.” Flora and Sun exchange a glance, temporarily pausing their drowning.

“There’s a sea monster!” Flora tries.

Artemis’s shoulders sag, and just barely, the two of them can hear a groan. “Get back on land! Both of you!”

“Naydra’s fucking ice!”

“Language!” both Artemis and Dusk reprimand Flora.

  △ ▲△

“Oh no, I’m bleeding to death!” Flora theatrically collapses into Sun’s waiting arms. “I need both of you to donate blood!”

“Flora,” Dusk deadpans. “You literally aren’t bleeding.”

  △ ▲△

“I got stung by a bee,” Sun pouts, holding up her finger. “I need medical attention from two great queens of Hyrule, please.”

“Why can’t Flora help you?” Artemis asks, noticing that said queen is poorly hiding behind the tree.

“She died.”

  △ ▲△

“Dusk, Artemis,” Flora solemnly approaches the two queens, both of whom were previously busy tending to camp. “I have decided to grant upon both of you a great honor. One that, previously, I’ve only given to my dear knight Link. And, as you know, I am heartbroken over the fact that it’s been so long since I’ve seen him, and I mourn his presence everyday. Desperately, I wish for his safety and hope to reunite with him soon This is a task that I hope you will take up in his name, for he is no longer here to-”

“Spit it out already, Flora,” Dusk commands, her hands paused in the middle of sewing her blanket, because she did accidentally slash it when she was working on her dagger. “You’re giving me a headache.”

Flora presents the Sheikah Slate to the two of them. “I want you to make dinner tonight.”

“No.”

  △ ▲△

“I give up!” Sun throws her hands into the air in the middle of dinner. Having suddenly lost her appetite, she pushes her fried wild greens to the side.

“Oh thank goodness,” Dusk sighs in relief, leaning back against their lone tree. She takes another bite of her meal. “I thought you’d never stop.”

“What exactly were you two doing, today?” Artemis questions, pausing her own dinner. “Were you trying out acting?”

“No,” Flora grumbles, crossing her arms.

Gently, the moon rises into the sky. Tonight, its left half is missing, like an incomplete puzzle.

Something inside of Sun snaps. How dare they?! Whether she’s Hylia or not, she’s their ancestor! And here they are, treating her like a child?! She isn’t even that much younger than them!

“Do not speak to me in that tone,” Sun’s words are sharp, like a knife through wool, and directed towards Artemis and Dusk. “I am your grandmother several times over, and I don’t deserve to be treated with such disrespect! You reap the benefits of my kingdom to this day!”

“Oh, like I’ve enjoyed leading your kingdom!” Dusk snaps back. “Do you know what I’ve done, what I’ve sacrificed for Hyrule? Don’t hold it over my head!”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Flora covers her ears.

“Can it Dusk!” Sun throws her words right back at her. “All day, Flora and I have been trying to get you two-” she points between Artemis and Dusk. “-to get along! We’re family, this shouldn’t be so hard!”

Artemis gives Dusk a pointed look. “Well maybe if some people were a little more open to my ideas, we wouldn’t have issues in the first place!”

“Oh since we’re going there!” Dusk stands, directing an accusatory finger at Artemis. “Maybe if you didn’t try to control everything, I wouldn’t have a problem with you!”

“Both of you, stop!”

Flora peeks one eye open, hoping desperately she doesn’t find one of her ancestors choking the other. But, in reality, it’s not any of her counterparts that catch her attention. No, it’s something past them, past their small islet…

There’s something on the water.

“What in Hylia’s name is that?!” Flora points at it in horror.

Shocked out of their argument, the three Zeldas all turn to follow her finger. Floating on the water, there it is.

A ship, bathed in a ghostly blue light.

[botwstoriesandsuch]

Linktober Day 1 - Monster/Beast

2391 Words

Warning for a mention of blood

Huzzah! I did it, Linktober is here and I actually wrote something of decent quality! Please enjoy Urbosa being a badass...

- - - - - 

“I heard your screams the other night, when you tried to consume my people.”

A shrill cry pierced the air. The night a bruising purple, the moon bleeding blue.

She stepped closer, and the screech of the desert grew louder, the echoes fading into wisping sandy grains. “Quite difficult, wasn’t it? Trying to burrow through Gerudo walls?”

The moon slipped beneath a midnight cloud, the horizon fading to foggy haze. Despite this, her head piece glistened gold, embers that glowed amidst her fiery hair. The glint of jewels adorned on her ears, shield, and scabbard was only rivaled by her flickering emerald eyes. She gazed at the desert, daring it to tremble once more. 

“Resilience is etched in the history of my people, to even the first of our endeavouring ancestors. Their walls, their craft, their blades, their legends— all of unyielding strength.” 

Another step forward, a hand resting on her hip; the Chief’s face was calm, yet determined. She looked around, but nothing moved. All was still as stone. 

“Perhaps time has made you forget, little worm.” She raised her voice this time, trying to get a reaction from the void.

“I will be happy to give you new peace of mind, when I pry your skull upon my steel.”

The world shook, another scream was let loose somewhere beneath her. The warrior pivoted her step, the metal sound of her blade unsheathed rang through the air. A confident note to a familiar song…

There you are.

The good thing about the desert is that it’s easy to spot things out of place. Amidst the towering ruins of forgotten sandstone monuments, one would assume that a moving pile of sand was out of the ordinary. 

It slithered by the corner of her gaze, disappearing just as she fully turned around— but it was enough, she had it. 

It was a mass of sand creeping, the sound of each grain slowly falling like water, settling back down to even earth as the warrior felt the shudders from underneath the ruins. The faint clicking of a blind wretch was all the confirmation she needed. This was the same beast.

“It is tradition to prepare for your demise, before each battle. A will, a tomb, a final wish…” She strutted carefully towards where she last saw the sand shift. “Such is the way of each warrior before me. I can only trust you’ve made your own plans.” The wind suddenly sighed deeply, and the shadowed clouds parted for the silver of the night.

“But if you have forgotten, you need not worry…”

Urbosa raised an arm to the sky, moonlight revealing her newfound smirk.

“For I will carve your grave.”

Snap.

BOOM!

A crack of thunder, a flash of green. The hair on her neck rose as lightning struck. The spot of sand Urbosa had targeted suddenly exploded upwards in a wave of earth. 

It screamed in pain, escaping towards the sky. As stray thunder struck in the ruins around her, the moonlight was suddenly obstructed by a monstrous silhouette, the shadow painted her and the sands grey.

The Molduga arched back towards the earth.

It thrashed and wailed as it dived, the momentum of its sudden plunge through the air made a thunderous noise of its own. The beast connected to the earth with a loud thud, before it attempted to burrow back under the ruins.

Oh no you don’t!

Urbosa ran forth to strike a blow, the winds behind her are her black skirt fluttering over the shivering ground. She could already feel the sweat trickling against her metal armour. Good, she thought, perhaps this night will be more of an interesting challenge after all. 

Even in the haze of night, she could determine her proximity to the beast from smell alone. The stench was ripe of muck, sulfur, and blood. Urbosa let loose her momentum and jammed her blade into its underbelly, another howl escaping the beast.

Quickly dodging its swiping tail, she jumped back and wiped her brow. The Molduga burrowed with newfound speed, escaping to the darkness below. A trail of oozing blood across the land was the only evidence of its existence, before the beast was completely swallowed by the sand.

The warrior scoffed. “What’s wrong? No chomping today?” Urbosa crowed, “As cowardly as your tactics are, I’d expect you would at least try to nip me!” She turned in place, eyeing the East Barrens for some sign of her foe. 

It was weak, that was for sure. Two nights ago, it had rammed its mighty and witless face against the walls of Gerudo Town— presumably in order to get inside. But the stone did not budge, and a fleet of warriors led by Urbosa were able to send the monster fleeing towards these ruins. 

An itch in the back of her skull told her there was more to the story...after all, Molduga don't seek people unprompted. They’re an ambushing species, preferring to wait for prey to walk over it before striking. Why it was agitated enough to seek out a populated town...Urbosa didn’t know. But at the end of the day, her mission would be the same— the beast won’t live to see the setting stars.

She had come equipped with her trusty Daybreaker and scimitar, her heels swapped for sandboots that better moved across the sinking earth. Not that it was incredibly necessary. All it took was a direct blow of lightning, and the thing would be nothing more than a tale for the tavern. But Urbosa knew better than to underestimate her enemy. 

The Gerudo Chief crept through the night, keeping her footsteps quiet and unassuming. The pillars of the East Barren towered with consuming shadows. The chiseled peaks that separated her and the distant Gerudo Valley stabbed the blackening sky with bronze. 

Feeling a charge stirr in her soul, Urbosa called out again. She had to find it before it found her first. 

“Won’t you grace me with your soothing song again? I promise to give you a thunderous applause!” 

The clouds billowed against the moon, shadows from looming structures flickered in and out. The ground quivered in response.

And in the distance, the desert exploded. 

A mass of sand swam towards her with violent speed. A ruined column in its path collapsed in a mess of sandstone and broken brick, falling pathetically in the sand. A sickening whine could be heard all around her, resonating from the earth, but undoubtedly sourced from the approaching foe. 

Now that’s more like it…

Urbosa stepped to the side, moving away from where she had last taunted the beast. It may be able to detect the vibrations of her voice and running, but her careful footsteps, with aid from the sandboots, would be nothing more than a whisper to the Molduga. 

She summoned the electric charge that stirred within her, she could already feel the air crackle and tense. As the mass of sand beckoned closer, she snapped her fingers once more, this time directing it towards a broader area in front of her. 

Thunder cracked like a whip, lightning striking around her. However this time, the energy was dispersed, focusing on three areas— far left, far right, and far center. The disturbed sand in their respective locations erupted as a result, before crashing back down nearly as quick as her own snap. 

The desert mound hesitated, slowing cautiously. 

Urbosa laughed to herself. Where will you go, little worm? Where do you think I am…

The Moldaga’s hulking figure didn’t hesitate for longer than a minute. It regained it’s moment, quickly veering to the side. It seems to have made its choice, assuming Urbosa was near where the far left lightning had struck. 

Urbosa readied her free hand, while adjusting her grip of her sword in the other. The Molduga approached her trap, sinking deep into the sand, and freeing the view to the horizon. 

And for a moment, Urbosa could see a forgotten sunset, on the faintest edge of the desert’s endless expanse. It winked faintly against the canvas of stars. The gentle slopes, carved with the delicate brush of the cool night breeze— for a moment you could forget the lurking dangers of this world. 

Then, the sunset erupted with fury.

The Molduga rose like fire, opening its jaws wide for an unseen prey. The last silver of the sun was stolen away by the beast’s enormous frame, and the sky bruised purple once more.

As it hung, suspended in mid air, the world was silent except for cascading grains of sand, and the Molduga’s shrill and deafening scream.

Snap. 

The sky flashed green, to white, and back.

The air charged, ready to crack into a boom. 

But thunder never shook the earth.

The Molduga’s cry was muffled by the resonating rumble in its throat. 

Urbosa sprinted forth, a grin stretched wide across her face.

She had struck true. 

The Molduga collapsed onto the ground, another explosion of sand filled the surrounding air. Its mouth crackled with static, its body twitched and convulsed. The smell of blood and sulfur was now a thousand times worse, it was as if someone had burned a whole graveyard. The sensation nearly made her eyes tear, but Urbosa did not stop to weep.

There would be no pity for the lightning eater. 

Urbosa let out a cry, before stabbing her sword straight through the Molduga’s lower jaw, pinning it to the sand. Its wail and horrific breath swept directly in her face, but the warrior did not flinch.

“I hope you enjoyed the view up there,” Urbosa walked towards its beady, useless eyes, leaning in, “It’ll be the last good thing you’ll see.” 

Urbosa studied the creature's face. It’s eyes glowed an eerie blue, luminescent in the night. Peering back towards the Molduga’s mouth, Urbosa frowned in confusion. 

Blue…?

Well that’s new. She furrowed her brow. As far as she could remember, the beasts of sand were amber, or brown in color, or at the very least some sort of hue that resembled the sand. They definitely weren’t of a stark lapis or cerulean, unless this was some sort of icy...snowy variant?

Urbosa shook the thought out of her head. Such a thing was impossible, Moldugas thrived on the depths of the desert sand, and such a feat could never be replicated in the tundras of Gerudo Highlands. Still, the beast’s mouth and eyes glowed mysteriously...new questions brewing in the Gerudo Chief’s mind.

But now was not the time, any moment, this monster would regain its strength and attack. 

Urbosa suddenly turned towards the beast’s upper back, noticing a different hum in the air. A thing and long stick protruded from one of its fins, and she climbed up to investigate. 

Using it’s tiny head as a stool, Urbosa lifted herself up and walked upon its back. The stick she had heard humming was growing faintly louder as she approached. Grasping both hands and it’s end, she pulled with great strength.

A glowing blue spear head emerged from the fin, flickering hot like fire. It’s hue was the same of that of the Molduga’s eyes and inner mouth. Could this be why this creature glowed…?

She balanced the spear in each hand. She wasn’t much of a spearman, preferring the balance of shield and blade. But her Scimitar was busy pinning it’s mouth to the ground, so it would have to do. 

Urbosa walked back over the Moldugas back, before positioning herself above the beast’s head. It was time. She let out a breath of adrenaline, and she could swear the thing had sighed in response. 

“I am no monster,” Urbosa steadied her grip, grazing the blue tip of the strange spear just above it’s skull. 

“I promise this will be swift.”

- - - - - 

“Ahem! Lady Urbosa...”

The Hylian advisor spoke again, cutting through the chief’s thoughts.

“When you say you used this strange spear, how certain are you of its effect? Did it truly slice through this new monster like...how did you say it...butter?”

Urbosa sighed, she’d been in this political meeting for what felt like a century. At this point, the Yiga were better company. 

“New in nature and color, but I assure you, the Molduga is as equally dead as all other beasts I have faced. The threat is gone.”

The Hylian clicked her tongue. “Yes, I understand the blunt of it, but I need the details specifically, if I am to reveal this information from Her Majesty, the Queen.”

The mention of her childhood friend renewed her interest in the conversation. “You have thrown the Queen of Hyrule’s title around quite lazily this evening, so perhaps we should cut to the point and not have you return to her empty handed? Hmm?” Urbosa raised an eyebrow with a smile.

The woman stammered for a moment, readjusting the bun of her brown hair. The throne room was probably scorching to this stuffy Hylian. In different circumstances, Urbosa might have felt pity.

“Very well,” the Hylian finally responded. “But I just need you to be absolutely sure that the glow was of Sheikah origin.” She gestured for probably the fifteenth time that night at the set of Ancient weapons on the table.

The weapons flickered blue, hot as fire, and as lightweight as air— were they not relics, Urbosa would have liked to keep the one that was shaped like a giant axe.

“Yes, I am positive.” Urbosa said sternly.

“It is my, and Her Majesty’s, belief that you do not endure a fight, but a trial. A trial planned by an ancient civilization.” the advisor spoke carefully, acknowledging that her words caused confusion for some of the Gerudo guards standing by the door. “Similar events have happened in other sections of Hyrule, beasts and signs that direct at certain individuals.”

The Gerudo Chief rubbed her chin thoughtfully, before shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand…”

The Hylian advisor pulled out a scroll, Urbosa could recognize the cursive handwriting of her royal friend. The other guards murmured at the royal wax seal on its surface.

The advisor spoke again. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it consumed the people’s attention nonetheless.

“Chief Urbosa, a new prophecy has been revealed, and I think you would find its contents quite interesting.”

[orangepeelers]

it’s you

my boys go to the beach and are a little very slow on picking up hints

***

Remus awoke to a text from Sirius.

As he saw his name on the screen, excitement bloomed in his stomach and made his toes curl. He felt elated for a brief moment, before forcing himself to punch the feeling down into the recesses of his mind. He couldn’t feel that way about Sirius. He wouldn’t feel that way about Sirius. He’s just your friend, he reminded himself. 

His heart didn’t really get the memo.

Remus rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced over at Peter’s sleeping form. The four of them were staying at the Potters’ beach house, spending the hottest days of the summer eating ice cream on the boardwalk and swimming in the ocean. He hated that despite the fact that Sirius was in the room next door with James, a text from him could still have such an effect. 

He unlocked his phone to read the text, anxiety and excitement mingling in his chest. Hey Moons. I woke up a little early today. Proud of me?

Remus grinned and rolled his eyes. Sure I am Pads. Of the four of them, Remus was the only early riser, a fact which he never let them forget. He found Sirius’ gesture endearing, if a little strange. Waking up early was so out of character for him. 

His legs jiggled nervously as he awaited a response. He couldn’t help but wonder whether his waking up early was for a specific reason. Running through his head in an attempt to tamp down his overactive imagination was a constant stream of shutupshutupshutupshutupshut-

Wanna go for a run on the beach?

Remus’ fingers moved of their own accord. Sure. Breakfast at 3 Broomsticks after?

Of course!! See u in like 2 seconds. Love u Moons 

At the last three words, Remus’ heart did a little skip rope routine. He knew it was just Sirius being Sirius, but the words still found the nooks and crannies of his brain and filled him with warmth. They stoked the fire of false hope he had burning in his mind, like vodka on their weekly beach bonfires.

He got dressed quickly, overthinking between his choice of old t shirts before settling on one from some event his parents had organized. Taking care not to wake Peter, he crept to the door and stepped into the hall, easing it shut. Sirius was already in the living room, long hair tied up into a ponytail. Black strands framed his face, bouncing against his cheekbones as he turned to look at Remus.

He flashed the grin that Remus had pictured so many times while trying to fall asleep. “Moons! Ready for our run?”

Remus smiled back. “Shocked that you have this much energy this early.”

Sirius shrugged, still smiling. “I was just in a mood today. C’mon!”

The two walked out the door into the oppressive humidity of the east coast. The orderly streets full of pastel-colored beach houses were quiet in the early morning, the people inside still sleeping off the previous day of swimming and sunbathing. Sirius immediately stripped his shirt off, tucking it into his waistband.

“Fuck, it’s hot.”

Remus pretended to shake his head in disapproval, but his eyes were tracing the sloping lines of the other boy’s biceps, wondering how it would feel to wrap his hands around them. He swallowed the thought before also stripping his shirt. Sirius grinned cockily.

“And I thought you were judging me.”

Remus mock-bowed. “Why, never!” 

They started running, following the unpopulated streets to the beach. It wasn’t too far, and when they got there the sandy plains were mostly empty except for a few people walking. A bubble of laughter and conversation surrounded them, disrupting the early morning silence. They ran along the beach, listening to the waves lap against the shore as they sun came up. By the time they got to the Three Broomsticks, they were soaked in sweat and panting hard.

Sirius pushed his hair off of his forehead and mopped the sweat with his t shirt. “Hell, I’m never waking up early again.”

Remus laughed. “Hey, what about Belgian waffles?”

Sirius considered the waffles for a moment. “Hmm... You do make a very valid point. Maybe I’ll do it once more. As a treat for you, of course.”

They laughed before slipping their shirts on and going inside. The Three Broomsticks was Remus’ favorite restaurant on the boardwalk. The inside was quaint, with blue-checked tablecloths and pictures of patrons and vintage posters lining the walls. Natural light streamed in through the big windows facing the beach as a few other early customers ate and chatted. The brunch rush hadn’t started yet, so they were able to get a table close to the big windows.

Remus studied the boy sitting across from him. His eyes were gray and studious as he read the menu, with a hint of mischievous humor, like he might order blue eggs and burst into laughter before the waiter could say anything. Dark hair fell across his face before he pushed it back, still reading through the list of pancake varieties. 

Sirius glanced up before Remus could look away. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something in my teeth?”

Remus just smiled, hoping the flush of embarrassment would be written off as a result of their run. “Just wondering why you’re reading this more intently than anything else I’ve ever seen you look at.”

“Hey, I take my breakfast very seriously, Moons.” He pointed a finger at him, pretending to be stern. “And you should too. It’s an important part of the growing boy’s regimen.”

“Okay, okay.” Remus put his hands up in surrender. “But I know you’re just going to order what you always do.”

“I also like routine, Moons.” Sirius said, shaking his finger before returning to the menu.

A waiter walked over and introduced himself before taking their orders. 

Sirius pretended to think. “I think I’ll have... Chocolate chip Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream.”

Remus shook his head at him. “I’ll have the same.” See, told you so, he mouthed. Sirius just rolled his eyes and smiled. 

The waiter took their menus and walked away. Sirius turned his full attention to Remus. “So, Rem. Lily tells me you have a little summer romance up your sleeve.”

Remus’ heart beat double-time. He’d confessed his crush to Lily, because he just had to tell somebody and he trusted her to keep her mouth shut. Technically, he supposed, she hadn’t told Sirius, but his legs bounced nervously like his deepest secret had been discovered.

Remus laughed awkwardly. “Well, I guess you could say that.”

Sirius cast an analytical look before sinking back into his chair. For a moment, Remus swore disappointment flickered across his face. Impossible, he reminded himself. Silence hung in the air thickly.

“Well, not quite a romance. More like useless pining.” He amended. He met Sirius’ gray eyes, and for once, they were unreadable as he studied him across the table. 

“Well, I think anyone would be lucky to have you.” Sirius said sincerely. “You should tell them. Who knows? They might feel the same, and you can have an actual summer romance.”

Remus smiled, a little sadly. “Yeah. Maybe.” He studied the tablecloth intently, a heavy layer of quiet laced with tension settling over them. They each pretended to be very interested in the cloth napkins.

Sirius cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, trying to break the tension. Thankfully, their waiter arrived with two plates stacked with thick waffles and glasses of fresh, bright orange juice. The arrival of food dispersed some of the binding silence and conversation flowed again as they dug into the hot, crispy-yet-soft waffles. 

They finished up their meal and paid the bill, setting out to walk back to the house. It was about nine, which was still relatively early in beach time. A few people were laying out towels and umbrellas on the beach. The sun was properly up, beating its hot rays down on the morning and dispersing the dew. Sea breeze carried the scent of salt as it ruffled their hair and scattered their laughter. 

As they got onto the more quiet streets, their conversation turned, once again, to talk of summer romances.

Why does he keep bringing this up? Remus thought. The last thing he needed was a reminder that the person he wanted most in the world was unattainable. The constant thought hung about his head like vines in a jungle, and he didn’t want to see those words personified as Sirius rambled on.

“I was really hoping this summer would finally be the one where I wasn’t afraid to speak my mind.” Sirius’ clear voice led Remus back to their conversation. 

A lump formed in Remus’ throat as he nodded. “Me too, honestly.”

They walked side-by-side, spilling out a little onto the lawns of the houses. Remus saw Sirius glance over, almost nervously, as he continued. “Yeah, I’ve sort of had this major crush on someone for a while. But I’ve never been able to tell them.”

Remus laughed, a little bitterly. How ironic that they were each in the same situation, yet Remus knew that Sirius could get anyone he wanted. He probably hadn’t told this mystery person because he wanted to see how long he could drag it out. Not that Sirius was cruel, but he couldn’t see any situation in which he simply couldn’t tell somebody he liked them. It just didn’t make sense. 

“Well, I think you should tell them.”

“Yeah?”

Remus swallowed thickly. What matters is that he’s happy, he reminded himself. All the useless pining in the world didn’t give him a right to impede Sirius’ happiness, or decide who he dated. “Well, if you’ve liked them for a while, then either they’ve figured it out or they’re too stupid to realize. Either way it would be a push in the right direction. And, you’re Sirius fucking Black.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus pushed him lightly and smiled. “You know what it means, you egoistic dolt. Like you told me, anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Sirius smiled faintly, as if adding Remus’ words to a mental list. They continued walking until they were about a block from the Potters’. By now, Peter and James were probably being woken up by Mrs. Potter opening curtains and humming. Remus smiled to himself at the thought. He looked over at Sirius, who was deep in thought, brow furrowed. He wished he could see what the other boy was thinking.

All of a sudden, Sirius stopped. He grabbed Remus by the hand and pulled him so they were facing each other. Their chests were bare inches from each other, which Remus was hyper aware of as he looked down into his face. He was a few inches taller than Sirius, and being so close made that feel like a few feet. He could feel his soft breath as they looked into each other’s faces.

Sirius’ gaze was intense as he took a deep breath. He was still holding onto Remus’ hand and he gave it a subconscious squeeze, as if trying to gather confidence. They stood like that for several seconds until either of them remembered to talk.

“What-”

“Rem, I-”

They laughed a little breathlessly. Remus seriously thought that his heart would explode. All he wanted was to close the distance between them. But he restrained himself and settled for saying, “You first.”

Sirius hesitated a moment, before resolve hardened in his eyes. “It’s you.”

“What?”

“You’re the summer romance person. You’re the person I’ve liked for a while.”

Remus blinked. The words floated around his head before he was able to string them together. All he could do was stare back at Sirius, unable to believe what he was hearing. He felt like a fish gasping on a dry dock, unable to suck in air to form words. “I- um, I-”

Sirius stared back, expression alert as Remus floundered for words. Finally, he was able to peel the letters from his throat and force the sentence out. “It’s you too.”

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, as the realization of their words settled around them like snow. Slowly, Sirius placed his hands on Remus shoulders, the around his neck, fingers tracing the muscles there gently. His hands shook Remus out of his stupor and he pulled Sirius closer, hands on his waist.

Then Sirius kissed him.

The kiss was everything a kiss should be. Deep in his stomach, Remus felt the same excitement from earlier in the morning return a hundredfold. Sirius’ mouth was soft and sweet from the waffles. They were so close, bodies pressed together despite the summer heat. He felt like a body of stars, constellations blooming on his skin wherever Sirius touched him. Adrenaline raced through his body as Sirius pulled back to look at him.

He smiled, softer than Remus had seen him before, a smile just for him. “I’d say this is my summer.”

Remus smiled back, hands intertwining behind his waist. “I’d say so too.”

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) Epilogue- Home

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 5105

Warnings: Only that Ivar likes to monologue like a super villain.

AN: And we've finally reached the end! Again, thank you to those who stuck around, liked, reblogged, and left such lovely comments 💙

28- New Beginnings

...

The gods had blessed their journey with fair weather.

The mountainous skyline was finally in their line of vision after months of travel. The sun followed them, searing them through their wool lined clothes. Most of the men grumbled, removing the layers of heated fabric and leather to find some relief under the sweltering heat.

The water was bluer than Artemis remembered, the colorful fish swimming beside their ships as if greeting them. Their surroundings were vivid and full of color, far from the gray skies that dominated the sky in Norway. The Mediterranean skies were full of unimaginable life.

She brings her eyes to the shadowy figures atop the cliffside. One by one foreign men mounted on impressive horses lined up on the edge of the rocky hill watching the ships head closer to their captured coast line. She was hoping it was a lie, or that perhaps these men had left back to where they came from. But those were childish thoughts, and she couldn't hide her disappointment. She grips tightly at the wool covering her knees, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"Andalusian's." Ivar comments beside her, the hood of his cloak hiding the seasick look on his face. He watches her features harden, her eyes holding a reckless darkness to them. He reaches over to cover her hand with his own, successfully loosening the tension between her fingers and laces their fingers together.

She lets out a breath through her nose, muttering something that was most certainly insulting towards those men, but remains silent after that.

"They will come to greet us at shore," He says after a moment, "And they will try to threaten us." Artemis finally turns to look at him, tightening her grip on his rough hand.

"Are you worried?" She wanted so much to tease him, but only succeeded in revealing her own concerns. She was the worried one.

Ivar scoffs.

"I command the most powerful army in the world," He boasts, waving his hand about, "There is nothing to fear." Artemis smiles. She always did admire her husband's courage and ambition.

Under Ivar's command was an impressive fleet, accompanied by his best warriors such as Dafi and Whitehair, alongside Bjorn and his men. The oldest Ragnarson joined their expedition without hesitation, honoring the alliance between Kattegat and Hedeby, as well as honoring his own ambitious heart. He loved the Mediterranean.

Bjorn too had his eyes on the cliffside, commanding his men to have their shields at the ready, and Ivar followed suit with his own warriors.

Artemis struggles to remain calm, closing her eyes as the salty wind caresses her heated cheeks, her ears focusing on the soft grunts of the men steering their ships. For a moment her mind wanders back to Kattegat, to Hvitserk who was ruling over the Kingdom in their absence, and most of all, to their child that was left behind for safety. The image of their little princess appears behind her lids, and she wanted so much in that moment to hold her.

"Baby bird," Ivar calls out to her, releasing the hold she had on his fingers to tug the sleeve of her simplistic tunic, "Our daughter is fine." He reassures her. Even now he always seemed to know what she was thinking. He pulls her closer in an embrace so that she may settle against him, planting a kiss to her brow. "You know Hvitserk is protecting her. He loves her as if she were his own."

"Yes, I know." Was her mumbled reply.

"And I'm sure she is having a wonderful time with Asa and Heracles." Artemis listens, but her eyes go back to the men on the cliff side.

"But she is so young, and if we don't return..."

"Artemis." Ivar reprimands her as if he were reprimanding their own child. He never once thought that his daughter would become orphaned while they went on this journey. It was simply a scenario he refused to mull over. He vowed to return to her, no matter the circumstances.

"I miss her." Was all his wife said, resting her head against his shoulder in comfort.

"I know, I miss her too. We will reunite soon enough, hmm?" He lays his head atop of hers, stroking his fingers over her hair, "I promised you long ago we would journey to your homeland. I did not intend to break that promise." Artemis lets out the smallest hint of a smile, lifting Ivar's large hand to place a kiss on it.

The hours passed slowly, until finally they neared the shore. The ships hadn't quite settled onto the sandy bank, and before Ivar could blink, his wife was already splashing into the water, her bow and quiver in hand. He watches her struggle, the water seeping into the material of her thick breeches weighing her down but still, she pushes forward.

Ivar grunts, swinging his legs over the edge of the small boat before stabbing his crutch into the wet sand. He pulls himself up, moving through the shallow water as quickly as he could manage before the waves could set in. He barks out orders, telling his warriors to be alert in case of attack, their swords and shields on hand. Ivar himself was covered in his weapons, his axe and sword hanging from his waist, as well as his usual daggers hidden within his trousers.

Bjorn settles beside his youngest brother, surveying the familiar area as quickly as he could. The nature surrounding them was just as breathtaking as the first time he had seen it.

"Well?" Bjorn questions him, "What do you think?

"You always did dream of sunnier places," Ivar tells him, "I now understand why." The brothers stayed silent for a moment, enjoying the sound of the waves and the squawking of the seagulls soaring above.

"I took her away from her home and you've managed to bring her back," Bjorn comments. He crosses his arms, licking his dry lips before casting down a look towards his brother.

"She deserves it." Ivar replies, not wanting to disturb his wife's peace. They watched her as she reached down to touch the sand, grabbing a handful of the grainy stuff only to watch it slip through her fingers. Quickly she bends to remove the boots from her bare feet to feel the hot sand between her toes.

With a smile he looks on before whispering to himself,

"Welcome home, my love."

...

Ivar's suspicions were correct. The entourage of men from the cliffside met their own, their horses stomping around in an act of intimidation. That didn't work out too well. Ivar, finally within his chariot, smirks. He leans against the railing, already looking like a predator waiting for its prey. It has been quite some time since he's killed anyone.

"Do not taunt them, Ivar." Artemis mutters a warning as she moves to stand beside his chariot, casting him a look when he scoffs in reply before bringing her attention towards the well dressed leader.

He was a man of a darker complexion with equally dark eyes lined in khol. He immediately recognizes Bjorn, the smallest hints of a sneer forming on his lips. It seemed Bjorn had left an impression in the past, and from the looks of it, not a very good one.

"I see you're back, Bjorn Ironside," He grunts, his accent heavy on the northern tongue, "There is no mistaking those ships." Both Ivar and Artemis look at the man before turning to Bjorn in disbelief. Bjorn was not at all phased with seeing this particular man again.

"A pleasant surprise, Abu Hafs," The oldest Ragnarsson says the man's name as greeting, "The years have been good to you," The man barks out a laugh, tilting his head in amusement.

"I can't say the same for you, Viking." He proceeds to rake his eyes over his companions.

"My brother, King Ivar of Kattegat, and his wife, Queen Artemis." Bjorn answers the silent question. The man makes a low noise of confusion, eyes scrutinizing them. How could they be king and queen looking the way they did? The King was quite tall, but leaned heavily on a crutch. Metal wrapped around his legs like iron serpents. The Queen had on as much leather as a man would, wearing the gear of a warrior. The Arab man blinks, thinking what an odd pair of royalty they were. He did not miss the look they both held in their eyes, though he noticed the King's gaze promised far more danger then he let on.

"It is a pleasure, King Ivar, Queen Artemis," He politely greets them with a tiny bow of his head, and the pair return his sentiments. He then shifts his gaze towards their warriors behind them bearing their weapons. "I don't suppose this is a friendly meeting?"

"We're not here to raid." Artemis responds in her native Greek, far too tired of fake pleasantries and small talk. She approaches the man with careful steps, being mindful of the large horse he was mounted on. The horse whinnies, but does nothing more at her presence. Said man was taken aback, his brows shooting up so high they could have hid under his bright orange head wrap.

"You're Greek?" He asks in disbelief, wondering to himself how he hadn't noticed it before.

"Yes," She answers, "From this very island." Her tone was far from agreeable, it could have been picked up from anyone in hearing distance. The leader narrows his eyes, not appreciating her insinuation. He mutters something in Arabic that she couldn't make out, causing his men to snort in quiet laughter.

"Then what are you all here for, woman?" Artemis scowls, pushing down the strong desire to shoot this man with an arrow. She could already sense what he was about and what he thought of the opposite gender. Crossing her arms, Artemis lifts her chin up to look at him directly despite how much shorter she was.

"I seek a blacksmith in one of the main villages in Chania."

"You've come all this way for a blacksmith?" The man replies to her, finally jumping off his horse. He wasn't very tall, much shorter than anticipated, but still, he towered over her.

Ivar immediately moves his chariot forward in response. He picked up on a few words in their conversation, getting a sense of what was being said, and he did not like the sound of it. He steps off the chariot, masking his discomfort well, and stood behind his wife, ready to defend her if need be.

Bjorn stares between the Arab leader and his sister in law, catching very few words as he did not pick up Greek as well as Ivar had.

"We've come for my father."

"Ahh," Then Arab man quickly sweeps his eyes over her again before coming to a conclusion, "You were taken by these people as a slave."

"With all due respect, that is no concern of yours."

"How cunning you must have been to become queen of a foreign people." Artemis blinks, not sure how she should retaliate without potentially endangering them all. She glares at him, and the Arab man smirks back.

"Should I kill him?" Ivar asks her rather loudly, his fingers lightly dancing on her waist, "I could kill him."

"Ivar." Bjorn warns, but is cut short when Artemis removes a hidden dagger from Ivar's side, bringing the pad of her finger to the tip.

"Or I could do it myself." She says casually, speaking as if the man weren't there. She teasingly points the dagger at the Arab man, waiting for him to react. The Andalusian warriors immediately point their weapons at them, swords and bows just a few feet away. Ivar's men did not hesitate in reciprocating their actions, axes glimmering in the sunlight.

Bjorn stomps over to snatch the dagger from Artemis's hand with a hard yank.

"Enough," The older Ragnarsson says, putting a hand up in a form of surrender, "When did you become as impulsive as my brother?"

Suddenly the Arab man barks out another laugh, clearly amused. He orders his men to lower their weapons before putting his hands to his hips.

"I see you both make for better company than Bjorn ever did," He jokes, watching Bjorn furrow his flaxen brows in displeasure before bringing his attention back to Ivar, "Your wife is very vivacious, King Ivar. An admirable trait."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Ivar bites out a quick response, a smirk settling on his lips as he holds her tight.

"Very well, I will accept you are here in search of someone, a certain blacksmith, but what have you to offer in return for allowing you and your men into my lands?" Artemis scoffs, rolling her eyes at the sheer audacity this man had at calling the island his. Before she could spit out a sarcastic comment, Bjorn interjects.

"We wish to trade," He tells him, "I'm sure you will be satisfied with the items we've brought." The leader hums.

"Go on."

"We bring furs from all over Scandinavia," Ivar continues, "The best pelt's of brown bear from Norway." He motions to Dafi, ordering him and a few men to drag a crate off one of the ships. Once opened, Ivar digs a hand inside, pulling out a shiny pelt of fur belonging to a large brown bear. He runs his thumb over the soft hairs, offering the pelt to the Arab man, who took it from him with eager hands.

They all watch the man inspect the fur, impressed with the fine quality. He nods with a grunt of approval, handing Ivar back the pelt.

"Very well," He says, "I will grant you my hospitality," He mounts his horse, steering the beast round with his men following his lead. Picking up the reigns he turns to glance at them, "I humbly welcome you all to the Emirate of Crete."

...

The Emirate of Crete.

Artemis thinks bitterly, her eyes glaring daggers at the Arab leader's back. She didn't like him, she didn't like his men, and she most certainly didn't like his arrogance.

"I fear your face will remain that way." Ivar jokes, peering up at her with his charming smile. It was his attempt to calm her nerves.

"I don't like him."

"Neither do I, my love," He mutters, "Though he trades with us decent goods."

"Slaves?" She mutters defensively, and Ivar thinks that perhaps Bjorn was right, she was taking after him.

"Some slaves, yes," He responds, "Among other items." Artemis only grunts in response. "Such is the way of the world, Artemis, you know this."

"And they will not be as lucky as I." She says, finally deciding to rip her eyes away from the offending man and towards their surroundings.

Part of her didn't want to be there.

How long had she dreamt of this very moment, only to feel like she wanted to run and hide?

4 years?

4 years of sadness, pain, happiness and peace all in one congested mess of emotions that had her questioning her sanity in such moments.

She remembered that day vividly.

It was as if it all occurred just days ago. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could reimagine it all again, the screams, the blood, the tears.

She chooses to watch Ivar's face taking in the foreign sights. It was a lovely distraction. He'd never been this far from home before. Ivar wouldn't admit it, but he was fascinated to be in such a land so unlike his own, where the sun never seemed to set and the heat was beyond anything he'd felt on his pale skin.

He seemed so childlike, like a curious babe entering the world.

Artemis wanted to appreciate such a moment, the rare sight of her husband being absorbed into his surroundings was adorable. He swore no lands could outshine Kattegat, but judging by his curious eyes, he found something close to it.

Finally, her eyes catch the sight of the monastery. That was when the dam of her emotions broke, and she couldn't hold herself together any longer. She fights with herself, the stubborn tears already pooling at the rim of her eyes, threatening to spill. She sniffles, wiping the falling tears angrily. Her hot tears fall against Ivar, droplets landing on his hand.

He gazes up at her again, seeing how she wiped at her face furiously, skin flushed from fighting her emotions. Ivar frowns, taking up her hand to brush a kiss over her knuckles. He lets her have a moment to herself, deciding to wrap an arm about her waist in simple comfort.

Keeping a tight grip on the reigns, he turns to look at the infamous monestary, made of white stone and now donning a symbol that he knew was not that of the Christian's.

Abu Haf's men led the procession along into the bustling village, the roads small and rocky under the wheels of the chariot. It looked war torn, signs of battle and struggle through every corner. The people gaze at Ivar's men with wide eyes. Many glared, and many others hid in their homes and shops. Just like the Andalusian's, they were not welcomed.

It was a short ride. Bjorn took it upon himself to stay back and watch over the ships with a few of his own warriors under the watchful eye of the Andalusian men.

A few moments later and the procession stops in the main square of the village.

"The blacksmith," Abu Hafs says from atop his horse. He points to the familiar shop, but Artemis already knew the way. She grips Ivar's shoulder tightly in her nervousness. Everything appeared the same, though the stones were a bit eroded since she was there last. Smoke escaped from the chimney above, a clear sign that someone was at work.

"Artemis?" Ivar questions, moving to push a few stray hairs behind her ear. She turns to him with shining eyes, a look of fear settling within the dark pools. She hadn't looked that frightened in such a long time. It broke his heart to see her in such grief.

"Are you ready?"

"No," She whispers, "No, I don't think I am." Her feet seemed rooted to the base of his chariot, and it appeared she wouldn't be moving for a while. Ivar stood with a grunt, quickly placing a kiss to her cheek before stepping off into the direction of the shop.

"Ivar?" She calls out to him frantically, "What are you doing?"

"Going to meet my father in law, is it not obvious?" He turns around to look at her with a smile, "He is part of the family, no?"

"Yes but-"

"You come in whenever you're ready, hmm? Dafi, watch over her." Ivar orders the warrior, giving a quick glance to Abu Hafs, his eyes sending a warning.

Once he pushes the door, he immediately catches sight of an older man. He was of moderate height and quite burly for his age. He worked as every blacksmith would, dipping a sword into a bucket of cold water. The steam rose and cleared before Ivar decided to speak.

"Giannis?"

The older man turns around, immediately stiffening at the sight of him. He stares at Ivar long and hard, raking his eyes over his form before whispering.

"Viking."

Ivar smirks, hobbling in to get a closer look at the man who truly had a strong resemblance to his wife. It was unmistakable.

He searches his mind for the proper words before speaking.

"Your daughter has been waiting for this moment a long time," He tells him, finding a stool to sit on, "And in some ways, I have as well. She speaks fondly of you." It was quite amusing really, to see the man as frozen as a deer moments before its death by an arrow.

The man says nothing, his hand twitching over the pommel of the sword left to cool in the bucket. He scrutinizes the northerner before him and his calm actions. Ivar doesn't bat an eye when the man lifts the sword in a defensive stance, pointing it towards him.

"I want no trouble." The man, Giannis, says, thick brows furrowing when Ivar scoffs, waving his hand about as he usually did.

"I'm not here to cause trouble." The blacksmith was even more confused, slowly lowering the sword cautiously. Isn't causing trouble what Vikings did?

"You know, she is a queen now." Ivar tells him, choosing to observe his surroundings. It was a quaint little forge, supplied with what was necessary, similar to the one back home. He could already imagine Artemis scurrying about in there once upon a time.

The man blinks, quite stunned into silence. Frankly, it appeared as if he were struck in the face. He couldn't fathom what was more odd, a pillaging Northman sitting before him, or the fact that he spoke Greek. Both were equally odd.

"You understand me, yes?" Ivar questions him, eyebrows raised. He leans his arms on his crutch, waiting for the man to answer him. The blacksmith nods, placing the sword atop the table before removing his gloves. He then glances at Ivar's braces and crutch, finally bringing his gaze to look him in the eyes. The same eyes of his wife.

"You like them?" A smile begins to curl at the corners of Ivar's lips, "Your daughter's creation. You taught her well."

"How do you know my daughter?" The man's voice was suddenly like a whip. Any normal person would have flinched, but Ivar was far from normal. Ivar lets out a chuckle, as it became clear to him where Artemis had inherited her temper from.

"She is my wife," Ivar articulates as best he could, enjoying the way the man's face went from panic, to an even greater panic, "And that makes you my father in law."

"What?" The blacksmith sneers.

"As well as a grandfather." Ivar continues his chatter. The man was greatly overwhelmed. He runs a hand through his graying hair, his aged skin seemingly more pronounced as he ponders the situation.

"I don't understand," He says, "My daughter was killed by your people."

"She was captured," Ivar corrects, though not very happy to have said that, "And is very much alive." The older man grunts, picking up the sword and placing it back into the bucket with a force that surprised Ivar.

The blacksmith says nothing, walking toward the far corner of the forge and quickly producing a clay jug along with 2 clay cups. He pours himself wine, quickly gulping it down before filling the other cup and handing it over to Ivar.

"Drink."

Ivar sniffs at the wine out of habit, not much a fan of the fermented grape drink as his wife was, but decides to take a sip.

"It has been nearly 4 years," The man begins, bringing a stool over to sit a few feet from Ivar, "Artemis is dead. I have come to terms with it." He pours himself another cup and downs it with a deep grunt, holding the cup so tightly Ivar thought it might shatter in his grasp. "We haven't seen your people around here in quite a while, so tell me, has a man of the North come to kill me, or pester me, hm?"

"Neither." Was Ivar's simple reply.

"Then what is it you want? Weapons?"

"Just a man wanting to reunite his wife with her family." The older man was skeptical, looking at Ivar with narrowed eyes.

"If what you claim is true then where is she?"

"Right outside."

As if on cue, Artemis bursts into the forge, her chest heaving as if she ran for miles. She swallows thickly, her throat feeling dry from the anxiousness.

Both Ivar and her father turn to look towards the outburst, only to find a nervous young woman wringing her hands together as she slowly steps forward.

She didn't know what to think, what to say, what would he-

Her fathers eyes found hers instantly, and the cup fell from his hand, shattering across the floor in pieces. She takes a step back on instinct, her eyes following the shattered clay pieces that scattered towards her feet.

"I must be dreaming," The blacksmith says, shooting up from the stool, yet makes no movement to approach her, "The devil tests me." Ivar snorts immediately, bringing them both out from their haze.

"This is no work of the devil, I assure you." He tells him.

Father and daughter merely stare, eyes battling each other, waiting to see which one of them was the illusion.

"Father," Artemis's voice cracks, "I thought you were..." She stops herself, choking back a sob. She couldn't speak after that, giving in to the grief of painful separation. It hurt Ivar to see her in such a state. He hated it. He attempts to reach for her but stops himself short when her father finally strides forward, grabbing her into a tight embrace.

"My sweet girl." He struggles to say through his own sorrow, enveloping his daughter in a tight embrace. This was the moment that Artemis had been waiting for, the moment she thought impossible. To feel her father's touch again was almost bittersweet, as her new home was worlds apart from his.

After a few moments her father pulls away from her.

"Let me get a proper look at you," He says, holding her at arm's length, "You've not changed, though your state of dress is certainly different." He gives her a teary smile, hearing the tiny hiccup of a laugh within her sobs. Her delicate face hadn't changed much, but it was obvious to him that she had matured. She was far from the young girl he remembered. Her eyes held many tales from across the seas.

"This Viking says you are a queen, that you are his wife." Her father's tone was gentle as he was known to have a soft nature by those who knew him well. His previous panic with Ivar had subsided and was replaced with a new found curiosity. Artemis nods, wiping her face free of tears.

"His name is Ivar," She begins, "It is true...I am his wife. We rule a kingdom in the far North." She tries to keep her voice leveled, wanting to be strong. She was proud of being wife to her husband. Turning to look back at Ivar he offers her a reassuring smile. He was listening intently, making sure to follow their conversation. She smiles back, feeling much more confident.

"I thought I would never see you again," She admits, turning back towards the older man "And when I was told about the Andalusian's, I assumed nothing but the worst for you." Her father nods, running a hand down his face.

"It has been a challenging few years," He admits, "But we still persevere. We always do." He then turns away from them for a moment to collect his thoughts, a question burning in his mind. He turns back round with a sigh, placing a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I was told you have a child?"

"A daughter, Sól," Artemis smiles at the thought of her little girl, "She is back home with Ivar's brother for safety." Her father hums in response, though he was saddened at his daughter's idea of home.

"Home? Is it not here in Chania?"

"This place is just a memory of what it once was. There is nothing for me here. There is nothing for you here either, father." Her father frowns at her response. It was true. Though the Andalusian's ransacked their island, it was still home.

"Her home is where her family is," Ivar finally interjects, "And her family is in Norway." The older man gives Ivar a stern look.

"Tell me, Viking, do you know the pain of losing a child?" His voice was calm, but behind the cool exterior was a slow boiling rage. Ivar clenches his jaw, his lips forming into a tight line. He gives the man a hard look before bringing his gaze towards his worried wife, and then towards his hands gripping his crutch.

"No," Ivar answers bitterly, "I do not know of such pain. Nor do I ever wish to feel it with my own child."

"I have lost a wife, a son, and for 4 agonizing years I believed I had lost a daughter," The blacksmith explains, grunting as he sits back down upon the stool opposite of Ivar, "Your people have caused damage to many hearts here." Ivar remains silent, fingers tightening over his crutch while he listens to the words of the old man.

"Forgive me for wanting my daughter to return home." He raises his eyes to glance at his daughter, who stood beside the northern as if she were always meant to be there, "But I could already see that remaining here is not part of her plan," He sighs with smile and a shake of his head," Artemis has always been a force to be reckoned with."

"Oh?" Ivar grins, bringing his eyes to his wife. Her cheeks burned red.

"Father-"

"Did she ever tell you of the butcher boy? Scared the poor boy to death when she tried bringing a hammer to his head. Put me in much trouble with the boy's father." Ivar grins hearing the tale, his fingers trailing over Artemis's lower back.

"I would very much like to hear more of these stories." He laughs at his wife's embarrassment, squeezing her tight from round her waist.

Her father beckons his daughter forward, offering his aged hand for her to grasp,"Oh daughter," He stands, embracing her again, "My heart both sings and weeps for you." She hears the pain in his voice, the grief of an old man at wits end.

"You mustn't worry for me. I am well and Ivar takes good care of me."

"He treats you well?"

"Like a queen." She responds, and the father could feel her smiling against his tunic.

"And your daughter?"

"Takes after her mother," Ivar answers, "She is the jewel of Kattegat." The blacksmith smiles, quiet content with the answers received. They stayed silent for a few moments before he lets out another sigh, speaking with slight amusement in his tone.

"Well then," He begins, looking down at Artemis, "I suppose I can't threaten to marry you off to the butcher's boy anymore, hmm?"

Artemis breaks out into a smile more blinding than the Mediterranean sun.

...

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 10: Premonitions]

Several weeks and depressive episodes later...I’m BACK! 😃

And guess what: we’re officially approximately halfway done with BYCNL! (There will probably be nineteen chapters total.)  

The Queen/BoRhap fandom is feeling extra quiet lately, so if you’re still out there I’d LOVE it if you dropped me a comment/message/etc to let me know! I appreciate you all so much and hope you are finding things that bring you happiness, fulfillment, and peace. 💜

Chapter summary: Roger makes a purchase, Freddie makes a friend, Y/N makes an unsettling discovery, John makes a bewildering request.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies (but not your babies...or are they?!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 😊

“Roger, this is too much.” Your sandals click on the marble tile floor, a sandy gold like the beaches of Ostia. You peer up at the winding staircase, the Tudor-style diamond windows, the chandelier dripping with crystals. “This is way, way, way too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much,” he parries merrily. “And look!” He pulls back an armful of sheer white curtains that had obscured the backyard. “The pool has a slide!”

You smile because you have to; he’s so elated, so young. “Roger, baby, unless you’re planning to acquire a literal harem of women we will never have a use for six bedrooms.”

“Sure we will!” He counts on his rugged fingers. “There’s one for us, and one can be the guest bedroom for when my mother or your parents visit, and then there’s one for if Chrissie ever wises up and leaves that wanker Brian and requires a place to stay between husbands, and one for when John needs an escape from that mind-numbing domestic purgatory of his, and one for Freddie’s overflow cats...” Roger trails off. He’s lost track.  

“That still leaves one unnecessary bedroom.”

He grins. “One for Roger Junior.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a wonderful home for children,” the real estate agent chimes, flitting around rearranging pillows and dusting off tabletops. “Plenty of space to spread out in, lots of bedrooms, fenced-in yard, security gate, spectacular school district...and such a lovely garden to explore! Does your wife garden?” she asks Roger.

“Girlfriend,” he corrects. “And no, she’s thoroughly useless in the agricultural department.”

You laugh and shove him away. “I have other talents.”

“You certainly do.” He growls as he grips your waist, inhales you, bites playfully down your neck and collarbones. The real estate agent raises her eyebrows, but politely averts her gaze and pretends to check if an artificial fern needs watering.

It’s the downturn of August, 1976. The sun is glaring and hot and spills in through the windows, setting the metallic flecks in the marble floor alight. It makes you think of the Yellow Brick Road, of fantasies built piece by piece into truth. John and Veronica bought a house in Putney, Brian and Chrissie a far larger one in Chelsea, Freddie and Mary a posh flat in West Kensington. Roger has his heart set on nothing less than a Surrey mansion. On the rare occasion that Queen has been home since the start of the A Night At The Opera Tour, you and Roger stay in his shabby—dodgy, you remind yourself—old apartment and pack boxes late into the evening, giggling over all the random and ancient relics you stumble across, sticks of Freddie’s eyeliner and dust bunnies tangled in strands of Brian’s spiraled hair, crumpled up spheres of paper with excerpts of songs scrawled on them, fossilized crusts of grilled cheese sandwiches beneath the couch. Queen is preparing for a brief UK tour at the start of September, including a free concert in Hyde Park organized by entrepreneur Richard Branson. Then it’ll be back to the studio to record their next album, a highly anticipated album, an album that will make millions regardless of what’s on it; and what’s on it, in your humble and musically unlearned opinion, is pretty goddamn great.

“Seriously,” Roger prompts, quietly now. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. I love it. I just don’t need it.”

He grins. “I know you don’t need it. But I do.”

“That list of yours is getting awfully long.”

“You have no idea. We haven’t even started on the exotic pet collection yet.”

“There’s a marvelous koi pond out in the backyard,” the real estate agent says. “You could add turtles, and frogs, and all different types of fish. I can recommend sturgeon, they have such an alluring primeval sort of look to them, and the shimmer on shubunkins is just delightful...”

“You heard the lady.” Rog stretches his right hand like he does when his arm bothers him, when the bone that will never fully heal aches like something ancient and irredeemable, like hunger, like unrequited love: fingertips sprayed outwards, then folded into his palm, then outwards again.

“Rog...I don’t know.”

“Come on, baby! It has everything. Roman-style master bath. Bedrooms with mirrors on the ceiling. Space for my own studio. Land. Enormous refrigerators. You’ll have abundant room for John’s drawings.”

“Ohhh, now that’s true.” John is always adding to your collection, slipping you sketches as the boys scurry around getting ready before a show, during songwriting sessions that last long after midnight, when the band and its expanding circle of friends and family gather for birthdays and holidays. You don’t ask him about You’re My Best Friend, or, come to think of it, any of his other songs. You don’t ask him how he feels about his new life as a husband and father. And in return, John doesn’t ask whether you’re ever going to marry Roger, if you even want to, if you worry about what the future holds. It’s a loaded peace, but a comfortable one. A safe one.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Roger asks suddenly. “The girlfriend thing. The not-wife thing.”

“No,” you reply, smiling. “Of course not.” Roger isn’t someone who pens love letters, recites all the reasons why he cannot live without you, sings love songs. He rarely speaks of love at all. Roger is as he always is: all action, all energy, eyes forever looking forward. But he does love you; you’re sure he does. Everything he does bleeds with love.

“Good. Because there’s no one I’d rather acquire a harem and zoological park with.”

“Okay,” you relent. “But no lions or tigers or bears. I’m quite attached to your limbs, and you’ve come close enough to ruining them already.”

“Deal.” He taps the Canon that hangs from your shoulder by its strap. “We should document this momentous juncture. One day we can pull out the photo album and show Roger Junior. ‘Hey look kid, this was the day Mum and Dad bought the house you were conceived in.’”

You laugh, almost positive that Roger isn’t serious. “I can guarantee you that precisely zero percent of children would ever want to hear that.” Nevertheless, you ready the camera and hold it as far away as you can, the lens aimed towards you.

“Don’t forget to smile!” Roger trills in his high, victorious voice as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone.

You snap the photo. The flash bursts through the kitchen of the Surrey mansion, blinding you both. The artificial bluish light dissipates like smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~

His name is Laszlo, and he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen...even when he’s not especially well-mannered.

Currently, Laszlo—an Eastern European moniker from somewhere in his mother’s comically vast family tree—is whimpering and squirming against Veronica’s chest as she pats his tiny back and sighs wearily. Veronica, ever the good Polish Catholic wife, is already pregnant again. Chrissie smirks triumphantly and puffs on a cigarette, her rings glimmering on her left hand, her dress violet and new and very expensive. Brian is lost in some deep intellectual conversation with Richard Branson, gesturing with his long nimble hands and nodding empathetically, his dark curls rustling in the breeze like the lithe branches of a willow tree.

“Thank god you’re here,” John calls as you and Roger approach. “Freddie is about to get this concert cancelled.”

“I’m about to make this concert fabulous, darling,” Freddie objects. “We need pyrotechnics, we need sparklers and explosions and fireworks!”

Mr. Branson shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Fred. The embers could travel and set the trees on fire.”

Freddie groans. “Tell him, Roger!”

Roger shrugs, grinning, resting his elbow on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t burn down Hyde Park.”

“You’ll be under a huge orange canopy, right over there.” Mr. Branson motions with a sweep of his arm. “You can’t do anything aerial. Flashing lights, sure. Fog, sure. But no fire. No explosions. Oh, and there’s technically a noise ordinance, but we’re working out a deal so the city won’t enforce it on the day of the show.”

“Orange?!” Freddie squeals.

“How will the acoustics be in a tent?” Brian asks, troubled.

John smiles mischievously. “Yes, how dreadful if no one could hear the extraneous guitar solos.”

“I have a gong, Rich,” Roger says. “Everyone will be able to hear my gong, right?”

“Your gong?” Freddie whines. “What about my voice?!”

“I miss stadiums,” Roger grumbles. You exchange a knowing glance with Mary and Chris and Veronica, who is imploring Laszlo to take a bottle. Our boys are difficult, aren’t they?

“The acoustics will be fine,” Mr. Branson snaps. “The tent color will be fine. Everything will be fine. You don’t need any fucking fireworks. Please for the love of god just tell me what kind of sandwiches you want.”

“That’ll be an ordeal as well,” Chrissie quips, and you all laugh; even Laszlo perks up, stops wriggling, glimpses around the open green space with curious greyish eyes like John’s.

Some teenage employee carrying a tangle of cables trots over, sweat dripping down his flushed freckled cheeks. “Mr. Branson? There’s someone from the city here to see you.”

Richard Branson smacks his forehead. “Jesus christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hey, Steve, hey, have you seen Dom? Go find Dom and tell her to come over here, okay? Thanks.”

The teenage employee nods and disappears into a sea of bustling people ferrying equipment, fliers, chairs, messages.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mr. Branson says. “These city bastards are out to crucify me. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful that Queen of all bands is willing to put on a free concert in their backyard, but alas. Hey, Dom, over here!”

He waves to a petite young woman with a glossy shock of black hair and olive Mediterranean skin. She’s wearing all yellow: shorts patterned with daffodils, a tank top the color of butter, a headband like a sunbeam. One of her trim arms is cradling a notebook; the other reaches out so she can shake hands with everyone. The gesture is courteous but somewhat unnatural.

“This,” Mr. Branson begins, “is my personal assistant Dominique. She’s wonderful, she’ll listen to all your pretentious tales of woe and do it with a smile, because she’s a true professional. Better yet, she’s going to ask you the tedious questions I was supposed to so you don’t have to wait for me to finish sparring with the city council. Okay? Okay. Have fun. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dom says placidly in a heavy French accent. So that’s why her handshake was off somehow, stilted and weak; the French usually kiss as a greeting. You choke back a snort as you imagine Veronica’s reaction to that. Mr. Branson stalks away muttering about litigious twats.

“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” Freddie circles Dom, admiring her outfit, her hair, her gold hoop earrings. He wafts his cigarette around flamboyantly, completely forgetting to smoke it. “The French are so tasteful, aren’t they? You simply must connect me with your stylist.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Mercury. But regrettably, I am my own stylist.”

“Ahh!” Freddie exhales, enamored. Mary lifts Laszlo from Veronica’s tired arms and cradles him, tickles his nose, beams down into his fresh and inquisitive face.

Dom pulls a pen from her shirt pocket. “May I ask your sandwich preferences for the day of the show?”

She immediately receives four very different answers, and she raises an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the lined paper of her notebook.

“I’m so sorry about them,” Chrissie says, and Dom chuckles civilly.

“Ham and cheddar,” Freddie tells her, synthesizing the responses. “Bacon, fried fish, steak and onion jam...and something for Brian. Cucumber maybe. Could we get some cucumber sandwiches, dear?”

“You’re a vegetarian?” Dom asks Brian, jotting down notes.

“He’s morally superior to us in every way,” John sighs dreamily, and Rog and Freddie cackle.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian,” Bri clarifies. “But for the sake of the animals and the planet, I try to limit meat when I can.”

Roger adds: “And I order twice as much of it, just to spite him.”

Dominique leads Queen around the portion of Hyde Park where the concert will be held, runs through the itinerary, fields a litany of questions and complaints. And you decide that you like Dom; she’s professional and reserved, yes, but she’s also patient with Freddie, smiles at his jokes, compliments his black-and-yellow striped shirt (“We match, and you remind me of a...oh, what’s the word in English? That bug...it flies around buzzing...buzz buzz...a bee!”), asks him what he’s planning to wear to the show. She assuages Brian, listens to John, takes the time to chat with the women about children, makeup, homes, what it’s like to be in love with rock stars. But Dom mostly ignores Roger, dodges his grins, remains staunchly undazzled. And that would worry you—because Roger loves the chase, you know that firsthand—if he hadn’t already taught you how to trust him, how addictively flawless and exhilarating life with Roger Taylor could be.

When Laszlo begins to fuss in Mary’s grasp, you take your turn holding him; and he blinks up at you with eyes that are wide and clear and seeking, and you find yourself feeling like you always do when you’re around your godson: like maybe you have a stronger opinion about wanting children than you thought you did, like you can’t stop envisioning a baby with Roger’s eyes instead of John’s.

That evening—after leaving Hyde Park, after dinner, after drinks mixed out by the koi pond—as you doze in a sweltering bubble bath and steam curls through the air, you hear Roger’s voice floating from the kitchen downstairs. You rise out of the tub, towel yourself off, slip into a white silk robe as rivulets of bathwater slink down the back of your neck. You tread gingerly towards the kitchen, keep silent so you can hear, lurk in the shadows of the hallway with your palms pressed flat against the wallpaper.

“Hello, is Dominique Beyrand in?” Roger says into the kitchen phone. “I’ve been trying to track her down. Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks.” After a pause, he continues. “Hi, Dom! It’s Roger Taylor, from Queen. The irritating blond one. I was just wondering if you’d happened to stumble across my wallet since this afternoon, I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, you haven’t? Bloody hell. Well, thank you for taking my call. Aw, that’s so kind of you, I’m sure I’ll locate it eventually. I’ve got a terrible habit of losing things. Okay, thanks so much. Goodnight to you too. See you soon. Cheers.” He hangs the phone up as you step into the kitchen. His smile is bright and innocuous. “Hey, baby!”

“Who was that?” Your tone is similarly casual; or so you hope.

“Just Richard Branson’s assistant. That French woman Dominique. I can’t find my wallet and thought I might have left it at Hyde Park, but no dice. Oh well.”

Roger begins rummaging through the drawer full of business cards and address books, tapping his foot, humming to himself. And surely he isn’t trying to avoid my eyes. Your gaze skates over the marble countertop. There, by the refrigerator, just a few feet—a meter, you correct yourself to be properly British—from where Roger stands, is his black leather wallet.

“It’s right there, Rog,” you say, pointing. And now your voice isn’t so nonchalant.

Roger spins to check. “Oh my god, I completely missed it!” He snatches up the wallet with a celebratory chuckle. “I’m such a twit sometimes. You’re too fucking smart, you know that? You’re making me look bad.”

He rushes to you, takes your left hand, bites your knuckles lightly like he did outside Massachusetts General Hospital under dawn skies over two years ago. And then Roger whispers to you, nuzzling your neck scented with lavender soap and doubt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a knock at the door. John is standing on the front porch of the Surrey house with his hands in his pockets and a vague sort of smile on his face. He’s in a black suit.

“Get ready,” he says. “Do your hair, throw on some earrings. Maybe the pearls Roger got you last Christmas. We’re going shopping.”

“Why do I need to look fancy to go shopping?”

John shrugs, feigning indifference; but the puckish glint in his eyes gives him away. Yet there’s something a little sad and weighty in them too, isn’t there?

Your own eyes narrow. “I’m onto you, bassist.”

He laughs as you tug teasingly at a lock of his downy hair. “You always are.”

John takes you to a dress shop on Bond Street where the corsets trickle with gemstones and the designers all have Italian names: Armani, Prada, Abate, Cerruti, Valentino, Biagiotti. He sinks into a leather chair just outside the fitting room and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, points to you with the lit end.

“Go ahead. Go wild. It’s a blank check.”

“Really?!” You glance around the shop, your pulse racing. “But I don’t know the occasion. I don’t want to be underdressed or overdressed or whatever. Although I don’t think I’ve ever been overdressed in my life.”

“Yes, you can’t seem to shake those pragmatic service industry roots, can you?” Another drag. “You need a dress and matching shoes. Formal, but not too formal. Think a record company party. Elegant but exciting. Lots of sparkle. Slightly slutty, if you’re so inclined.”

“This is an unconventional bonding activity,” you tell John, trying to conceal your nerves.

“Love, this isn’t something you can fail at,” he says, gently now. “You’re going to look amazing no matter what. So just have fun with it. This isn’t a test. This is one of those adventures you’re always searching for.”

I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage; that’s what Roger once told you. But maybe you don’t always want to be quite so free, so unmoored. “Okay. But you have to swear to give honest opinions. I don’t want to show up looking like a wombat because you were too nice to say anything.”

John just chuckles to himself, shakes his head, devours cigarette after cigarette.

With the assistance of one of the shop employees, you climb into a pastel pink dress with a full ruffled skirt, an emerald green dress with an empire waist and loose sheer sleeves, a shimmering metallic silvery dress with a form-fitting silhouette. John nods at all of them, wholeheartedly approves, defers to your judgment. He periodically consults his wristwatch as he taps his cigarettes on the rim of an ashtray, and deflects your questions when you ask him why. Then you step out of the fitting room—balanced on gold heels—in a white dress with a hem that hits just above your knees, a halter neckline, a slim keyhole down the center of your chest; and John’s cigarette tumbles out of his fingers.

“That’s the one,” he breathes, soaking it in. Then he asks the employee to cut off all the tags and whips out his wallet. “Toss your old clothes and shoes in a bag. We gotta catch a cab.”

“We’re going straight to the party?”

“We certainly are.”

“What the hell kind of ridiculously lame party starts at 3 p.m.?”

John smirks craftily. “The kind of party we’re going to. Let’s rock and roll, Florence Nightingale.”

John gives the taxi driver an address and you sail through the streets of London, splashing through shallow evaporating puddles, squinting when sunlight ricochets glaringly off the slick pavement. The taxi rolls to a stop outside of a grand stone building with columns and intricate carvings of leaves and flowers. The sign outside reads: Kensington and Chelsea Register Office.

You turn to John. “Who’s getting married?!”

He just smiles, a deep harbor of secrets.

“It’s Fred and Mary, right? Jesus christ, John, you can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding, Mary’s going to strangle me—”

“It’s not Mary’s wedding.”

Slowly, your jaw falls open. “No,” you whisper in disbelief.

John darts out of the taxi, jogs around to your side, and opens the door for you. You gape up at him senselessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences.

“John...this...this is some bizarre and elaborate joke, right?”

“Nope.” He offers his hand, helps you out of the taxi, leads you up the front steps of the Register Office. Inside, everyone is waiting: Freddie and Mary, Brian and Chrissie, Veronica with babbling baby Laszlo, Roger’s mother and sister...and Roger, of course, in his best black suit and bleached blond hair and trademark guaranteed-to-dazzle (unless of course you’re Dominique Beyrand) grin. He flies to you and takes your hands in his.

“You look incredible, baby.”

“Roger, what’s going on...?”

“Don’t freak out,” he commands, and instantly your panic vanishes. There’s a pink rose pinned to his lapel. “I know we don’t feel like we need to get married. I know we agree it doesn’t mean anything.” Is that still true? “So don’t think that this is about trying to trap you or control you or bullshit white picket fences or anything. And of course you can say no, I won’t be mad, no one will hold that against you, we can find some other reason to party. But the simple facts are that I’m a British national with a mansion and a plethora of perpetual royalties and you’re an American here on a work visa, and the law gets a bit thorny in this situation. And I want to make sure you’re taken care of if something happens to me. That you can carry out my wishes. That you can stay here with the band as long as you want to. So, I’ve got your passport and birth certificate and everything else we need...and some overly-enthusiastic witnesses. Are you cool with signing a piece of paper today?”

“Of course she bloody well is!” Freddie exclaims, and everyone laughs. Mary is carrying a basket full of champagne flutes, Chrissie several bottles of pink champagne, Roger’s sister a tub of ice. Brian has been entrusted to chronicle the event with your Canon. Veronica is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her, even more animated than she was at her own wedding. Well, I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about any illicit pregnancies or condemnatory great aunts this time around.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. And you wish you weren’t beaming so broadly your cheeks ache, because it feels a little pathetic to be this happy about an admittedly meaningless wedding. But it does make you happy, your general aversion towards conventionality be damned.

You sign papers and you toast glasses and you giggle uproariously in the lobby of the Register Office with the best friends you’ve ever had, guzzle pink champagne, pose for photos, take your turn holding Laszlo, kiss Roger beneath the stone arch of the centuries-old building.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, suddenly very aware of the missing weight of a ring on your left hand. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But you catch a few furtive glances between Chrissie and Bri, the twist of a frown on Freddie’s face when he thinks no one is watching, the distance in John’s shadowy eyes as he inhales champagne like air.

It doesn’t mean anything.

[eternalstrigoii]

Unsullied Waters

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Desert Warrior Dark Fey Reader

         You saw it in him during the Revel most of all.

The tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. He wanted to be out there on the Moors. The Moor-Folk were small, fragile things – you, yourself, had seen them many times. You’d snatched them in bags from the shoulders of poachers, swept them from jars bounced away on surging vines. Released them in the trees only to circle back and bloody your claws. As loyal, as devoted, as he was to your kind above all, Borra was fond of those creatures. They could hardly defend themselves.

Conall didn’t want him to provoke war.

While it was the larger truth, that wasn’t what you did when you went to the moors with him. He was protecting them. Someone had to. Your kind were few and far between; you heard stories about the faerie, or the witch, that used to live there. The things she’d done, the admirable justice she sought.

If protecting your people cost mortal life, then it was a price for which only the humans were to blame.

You touched his shoulder between his wing and his armor. Your fingers curled, pressing in.

You were all warriors in some form. There was no weakness in providing for the man who led you. Who took you to his bed and mated you. Often.

Borra let out a low growl of frustration. He refused to let his gaze drift toward Conall, though some part of you knew their increasing friction was as much the source of his doubled rage as the increase in poaching.

You ran your hands deliberately down his back before you stepped away.

He made no move to stop you. He never did. He liked to watch you, just as you enjoyed being watched. Sometimes you felt his fury heat the air between you, as though the weight of his amber gaze alone would give the others wide berth from you, for it was him you belonged to and no other.

As though you would ever let him forget.

As though you were ever without a partner for long.

If anyone but Conall opposed the way Borra took hold of you, the way his talons bit deliciously into the rock-like texture of your flesh, they kept it to themselves. You called to him with the sway of your hips, demanded his attention. If you didn’t want him to claim you like the hawk seizes prey, you would have openly opposed.

His thumb talon brushed your jaw as your head fell back into his shoulder. Your wings splayed, fitting comfortably against his. The ease at which your bodies slotted together was no small pleasure, well beyond that of his clothed hips against yours; the caress of his claws along the hem of your trousers.

He snarled your name against the leaf of your ear. His touch lingered so near where you quivered.

Your hand, tangled in his hair, sought to guide his mouth to your throat.

The beat of his wings folded yours like a shield, as though you needed to be reminded that departure was not an intermission.

    By the time you landed at his nest, he had already unfastened the chest-plate of your armor. His large, warm hands caressed your skin from the pronunciation of your collarbone to the swell of your hips.

He groaned; your sharp teeth found purchase at the junction between his neck and shoulder, and you tugged lightly at his trapped flesh. He nearly tore the waist of your pants as he opened them, palming your breast as the other settled between your thighs.

You stumbled, the both of you, clumsy with fixation. He parted you, caressing along the seam of your liquid heat. Your knees buckled only for his to agree when the straw edge of his nest-bed finally brushed your feet.

“Borra,” you gasped against his ear.

Your wings unfurled. He flung your chest plate to the floor.

Your hands fell from his hair. You’d undone the shoulder plate of his armor so often that his leather responded to your persistence. The moment it fell, you aided him in removing the last of the clothes left between you.

Sometimes you forced him to wait. Your lips traced a path down his chest, over the hardness of his stomach. You undid the waist of his trousers with deliberate care, gave them permission to slip further down his hips so you might rest your hands there. So the scrape of his talons on your scalp and the buck of his hips was never too much to prevent you from watching him.

You loved to watch him. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted around his groan.

You loved to watch almost as much as you loved to shower his hips and thighs with marks of your own. The ones on his shoulders and his neck were possessive; those were just for you. And he always let you do them.

A low moan passed between your parted lips.

Your mate’s touch lingered well after you’d joined. His body fit so well against yours; you fit your arm along his where he ensnared your waist, never allowing himself to fully part from you. You were equals – when you fought together, when you sparred, when you mated.

“More,” you keened, and his hand closed over yours where you clutched his bed’s feather-down lining.

He made another low, animal sound.

His hips shifted, boosting yours. You spread your legs around him, allowing him to press closer from above. Your enthusiastic cries encouraged him.

The knot of pleasure at your center unwound abruptly.

His hips stuttered. A low snarl of pleasure punctuated the final snap of his hips, burying him inside you. As delightful the throb of pleasure between you, once was rarely enough. You rolled your hips against him, not stifling the sounds you made at his response.

You both would not rejoin them.

          “You love him?” Udo asked you after she departed with Conall.

Maleficent. Protector of the moors. Alive. Powerful. She who allowed her people to be slaughtered in the name of her human pet.

You almost laughed. “I’ll die for him.”

He inclined his head toward you, and as terribly as you thought he must’ve wanted to keep his feelings to himself, he was disappointed with your response. Of course he was; he tended fledglings. He was a warrior, but he had no heart for war. “Try not to.”

        “I want you at my side where you belong.”

You ignored the creeping tendrils of pleasure that spread through your skin like cactus flower. You smiled sidelong, assuming it would be in passing – but, no, he’d joined you at one of the desert’s high points, the filtered sun doing little to fully warm your skin.

“It’s my honor, Borra.” You nodded, and the serious set of his mouth softened some.

“During battle and after, Suren. I want you at my side where you belong.” He looked out over the sandy plain. The only flecks of green were spiny aloe, and some part of you recalled, in your youth, massaging its slick, malleable contents into the iron burns on his side.

“I’ve always been there.” Your voice lowered. “I always will be.”

He smirked, and you did nothing to resist your impulses. You scaled the sheer cliff face to be closer to him, unable to cut him off him before he teased, “I don’t want you running off with some forest-dweller once we’ve reclaimed the moors.”

You kissed him. Hard. Your fingers laced in his hair, your tongue parted the seam of his lips.

His arm encircled your waist, mouth hungry for yours.

You ran your hand up his chest, gripped the armor fastened to his shoulder. A dull throb of need settled between your thighs, and you nearly crawled onto his in search of satisfaction.

“I will always,” you said on a breath, only for him to reclaim your mouth again. He dug his talons into your hips. You moaned, and he caught your lower lip between his sharp teeth. “always be yours.”

“I love you,” he whispered, just for you, and the warmth that saturated his voice ensured that no amount of hesitation on his part to meet your gaze left you with no concern for its sincerity.

“As I love you. More than there are stars in the skies.” You kissed him again, far more gently. “Blades of grass on the plains.” Again. “More than rain joins with the tide.” And once more. “And the wind beneath my wings.”

The sound he made reminded you of a jungle cat’s purr. His hands traced your back, and you rested your forehead against his. Your horns bunted without meaning to, but then he shifted, doing it again with intent.

“You’ll fly with me over the moors again. With the sun on your back, this time.”

“Something tells me you’ll be more interested in my back and the ground before long,” you teased.

“Mm. We’ll have all the moors.” His hands crept higher. “I’ll take you in the treetops. In the mountains. On the shore.”

You could almost imagine sand giving way beneath your fingers. “In the water?” you whispered, keeping nothing of your desire to yourself.

“Wherever you want. Whenever you want. The moors will be ours,” he kissed you, too lightly. You wanted more. “And we will do whatever we please.”

“Protect the moor-folk,” you muttered, kissing him again. “Keep the humans at bay.”

“Claim the skies again,” he whispered, and his talons in your hips suddenly dragged you flush against him. He dove from the cliff-face with you in his arms.

Your wings spread out beneath you on instinct. You laughed, coasting high over your territory, clinging to him.

His wings curled around yours. He guided you to fold, your bodies shifting so you were astride him and he coasted on his back. You encircled his neck with your arms, your body spread along his.

The mountains and the treetops and the shore, the water and the desert and the tundra and the moors.

        “Conall wanted peace. And they filled him with iron.”

War paint, cool and smooth on your skin. The elders, working in vain to heal. Every throb of your pulse, a new reminder of what you’re fighting for.

Udo. Conall. Shrike. Borra.

Your people. Your family. Your freedom. Your future.

It’s for you he waits. When you join him in the biting, bitter cold, his eyes lock with yours, and, together, you dive.

                  “Withdraw! Withdraw!”

What have they done?

You dove.

Poplar fleece is highly flammable. You know this. You’ve set it afire with sparks from stones and watched how quickly it burned.

This was iron. Gunpowder. Something else. The iron would be lethal on its own, like this – explosive and devastating. This evaporates your people. They join with the red clouds. Nothing of them falls into the water.

Shrike called for a divide. You stayed with him, at his side. Your wings are larger, louder. Your heart beats hard. Finally, you felt fear in the nerves of your fingertips.

You were beside him when you broke the castle wall.

More red clouds explode.

Your wings curled around you. You wove through them, biting back the urge to inhale. Borra surged ahead, grabbed someone, threw them from a height. There are so many of them, too many to think of.

Your best advantage is in the air, but the air is filled with iron bombs.

You swooped like an eagle, driving a man into the ground. Another fell with a sharp swipe of your wing across his neck.

They broke an axe across your horns.

You slammed your foot into one of their iron chest plates. The momentary sting at its collision with your flesh went almost entirely unnoticed; there were others, and you hadn’t the time. It wasn’t the first, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Borra circled high over the melee. Every so often, when you were afforded the chance, your eyes lifted from your opponents to find him in the skies.

It steeled you.

The talon at the apex of your wing tore into the neck of a man who’d dared come at you with a sword. You trapped another’s helmet between your horns and flung him into the palace’s stone façade.

Your people had the upper hand. He’d be on the ground with you if you didn’t. You knew this – you knew him. These fools looked at him, at you, and saw only your size. Your strength.

They knew not what a skilled mind he had. How well he’d learned from his violent youth. They knew not that your touch lingered on the mark iron left on his lips, the scald from their net on his sides. They couldn’t understand that your violence stemmed as much from love as it did from hate – and the roots you ripped from the ground grew thorns as well as flowers when you cast them over the walls of their fortress into the sea.

You wore marks of your own, lashed around your ankles and your wrists.

You, too, had been caught before. Several times. They had even tried to bring you to justice.

You killed then as you did now. Your enemy cared nothing of the life they took, nor did you for theirs.

Their blood dampened your hair. Decorated your arms to the elbow. And still, you flew. The beat of your wings threw them on their backs. The scrape of your talons rent trenches in their armor, and you spun – one sailed through a window, the other into the apex of the roof. You turned before the turret even impaled him.

When she arrived, you did nothing. It was no cause for your concern. She destroyed their weapons by the dozen, then the hundred; more of their men fell to Maleficent’s power than had to the collective of you.

You did nothing until you saw her, as you dropped another man from a great height, with her child-queen cowering before her.

Move, you thought. The bastard queen cocked her crossbow. Locked an arrow.

And Maleficent, the fool, gave her life for that child.

Idiot. A step to the left or a step to the right would’ve been sufficient – it wasn’t as if an arrow’s course could change after it had been fired!

And he thought she could save you.

The child-queen threw herself to the ground, crying out her agony. She touched the ashes that had become of her mother – gently, lovingly, as though she might be able to somehow gather them back together, and a part of you remembered when you were a child like her. The bite of iron into your flesh. The quick snap of Borra’s talons through the woven cords. Grabbing your raw wrist. Your brother lay dying in the thicket with an iron arrow in his heart. You, too, screamed that way once.

It had taken only the two of you to slaughter many men. And, as the queen’s guard appeared, the child leapt to her feet. She had no wings on which to catch herself, no mother to prevent her fall.

And yet, they couldn’t reach her before she threw herself over the edge of the fractured balcony with the dread queen clutching her arms.

You dove at the same time.

Ulstead’s mortal child-queen was not your people. She, and her mother, were strangers. Catalysts. The boiling point of a long-awaited conflict and nothing more.

And yet, it was your feet that slammed into the chest plate of the queen’s armor. Your arms that ensnared the child-queen, and your wings that beat so forcefully that the armored tyrant had no control over the propulsion of her fall.

Aurora screamed and flung her arms around your neck.

You flew, expecting arrows, presuming the battle rekindled once the queen’s men cocked their crossbows. You surged high, carrying the girl away from the heart of battle. It was the only sensible thing, preserving those who would defend you.

Those tender hands wove their way into your hair, the child’s trembling body pressed close as though you were ample surrogate for her fallen mother. “Thank you,” she whispered into your shoulder.

You flew her to the edge of the palace’s roof, where you meant to set her. She did not let go of you, and you thought, at first, that it was only because she was afraid.

It was because of the Phoenix that rose to greet you.

The beat of her wings easily overwhelmed yours. You landed, with the child, for your own protection. You held the child against you, shielding her against the wind’s force. You crouched, defensive – of yourself, of the sudden fragility of your wings at the beat of hers (they shuddered and buckled; you had to fold them for your own protection).

They held one another’s gaze much too long.

She let go of you, then, the fearless child-queen. She stood, balanced precariously on the sloped roof’s edge, and held out her hands.

If she’d wanted to be carried, you could’ve done that.

But, no. Her phoenix mother gathered her, and they descended, together, in the shifting black cloud of her mist.

You followed the roof to its apex. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he saw you, so you dove.

He hadn’t let you kill her.

The bastard queen of Ulstead was wrapped in thorny vines, fighting her confinement. Your head perked curiously.

He and Shrike hugged the palace as they flew. His fingers were curled, guiding the blooming vines while they bounced and tossed the queen until she landed in the dirt at the palace steps.

And was promptly changed into livestock.

You took that as encouragement that she would be eaten, and joined with their descent.

The tension twisted inside of you fell when you were able to study him with your feet planted. From behind, while he spoke to her, he bore no wounds. Several of his feathers had been scalded by their bombs, but they would preen away in time.

“Borra,” Maleficent addressed your mate, and you knew you were not the only one with her full attention. “It’s time to come home.”

Home.

The air left your chest.

The nest was home, of course, in a sensible and practical way. It was your point of origin, your safety, home to your people as nowhere else in the world would allow.

But your home – all of yours – was in the skies. And the true Moor-Queen invited you to join her out of hiding. In the air. As you all so deeply wanted.

Though he said nothing to her, and her daughter called her away before long, when he turned, Shrike and Ini burst into cheers. You didn’t contain your smile – though it fell, somewhat, as you watched his face.

His wings reached out ahead of him to guide you, and you let them, your own folding until they were as near to flush against your back as they would get. You rested your hands on his chest, attention momentarily diverted by the sight of a new wound on his arm, and a cut on his throat that gave you real pause.

“Will you keep your word?”

He rested his hands on your back, and the warmth of his skin radiated within you. The sky. The wind. The treetops. The mountains. Every day of your future would be an act of defiance, a rallying cry to your people nearly destroyed.

“You are my home, Borra,” you whispered. “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

              That night, there was a revel. There was no moon, and the palace grounds were still. The villagers were in hiding, the prince and his new wife in their bed. Even Maleficent and her raven had departed with her once-captive people, and, perhaps, to replace what was left of the essence of their fallen.

Yours would never receive the honor. No matter what Maleficent did, whatever they returned as would not be what they were. More Dark Fey lost to mortal slaughter.

But for every one you’d lost, you’d taken ten. And, at least for then, it was enough.

You bathed in the river until your armor ran clean.

You danced with Udo. With Ini and Shrike. The drums beat hard in Conall’s memory. A song for every one of your fallen. The old, mortal king watched from his balcony.

You were both exhausted when he caught your hand, but you danced anyway. For Conall. For your fallen. For the children Udo had gone to fetch, for the families newly shattered and the ones whose loss would finally mend. You danced for each other, and for yourselves, and for the future laid bare before you. You were wounded, as was he, wounds that pulled and pulsed as you moved, stung with every bead of sweat on your skin.

You tried not to think about how he washed the war paint from it. The cold, gushing river had been the only impediment to the act, for you both waded on its shallow banks, your thumbs and claws smearing with each caress.

You left for the moors at dawn. With him. There was no more need for talking. Only the beat of your wings. The kiss of the cool mist.

You slept, together, high in the peaks, on an outcropping where the bright sun warmed your skin. You wore no armor, though not because it had been pried away by eager hands.

You had both waited so long to feel the sun, to feel the kiss of the wind passing through your feathers, that it consumed the whole first day of peace. That, and sleep. Blessed, restful, dreamless sleep.

             “I like you,” the raven Diaval said. Not that he had much business doing so. But you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm in the days after your war; the brooks and streams in the moors were for your drinking water and the homes of the beings who lived there. The water elsewhere, for washing and bathing. Which you and the bird had a tendency to both do early in the morning. He was not a mortal man even when he wasn’t a bird, and the sight of you elicited no unwelcome responses of any sort. He had been curious, at first, as to whether or not the fine cracks in your skin caused you pain.

“They’re decorative,” you’d joked, deadpan.

He laughed. His time with Maleficent was not all subservient.

“You’re good company. Are all fey like that? Dark fey, anyway?”

“Your mate isn’t the only one separated from mankind,” you replied. You ducked your head, and the rush of cold water through your tangled hair made you stifle a gasp. Pleasure and discomfort. The sensation never got old.

His cheeks flushed brightly. “Maleficent isn’t….”

You stared at him much the same way you joked. “Are you arguing with a fey what our courtship looks like?”

“Courtship?” he practically choked on the word.

“You preen her. You sleep near her. You’re nearly her constant companion, and it’s her nest you return to when the sun falls. You think you’re her servant.” You managed to pull your talons through one of the long-fought knots in your hair, and a brand-new sense of pride filled you. Look at you! Maybe you’d even give yourself hair like your child-queen one day. (Your smirk grew.) “She’s taught you well. I had to train Borra to lie still under me.”

“Oh!” Such delicate sensibilities for a wild creature!

“Did you think it was always my wings scraping the dirt, raven?” you grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten – you’ve not once thought about my wings. Not when you’re so busy with hers.”

He splashed you. And, like a child, you splashed back.

Peace was beautiful.

You washed your clothes and dressed while they were wet. The radiant heat of your body would warm them in time. Udo and his charges were already navigating their new space, as you did from the earth.

You knew this place already, parts of it like the lines of your hand.

You’d just never seen it so teeming.

The willow sprites who’d been bothering you for days about the state of your hair descended on you again in a rush, and you stopped abruptly with a sigh. “For the last time, I will not let you toy with my hair. I’m very sorry, I understand how much that must distress you.”

They all spoke at once, in a flurry, voices overlapping one another. You caught bits and pieces – so pretty, so soft, like corn silk, no, like sweetgrass, and the corners of your mouth twitched.

“Tell you what, if you can find a comb capable of withstanding the job, I’ll let you brush it out. My only condition is that you mustn’t ask for one.” Skies knew Udo would give one to them gladly, then you’d be forced to endure their picking.

They agreed in high, excited chorus, dispelling from you as quickly as they’d come.

Borra laughed from the trees above. “Going soft already?”

“Udo won’t break my trust if he knows what’s good for him.” Your eyes lifted.

It should’ve been impossible for him to look any better. He wore his armor still, just as you did – you were still protectors of the moor-folk, after all – but the sunlight made his skin glint like quartz embedded in a canyon’s wall. You’d noticed it in yourself, of course, as had Diaval – and it had been one of the few times in your brief friendship that the raven quieted down.

His head quirked, and his smile spread past your own. “I don’t know. You’d look nice with your hair braided, sweetgrass.”

You hit him with your wing.

He laughed and leapt from the low branches to join you on the earth. He took your hand almost reflexively, just as you drew closer. You were about to ask him, quietly, if he felt the same as you did – if it was still nearly impossible to separate the advantages of the land from the fantastical scenery. It was on the tip of your tongue when something, somewhere, some tiny voice cried out only to be joined by what sounded like a hundred others.

You frowned. It would have to wait.

You both ran until you found them on the banks of the little brook, scores of little flower-people and dragonfly-people and They of the Dandelion Bodies. Groups of them gathered where several had fallen, and fear hit you suddenly, making your wings stir.

Borra gave you his back, his thoughts much the same. Were you under attack? Was it iron powder, launched in burning casings from the sky?

“Where are your healers?” you asked, far more gently than you felt.

You didn’t understand them all. Some of their dialects were lost in the din of the others, not that you would have understood the languages you did not speak. They were a buzzing in your head, and you couldn’t resist shushing them with a wave of your hand. “Please. Not all at once. I wasn’t asking a question, I was telling you to get them.”

Dozens immediately took the cue, surging for the skies.

One of the little dragonfly people lay still in the arms of another. They made high, squeaky sounds at their fallen companion, tiny, bright-shelled hands touching their face.

“May I?” you offered your flat, open palms.

They assisted in lifting their fallen so you could cradle them.

Your thumb traced their chest. Iron burned, but the iron powder you’d faced caused your people to incinerate. If it was iron, especially in the lungs, would they not have already suffocated?

“He’s very warm,” you said to Borra and Borra alone.

“As though burned?” He hadn’t yet turned toward you, ever the tactical mind. If they had all fallen here, something must be wrong. But you heard no men in the trees, you smelled no gunpowder. Only a faint sweetness that gave you pause. You looked to the other little ones, offering a hand, and you sniffed them.

“…no. No, something is wrong.”

The fallen smelled sweet, but not too sweet. Like fruit…and ash? Your nose twitched, and you rubbed it on your forearm.

“Tell me,” you said to one of the little mud men lingering at the fringes, concerned but unharmed. “Are there fruits that could poison you here? Is it possible something’s turned?”

What are you saying? A being in the trees asked in a wisp-like voice.

“They smell sweet and strange, like ash and berries. Like…” As soon as you said it, you paused.

Borra finished for you, his voice hardly above a growl. “Rowan.”

You’d never smelled it firsthand. Frankly, you’d almost thought it was a children’s tale meant to soothe them when iron wasn’t available, rowan berries in your pockets to protect you from the fey. If only Conall could tell you.

The little creature in your palms grew still.

For a moment afterward, you stared. Their lovely, jewel-toned body became limp, slowly at first, and when the gentle tremor of their pulse abated, your eyes rose.

Borra shared your horror, though not as quietly.

“Do you see?!” he bellowed.

The other little creatures who’d gathered around you looked to one another with open fear. Some of them, the other dragonfly people, quietly wept.

“Do you see what becomes of trusting your enemy?!”

One of the muck-men swooned. Your heart clenched, and you looked to all the others around you. One of the dandelion children had flushed cheeks, and the thought came to you suddenly.

“The river.”

The river between the kingdoms. Between Ulstead and the Moors.

“They’ve poisoned the river!” you cried.

But your audience was already ailing.

Those of them that went had already begun to succumb. Those who stayed farther inland bore no ill effect; they rushed to the aid of the others, and you called to the gaggle of petal-sprites who were smart enough to bathe in the mists, “Fetch our healers! Tell them! We must do whatever we can!”

“I’ll fetch Queen Aurora!” someone cried.

You knew Borra would protest. You looked to him, and the fear that yielded so fast to fury redoubled.

His face was flush. His eyes, glassy. He stumbled, and rested a hand on one of the tree-men.

“Borra!”

You leapt over the ones who could not get out of your way quickly enough.

Your mate went to his knees. His arm folded around his middle, a sound of pain leaving him that you only rarely heard. “Let them.” He swallowed, and you were afraid that he was struggling to breathe, but, no, he dropped his head when the dizziness became too much to handle. “Send for our elders. Take our children to the nest.” Protect them.

“Go,” you said to whatever decided to call for Aurora. You wrapped your arms around him for support, allowing him to release the tree-creature. “Bring her, and  her mortal healers! Now!”

“Make them tend you,” he rasped. He’d gone earlier in the morning than you had, and you’d nearly gone with him then, but you’d gotten caught up in chasing off Pinto.

“I have time,” you whispered, though you didn’t know how much. “I’ll take you to her—”

“No.” His grip on you was still tight. “We can’t trust them. Trust the girl if you must, but not the others.” The pain in his stomach made him flinch, and you lowered beside him, folding his body in your wing.

“I won’t let you die,” you whispered. Fevered sweat had already broken out on his brow, and you wiped it away gently. Your stomach growled, though you’d eaten not long ago.

You brought him closer to the trees, into the dampness of the moss. You were slow with him, gentle, pretending you didn’t feel the flush of heat creep up your skin, the increasing unrest in your stomach.

“Tell Diaval to find some,” you offered to whatever was near you. Your head began to spin. “The berries or the wood.” You laid down beside him, facing him. Just briefly. Just so you could gather the strength to get back to your nest.

There was a buzzing. Faeries. Something. And pain twisted inside of you suddenly. You drew your knees into your stomach and moaned at the nausea that overtook you.

       You were both sick in waves, fever and pain alternating with violent illness. You tasted blood in your mouth when whatever you had inside of you rose to join the leaves. You were weak. Trembling. Your people never left your side. Were it not for Maleficent’s strange abilities, you knew they would have retreated to the nest across the sea with the both of you in tow.

They would have rekindled their desire for war.

The pain intensified, for you, not long after the dawning of the second day. The cramps in your stomach spread, and you lay there, writhing against Borra while he tried so vainly to comfort you despite the shaking of his hands and the fever that engulfed you both.

Your thighs were slick.

You struggled to right yourself enough to take measure of the blood. When you moved, your head spun so severely that you couldn’t find the strength to call for Ini, though she trained to heal alongside the elders. You sunk against Borra with a cold shiver, and pressed your face into his throat.

“I won’t let you die,” he rasped, arms folding around you.

Your insides seized so suddenly, so sharply, that you whimpered. Your fingers curled to fists against his stomach and his side.

“Suren, I will not let you die.”

You trembled, sweating, panting softly with the strain of your body’s rejection.

“Promise me,” you whispered.

“I promise,” he said without thought.

“Promise me you will not die.”

You supposed if he was not also bleeding, he would be quicker to recover. You presumed if anyone was to die from poisoning, it would be you with the way you soaked in the river, the strange desire you had to mingle your hot skin with the cold.

“I promise.” He drew your head to his, the bump of your horns a familiar comfort. You were shaking, sweat-soaked and weak. All the same, he kissed you softly, his hand on your cheek and the blood-soaked sweetness of rowan berries on both your breath.

           You awoke with ice on your belly, and sighed with relief.

Borra slept beside you, wings folded. The poisoned fever had left his face and, largely, also yours. He used one of his arms for a pillow, curled beneath him, and you allowed your weak muscles the satisfaction of rolling over onto your other side.

“Careful,” Udo murmured, steadying you. “There is still some left to pass.”

“Thank you, old friend.” You patted the tundra fey’s icy hands, only to pause abruptly. Udo was tending you?

“Did Ini--?” Fall ill? Did the poison spread inland?

“Ini remains with the river-small. They’ve suffered the hardest.”

You nodded. Of course. But you still didn’t understand. “The elders?”

Udo did not meet your gaze. Cool water ran over your skin where the ice melted, which he was doing his best to preserve.

“The king’s men stand guard along the river. They’ve plucked whatever berries remained from it; it’s in all of our best interest to wait until well after their remnants wash into the sea.”

“How long will that be?”

He met your eyes, then, and you hated that he had. A profound loss weighed upon him, and you struggled to sit up. You were still tired, still weak, but nowhere nearly as sick as you had been. “They killed our children.”

“Only one,” he replied.

The anger in your heart returned the way wildfire engulfed dry plains. You propped yourself on your palms, your teeth set.

“Borra will want vengeance.”

He nodded, solemn.

“Could anything be done?”

“No.” He looked to you, and the gravity of his gaze made you afraid. You heard your heart pounding dully in your ears as you searched his face.

“Suren,” he said, gentle and so very patient.

The way he said your name was enough. You knew before the words even left him, though he rested his hand over yours, cold fingers curled gently around them as though he knew you could have violently beat the earth. “You carried a child.”

You fought denial as violently as you fought understanding. “Carried?” you repeated, the violence in your voice unmistakable.

“Poison killed your fledgling. It died inside of you.”

You threw back the cover that had been laid over you, but your clothes had been replaced, the blood cleaned from you and the areas around you. You tried to struggle for your feet, but Udo’s grasp on your shoulder was gentle and steadying. “You need to lie still.”

“I need an audience with the queen,” you whispered, no lacking measure of ferocity in your voice. Borra would not want vengeance, he would seek it.

“Then I will have her summoned.”

“Udo!” you hissed. He knew why you wanted to leave the nest to do it!

The straw beside you rustled.

Udo remained where he was, perpetually composed.

Borra’s eyes opened, and fell partially closed once more. He shifted, reaching to draw you back into the safety of his arms. “You feel better.”

No. You felt worse. Your hatred consumed you. You thought, just once, and only half-heartedly, about flying over Ulstead, stealing children from the sky and drowning them in the river. Retribution for the child you had lost. One you hadn’t even known about, but, you realized much too late, that you would’ve welcomed.

A life of peace on the moors. Your mate and your baby. Protecting them, loving them, watching your child grow to fly alongside Maleficent. Another life stolen by humans!

He heard your silence, and it awoke him fully. He held your wrist, listened to the fierce pounding of your heart, and slowly – so slowly; you hated knowing that he was ill beside you and yet still rose to join you – shifted until he was seated at your side.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, just to you, as though he couldn’t see Udo beside you.

You grit your teeth and closed your eyes.

You could do nothing with your hatred. Nothing but let it consume you.

You shook your head. Please don’t tell him. Please don’t say anything. I will when he’s recovered. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak those words, nor would you ever be able to say the ones you knew you’d have to.

Udo told him.

Hot tears raced down your face. Your fledgling. Your baby. His baby. A child you made together, borne from love. Survived the war only to be killed while still in your belly.

Borra surged to his feet.

You followed him. Despite Udo’s protests, despite the dull throbbing that immediately took hold of your waist without ice to dull the pain, you caught your mate by the wrist. “You’re ill, Borra, please. Please, wait until you’ve recovered.”

He moved so quickly you almost believed he already had. The hateful twist of his mouth didn’t match the way he gathered you, pressing you close to him. “Our child,” he hissed, war-monger once more, “Our child! They murdered our child!”

“And if you retaliate now, I’ll also lose you!”

You were bleeding. You felt it, and Borra, for all his desire for bloodshed, had no intention of shedding yours. He radiated fury even as he gathered you, returning to the nest with you in his arms. He lay you down near Udo, who rested the ice on your waist.

“Borra,” you begged. You begged him. You let him see you lying prone, your legs pressed together as though that would stop it from coming. “Please. Stay with me. Stay with me until I can join you. Will you do that much?”

He was silent, talons curled into his fists. How easily he could have flown to Ulstead and begun another war, all while you lied there on your back like his ornamental wife.

“I deserve to share in our retribution!”

“I know you do.”

He didn’t fly.

When he left you, it was on foot. Into the Moors, into their forests. You waited to hear him, hear the rush of his powerful wings cutting through the trees as soon as he was out of sight, but the sound never came.

         Queen Aurora had a unique position, which she was intimately aware of. Not only was she the primary ruler of two kingdoms, having bequeathed something akin to democracy upon the third, but her husband and mother had the tendency to clash over that which should and should not be her problem – including issues that belonged to both kingdoms and were of the more life-threatening nature.

Rather, Philip had hoped to keep as much of the rowan-berry incident from his wife as possible, in the name of allowing her the freedom of joy and peace and believing their people were preserving the treaty that their love secured at the cost of countless lives.

Maleficent, however, did not answer to a boy of his age, size, or mortality, and told her daughter the truth in full. If not for justice, than because it was Aurora’s kingdom of origin, and she had every right to attend the funerals of her people.

Aurora did not take it well.

Funerals for the moor people had taken days, as though the tomb-bloom field hadn’t been replenished to an extent after the Battle of Ulstead. Her people, to their credit, hesitated to leave her on her throne of flowering redbud, though all were tired and none ceased to mourn.

But it was her right, as queen, to do her own mourning in private, so she had sent them all home. With the exception of her godmother.

“This is all my fault.” Aurora folded yet another kerchief into a thoroughly-soaked ball.

“No, it wasn’t,” Diaval had taken over comforting her in the last short while. “You’ve got no control over what people do. You can lead them, and you can punish them…but they have t’ want peace. We’re gonna have to teach them what good can come from bein’ good to us.”

Still, she sobbed, folded over in place. She doubtfully would have noticed anyone approaching had it not been Maleficent’s touch to her shoulder in warning.

“This is what you’re protecting?!”

Aurora abruptly sat upright, though it was not to her Borra spoke.

“You look better,” Maleficent quipped.

“Protector of the Moors!” He showed his teeth. “What have you protected since this child came along, besides yourself?!”

A bright coil of green swirled around her staff. Diaval sprung to his feet.

“Her father hunts you and you fight; the moment the child is yours, you leave your people to fend for themselves. You’ve done nothing to protect them since you appointed a human for their queen.”

“Are you finished?” Few words were ever so clearly spoken as a threat.

Borra’s wings flared. “I’ve protected them from Ulstead’s poachers. I agreed to peace. They set poison on our doorstep, and you expect – what? For us to bow and take it?”

“After all you’ve lost, Borra, are you so eager to return to war?”

Maleficent’s composure was thin. The hatred that burned anew in him was unmistakable. She had seen it in the nest, and she had seen it on the battlefield. Though she understood his reasons, all the progress he’d made in Conall’s honor had become new, violent opposition. One she would not allow.

“You know nothing of loss! This poison – this poison your peace was supposed to prevent – murdered my child.” In the passing of a heart’s beat, all of his rage, all of his hatred, became raw pain. It was not hers to see, let alone her child-queen, yet it laid bare for them both. “I demand justice.”

“You’ll get it,” Aurora responded.

Maleficent secured her grip on Aurora’s shoulder, but the young queen shook her head, her trembling curls and flushed cheeks painting her ever more the picture of innocence – all the more naïve.

“I promise. Whoever’s responsible, we’ll bring them---” to justice, she’d intended to say.

“You’ll bring them,” he cut her off in a low, half-animal snarl, “to me.”

        You were a warrior, the same as him.

He had been chosen to lead your people; in everything else, you were equals.

You did not seethe.

Your mourning was as violent as the moor-people’s was sedate. They returned to their homes. They wept.

You ripped the earth open with your bare claws. You screamed.

         “You get three days. Bring justice to your people in three days--”

“Use caution with your threats.” The coil of green mist had grown thicker around Maleficent’s staff; the green of her eyes brightened.

“--Or they will not be your people anymore.”

Aurora swallowed. She shook her head again, more vehemently. “…You wouldn’t do that.”

“Where I come from, our leaders are chosen, not given to us. I give you three days to prove to your people that you are capable, or they will choose a leader of their own.”

“Sorry,” Diaval interrupted, “did you…happen t’ ask the people of the moors who they were gonna pick?” If they were unhappy with Aurora for a queen, there was a good chance everyone would have known about it.

He snarled. For a moment, he considered going after the raven like the mortal he so looked.

“I will,” Aurora replied. The girl was smarter than she looked, braver than those who loved her believed her to be. “I swear on the Moors. I’ll find them. You’ll get justice, I promise.”

Beside her, Maleficent seethed.

Your mate tired of his fury remaining contained. You were right, though he would never say so aloud; he needed the days to recover and to plan. He needed days for you to recover, so you would not be deprived of the vengeance you deserved.

The tightness in Aurora’s chest did nothing to alleviate when he departed. “Godmother?”

Diaval held the girl’s shoulders.

Maleficent chose her words particularly carefully.

“Borra is a capable leader who led a successful campaign.” Successful depended upon the standards one held it to; there were great casualties, but there had been great casualties on both sides. “The folk of the Moors are not war-like people. They’ll be of no practical use. When he offers them protection…it would not be conditional upon their ability to join him when he breaks peace.”

Aurora didn’t understand what about that would be significant. She shook her head slightly, her delicate brows furrowed.

“If he breaks peace, he will not bring danger upon the Moors. He will deliver vengeance to Ulstead just as they betrayed us.”

She truly, physically, could not imagine what that would mean. She had no heart for violence, no penchant for cruelty. Truthfully, she still thought differently of Borra – and the other Dark Fey, no matter their ways or from whence they’d come. So far, there had been no hostility on their part. They obeyed peace.

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should,” Diaval pressed.

The young queen shook her head. She hadn’t watched you, or Borra, take human lives. She hadn’t seen the way you fought as Maleficent had. Even if she had, his reasons were good – Aurora believed deep in her heart that, while violence could stem from love, the beauty of it would always overwhelm the pain.

She balled her soaked kerchiefs and lifted her skirts, stepping neatly from her dais.

“Aurora!” her godmother warned.

“Trust me,” was all she said. She had fought so hard and so long for both her kingdoms – she would not allow herself to be manipulated again. This time, the child-queen intended to be her own hero, to whatever extent she was capable.

This time, the child-queen intended to be yours.

Udo left you when you’d calmed.

You’d torn the earth apart. You’d ripped thorny branches from the ground and built awful spires well above the tress. It was nothing but wasted energy, and had done nothing to cleanse you, or to alleviate your pain, or calm the bleeding, and so you’d let your friend tend you once more and insist upon your rest, and he had left to give you time to grieve peacefully.

A task you were not suited for. Not in the slightest.

You should have known.

You should have been more careful. You should have watched the moons.

What would it have been like, if you’d known? If you’d told him when you realized you hadn’t bled? You were at peace – the thought of your mate’s hands on your belly, his laughter, his joy, would you have believed in the fairytale then? Gathering your shed down and building up a small cradle for the life that was to come – wouldn’t that have been far worse cruelty than this? The expectation of hope before hope was lost?

His return brought you from your thoughts. You adjusted, reaching for him, glad when he gathered you into his arms and folded his wings around the both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.

“It’s not your fault.” He traced your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Never your fault.”

“I should’ve known—”

“They should’ve obeyed.” His voice was hard, suddenly, and you curled into him, taking more comfort in his anger than you wanted to admit. “They’ll pay for it. That, I promise.”

His arms around you were familiar and secure, but the part of you that burned was pain enshrouded in hatred. Like this, when you could do nothing, you wanted to stoke the fire for as long as possible, so you took one of his hands and settled it low on your stomach. “Would it’ve been good news?”

It was rare that you felt him breathe out his tension altogether, but he did. He moved closer to you, fingers tracing the plain of your flesh, and his arms around you softened. “Thought about asking if you wanted one. The night we lay together in the peaks.”

Your heart shattered. You didn’t think anything worse could have been said.

“It was almost real, you and I settled down like this.” His face was pressed into your hair and you felt the graze of his lips against the leaf of your ear. “Thought you would’ve killed me.”

“I could’ve been convinced.” You would’ve made him make love to you to prove he wanted it. Kiss as much of your body as he could. He’d done it before, leave you trembling before he’d even joined with you, kissing your ribs, your hips, your thighs, your knees. You would’ve held him when he kissed your belly until you both understood the choice you made, and then you would’ve given him your heart and your body and held his hands in the down and the straw while he made love to you, whether or not you had already been with child.

You knew what was behind the familiar warmth of your hatred, but you did nothing about it until you felt his quivered breath – until you knew he was trying not to weep into your hair.

Then, you wept.

You laid there together, wrapped in one another as you always had, but his arm covered your chest as though he had to protect you, and his hand rested where you’d left it, and your fingers were laced with his there, and you clutched him, and you cried in horrible, body-wracking, ugly sobs that twisted the knife of pain inside of you until you felt truly, and thoroughly, wrong.

Aurora of the Moors saw you. Aurora of the Moors bore witness to your pain. She saw glimpses of your face, twisted in agony; the tears you shed behind the veil of your mate’s wing. She saw the dreadful spires that were already beginning to crumble, thinning into thorny vines that eventually sunk back into the moss with little more than scars upon the earth where they’d emerged. The child turned princess turned queen had walked freely, stopped freely, released a quiet breath, and neither of you heard her.

Nor did you hear her turn and run back into the forest with her skirts raised, running barefoot for Ulstead.

Hurrying to bring justice without concern for the price she might pay.

       Aurora was the people’s queen.

No guards left their posts at the river. No men with armor came barging into homes. At first, no one who answered their door realized that it was the queen who’d come to them, her dress dirty and feet bare, cheeks still damp with tears and a leaf dangling somewhere unreachable in her hair.

“Hello,” she said, to each and every person she spoke to. “Do you know anything about who might’ve placed rowan in the river?”

She sat with people, at their tables. Refused their food, though out of practicality rather than hesitation. She implored them – men, women, children, families of all of the above. If you know something, please, please let it be known. People I care for have been harmed. Faeries died. Please, help me bring their killers to justice. I won’t harm anyone, but they have to be caught.

There were people whose only motivation for not throwing her out was the fact that she was queen.

The parish priest begged her to turn away from them, and it was she who left of her own volition. A group of schoolchildren made jokes that earned them a stern and quite legal reprimanding. If you’d known the lengths that Aurora of Ulstead – Aurora of the Moors – went to for you, perhaps you wouldn’t have doubted her.

The girl walked until her feet began to bleed. Nearly talked herself hoarse.

Her husband found her in the village square with the tea merchant, where she’d paused for a good cry. She ached for the people of the moors, you and Borra most of all, and she ached physically. He gathered her into yet another warm, secure embrace, and she practically fell into him. These were not the happy marriage-days she’d been hoping for.

“Where have you been?” he asked, gentle and so full of love.

She told him.

Philip had known about the funerals, but everything after – Borra, the bargain she’d made for her kingdom, disobeying Maleficent, watching you mourn and deciding to canvas the village herself – he hardly knew what to do with it. In his defense, it was a lot for one boy who’d been raised in a castle to unpack all at once.

“Come home.” He rubbed circles in the backs of her palms. “We have three days.”

“I have three days,” she reminded him. “I am queen, it’s my responsibility.”

“And I am your husband. I won’t leave you to do this alone.”

She thought of you again, as she had between every house, and every moment she spent with the parish priest. (She would not tell Philip that she’d yelled at the man that men like him were the reason people in the village were cowards enough to murder babies, but she had, and you would’ve been proud of her child-fury.)

“Will you hate me,” she whispered, “if I let them seek justice of their own?”

He paused. He was a good boy, gentle and loving, but he often felt he understood the gravity of the situation more keenly than she did – as though the child-queen did not know what she proposed.

“What are you saying?”

“If I can’t find their child’s killer in three days, I will tell the guard to stand down.” She lifted her eyes, doing her best to square shoulders and face the man she loved. “I’ll let them into Ulstead. I won’t allow innocent people to be harmed—”

“Aurora—”

“—but I can’t sit by and let nothing happen. Philip, your mother went unpunished.”

“My mother is a goat!”

“And she killed them! She killed innocent people, my people and theirs! He’s right – I’ve done nothing to protect the Moors. It’s not Maleficent’s duty to care for me and the moor-folk and whatever else comes! I am queen, Philip!” You would have been even more proud of her then, the backbone she seemed to grow without the donning of a corset. “Capable leaders don’t allow their people to suffer.”

“You’re backing one man’s grudge against an entire kingdom.” He tried to close the distance between them, but Aurora of the Moors was Maleficent’s daughter, and she withdrew her hands from grasping range. She straightened, and, though her lips were pressed in a perpetual pout, she almost seemed to grit her teeth.

“I am backing the protector of my people in his time of loss. I know you’d do the same for Percival.”

Philip loved his wife, truly, but he couldn’t hide his irritation. “I’ve known Percival all my life. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his people—”

“Do you know his name?”

Philip stopped. Every time he thought he had the advantage, Aurora thought of something that ripped the rug right out from under him.

“Would you know him by sight? Would you call him by his name? Even if he is a stranger to you,” and to me, “does that keep you from respect?”

Of course he knew him. Knew of him. The fey that could have killed Percival, the fey he’d held at the point of his father’s sword. The one he’d thrown down his sword for. A leader, he could believe, but he would have been lying to say he had given any of the newcomers much consideration.

It wasn’t exactly as though he’d had time.

“Tell me his name and I’ll wait for you.” He has no excuse not to, I’ve just said it.

Philip stared at her, and whatever reservations he’d had about Aurora’s plan unraveled. “Borra,” he repeated, careful to pronounce it as she did.

Aurora breathed deeply in what felt like the first time in a very long time. She straightened, her head back and hands clenched at her sides. “I trust him, Philip. I trust them all. They won’t break peace. Not if I help them.”

“Well,” King John emerged from the stables with a procession of horses – Aurora’s white and Philip’s plain one, as well as one of his own. “Then I suppose we’d best get to work.”

“Father, what are you—?”

Aurora grinned and rushed to him, throwing her arms around the good King’s neck. She hugged him as she hugged Diaval, and paused to ensure her cheeks had been properly dried before calmly, easily, lifting herself onto her horse without the help of shoes or a footman.

Philip stared at her, and the love in his heart only grew.

“Come on, we’ve got almost the whole village!” She snapped her reigns but once, and only softly, and yet her horse knew her well. She rode off into the heart of Ulstead on her brilliant steed, dirt-stained pink dress flowing along its flanks.

“Good choice in wife,” King John quipped, though he was not as quick in mounting.

                 Shrike was furious. Ini backed her call for retaliation. You heard them, you heard their war cries, and you heard Borra’s silence.

“I want to bury my child,” you murmured to Udo.

He nodded. You supposed he had been waiting for you to regain your strength. He gave you little more than a bundle of bloodied cloth and down, nothing of substance, and yet you took it to the spot where Conall had been slaughtered.

So much of your people’s blood soaked this land. Though nearly all of your fallen died in the Battle of Ulstead, the moors had already seen Conall’s, Borra’s, Maleficent’s, and yours. And your child’s.

Were you right to include her?

You dug your hole in the earth by hand. Thought of encircling it with river stones. The ones that looked like eggs, from the banks of the brooks and the streams in the moors that had gone without pollution – round and speckled and wholly unsullied.

If she’d never come, if you’d never met her, you and your mate would have remained in the nest. You would have noticed that you had not bled (you told yourself), and your people would’ve thrown a grand celebration. They chose Borra for one of their leaders, they would celebrate his child like no other.

Conall would’ve loved to know you were with child. Your eyes stung with tears at the thought; in this fantasy world you created for yourself, he came to you and Borra after the announcement, when your mate’s hand still lingered on your belly. He would have told you, though your child deserved the freedom of flight over the trees, that you could find peace in your love for them. And, in this fantasy where nothing was as it would’ve been, you thought you could have. Curled in the cool dark of your nest, nursing your baby. All of you, so warm. The soft down of their baby-feathers under your fingers, under Borra’s. How easily you would’ve sunk into each other. How comfortable a cradle his wings would’ve made. How beautiful he would’ve looked, carrying your child in the crook of his arm – how fiercely he would have loved them.

You felt him before he joined you. You made no attempt to wipe your tears away.

He helped you dig a shallow hole, a little grave that rent your chest more severely than it should’ve.

“Suren.” Finally, he spoke. “Look at me.”

You did. Kneeling in the dirt, crying. What sort of warrior had you become?

“I told them to stand down.”

You closed your eyes and buried your face in your filthy palms. Fresh sobs wracked you, though, at first, the tangle of your emotions left you unsure why. He had no right – you needed justice. But he was right; you couldn’t endure more death. Not his. Not yours. Especially none of your friends.

He gathered you close. You were unhappy, of that you were sure. Not with him. Never with him. He thought too far ahead; if the odds weren’t in your favor, then what else could be done?

“Whatever happens,” he said into your hair, “it’ll be you and I. On our own.”

“I hate them!” you cried, and the way your voice scraped on your sobs made your stomach twist. “They’ll pay! I want them to pay!”

Still, he held you while you cried and you left dirt-streaks on his shoulder and then his chest. He held you until you pressed your cheek into his neck and wept to him alone I want our baby.

You felt the strength of his heart against your chest. Even when he was silent, he spoke so loudly. His hands rested on your arms, drawing you closer. His body against yours steadied you. You clung to him as you never had, needing him more than you ever thought.

Carefully, silently, he gathered you. He brought you close to the bundle you intended to bury, and he pressed his jaw against your temple.

He wouldn’t do it alone.

You were not the only one crying, though you had fallen apart to shudders and sobs. Your hands trembled when you gathered one end, his steady on the other, and you placed your bundle of blood-soaked down gently into its earthen cradle. It didn’t require both of you to smooth the dirt back over, but together you did. You patted it, pressed it, as though its damp softness might give you some clue as to what their skin may have felt like, whether they would have felt like a new center of warmth as they grew.

He plucked a feather from his wing and placed it, gently, in the earth. You did the same, though a part of you wished you had buried it with them. Given them something of you in return – regardless of how much they’d already taken.

“Are you in pain?” he murmured.

Yes. Yes, you were. Your heart had never felt like this. You never thought yourself capable. Damn Maleficent. Damn her daughter. Damn them all, all but him, for encouraging this fantasy.

You shook your head. But you couldn’t ask him to plan with you like this.

“Let’s get you clean.” His arm slid beneath your knees, and you tried, in part, to withdraw.

He was surprised. He let you.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, vehemently. “I’m stealing all of this from you. Your mourning, your plans—”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked tired, you thought, and the thought became a realization. Oh, yes, you had stolen his mourning. Only recently did you all mourn for Conall and now…

“My plan is to clean you up in the brook and take you home, and we will see if you feel better in the morning.”

It was unfair. Your people called for war. They were right. He should’ve backed them.

But that was what he did.

He carried you to one of the quiet, gently-bubbling streams. He washed your hands, your arms, and lightly brushed the dirt off his. Your back never left his shoulder when he covered his hands with cool water and soothed your face. You thought, faintly, how you must look. Sniveling and weak.

But there was no shame in taking care of you. Not for him. He washed your tears away patiently, soothing the persistent fire in your cheeks. He kept doing it until you did little but lay there and let him preen your massive wings, his chin on your shoulder, the caress of his talons through your plumage painfully familiar.

“I love you,” he repeated, though how long it had been since you last said it out loud you’d lost track of. “I want you to tell me if you want to stay.”

“No,” you whispered, immediately. “Do you not want me?”

“Never. I’ll always want you. By my side, where you belong.” He stroked your feathers, coaxing the dead ones to drift off along the banks of the bubbling stream.

“I’ve always been there,” you repeated. “I always will be.”

He kissed you. Softly, and only once. And though you knew he must’ve known, you had the strangest feeling that, this time, he hoped you wouldn’t follow.

           Things got a little more official once King John was involved.

It became a formal inquest. Surrender to the crown or face justice.

Everyone believed justice involved death on the moors.

Suddenly, every pie-maker who’d harbored lingering hostility toward them, every tradesman and merchant to profit from a faerie’s suffering, arrived at the castle with evidence of their crimes and begged the young king and queen – and King John – for forgiveness.

Philip issued more citations for petty crimes, and Aurora had more poachers jailed, than either knew what to do with.

It was a start.

         The silence between you grew overwhelming.

You wanted to withdraw only to push yourself closer. Borra drew himself closer to you only to withdraw. You were in distinctly separate realms of thought, you knew, and it made you wring your hands in frustration.

Were you planning revenge, or were you planning surrender?

“You’re doing better this morning.” And yet, he watched you like you were crystal. As though a tumble from a momentarily unsafe hand would leave pieces of you scattered across the desert.

“I want to know of our plans.”

He twitched his shoulder. He’d never stopped wearing his armor, save for the first day you rested and the days you’d both been sick. You knew him too well to pretend he didn’t have a plan, and he knew you too well to propose you do anything he felt you might be uncertain.

“It’s been three days. I know you’ve done something, and I need you to tell me what it is.”

You thought he was about to lie to you, to insist there had been no plan. Instead, he sighed, and it came with a low hum of irritation.

“I’ve called it off.”

“What was it?”

For a moment, he deliberately did not meet your eyes. The night before was the first night either of you had slept moderately well, and as much as you would’ve liked to justify it with the restlessness that followed bedridden illness, you knew shared grief played far too great a part. He was still tired. He was in no state to plan. Whatever it was, you were glad he had – there was no use in rushing to the slaughter for a second time.

He smiled, and the wryness in the corners of his lips soothed the sting on the edges of your broken heart. “Hadn’t gotten that far. Did a little bit of yelling at the queen, made it her problem. After that…” He rested his arm over his knee, remaining seated across from you. “Couldn’t exactly figure out how to make sure anyone was unarmed, considering they’re not gonna come to us.”

He had thought of something, but it had only been fragments. He’d considered a slaughter, and the relief of it sagged your wings. “I wasn’t impeding you?”

“No.” His thumb-claw found the mark on his lower lip, traced it like he had to remind himself of how it was earned. “You’re always right beside me. You never slow me down.”

You moved your breakfast aside to stroke what was left of the cut on his cheek. He’d healed well  – the burn on his neck was gone, though the wound on his arm lingered, likely to be another scar.

“I don’t want war,” you admitted, finally, sinking to the ground beside him. “Justice, yes, but…not that way. No more of our people should be sacrificed.” Not even, you thought ruefully, hatefully, theirs.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” he admitted, dropping his hand so it brushed through your hair.

You sighed, and you gazed into his half-lidded eyes, and he half-smiled at you again.

You built up to war the last time. You would have justice again.

You thought. Until his eyes widened, hardened, and he snarled your name as he threw his body over yours. “Suren!”

A bolt flew past your horns. Past his, embedding deep within the trunk of a non-living tree.

Of course, your plans were decided for you.

You looked to Borra quickly – as long as he was safe, it was his place to command. He knew this land, he’d fought in the field of tomb-bloom flowers after the queen’s guard stripped it bare. It wasn’t the most dishonorable thing a human had ever done, attack in such a sacred place, but at least they had given you an excuse.

He glanced back to you. One man, both of you. It was hardly fair.

Your mate tore the roots from the very earth before your mortal foe had the chance to fire his crossbow again. It was torn from his hands, wrapped thickly in foliage just as he was. Borra drew him up between the branches in a blooming spider’s web, and your claws pricked. You yearned for vengeance.

“Was it you?” he snarled. “Are you the coward who put rowan in the water?”

The vines constricted him. You watched his skin flush, heard the small sounds of pain he made as his trapped limbs squeezed.

You could have cut him open like a rabbit. Swift with your claws, from his belly to his brain. It would’ve been so easy, and it would’ve been nothing you hadn’t done before. You approached him, came to stand before where the branches were most taut.

“Why?”

The man choked. He stared at you with nothing but hate, burning in him just as it raged inside you even then. You should do it. You should end him.

“What did you imagine you’d accomplish? It’s the river between Ulstead and the moors. It has falls, it leads into the sea. You succeeded by chance – and only then in the murder of faeries as big as my hand.” You paused, though why you weren’t entirely certain. “And I was with child, until you poisoned them inside me. That is what you killed. Sprites and a baby.”

The branches grew so tight you thought Borra might tear him apart before you’d finished. He was smothering, pricked by a thousand different thorns, when your child-queen came running. “Wait! Wait!”

“No one else waited,” you called. “No one else hesitated, why should we?”

“Because he wasn’t alone!”

You hated that your fury wasn’t strong enough to endure that sort of blow. You recoiled in disgust.

“King John,” she was panting, “asked around! He spoke to many of Queen Ingreth’s friends – they were trying to provoke more violence. Their men were afraid to go into the moors, so they came to the bridge…and they threw in the rowan from the churchyard! They never thought they’d kill anyone, they thought it would all wash to sea!”

“I don’t care what they thought, they did!”

“And they’ll pay for it!” Aurora’s eyes were so large, so wet, so doe-like. “Suren, please. Please. Let me bring them all to justice. Let me do it. I don’t want you blamed.”

You made a sharp, disgusted sound.

“They’ll kill you when they find out. You know they will. And Borra.” She swallowed. You thought it was in response to your mate’s summoned gaze, but obvious guilt crossed her features. “They know it was you killing poachers rather than Maleficent. They don’t like you very much anyhow.”

So there was no good reason not to kill one more.

“Please,” The girl was braver than you thought, even taking small, ginger steps toward you. “No more blood should be shed. Not yours, Borra’s, or your baby’s.”

Your eyes snapped to her face, your sharp teeth bared.

But she came to you as she went to her godmother. She wet her soft lips and let the quiver in her breath be seen. “I am so sorry. I know that’s not enough, I know I should’ve done more to protect you, and I will. I promise. It’s my duty as your queen to take care of my people, and I swear to you – specifically to you, by name, Suren of the Desert, that I will never let humans harm another faerie, or Dark Faerie, or anyone else. But,” she touched her soft fingers to yours and you nearly recoiled. “I need you to let him down. I need you to trust me.”

Borra watched you. She hadn’t asked him, despite the curl of his fingers betraying that he commanded the branches and not you.

“If you betray me, Aurora of Ulstead,” you whispered, just to her, “you will know the pain I’ve suffered.”

She was not afraid of you when she should’ve been. She looked up at you, and she held your hand in both of hers, and you met her wide, spring-green eyes.

“I promise.”

Borra let him down.

You wondered if she knew the bargain she’d just made, the future she’d placed in jeopardy, but you knew by the set of her jaw and the way she inhaled as she drew herself up to her full diminutive height that she did, and it was a cost she was willing to wager.

Foolish girl. Admirable, but very foolish.

You were starting to like her.

The man, even without his crossbow, took a sharp, lurching step from between the trees – and found himself with the point of Philip’s sword pressed against his throat.

“I wouldn’t,” the boy-king said with the sort of theatric fluff that you hadn’t seen since Borra was a boy his age.

“What does your godmother think of the bargains you make, Aurora of Ulstead?”

“Aurora of the Moors,” she corrected, “and I hope she trusts me with them.”

After all Maleficent had done for this child – the lives cost protecting her, the exile her guardianship placed her in – you were confident that she did.

                There was always a guard along the river, with their backs to the moors. They were well-paid, so as to discourage corruption, and the men were always the same.

They knew the difference in the beat of your wings from Queen Aurora’s faerie godmother.

You landed on the balcony first. Ducked your horns beneath the doorframe, and stepped onto a pad of carpet that your toes sunk into like moss.

You made a face and stepped over it to join her at her bedside.

“You came!” Aurora exclaimed.

Her face was always rosy, you’d realized after a time (after a time of fussing over whether the heat of your skin was too much for the child, before you made the effort to stop referring to her that way). Her large, doe-eyes were bright, and her golden curls hung like apple blossoms around her face.

“You asked us to.”

Borra landed on the balcony, and you strongly suspected he had done a loop in search of Aurora’s husband, who ought to have been there. You both watched him duck his head, and respond to the carpet with disgust as you had.

“I’ll have it moved,” Aurora said.

He gave her a sound of acknowledgement.

“I have something very important to ask,” she slipped her hand into yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I hope you’ll say yes. Both of you.”

You glanced to one another. No sooner had he settled his hand on your back then a door you assumed went further into the palace (with its inconceivably narrow halls) swung open, and King John ushered Young King Phillip in.

Carrying things.

Carrying babies.

Two of them.

“They’ve arrived!” King John exclaimed, and you did your best to hide your surprise that he seemed so very….fond of you. “Philip tells me you’re both well-respected warriors.”

You nodded, your brows furrowed.

“In that case, I intend to return the favor – you may not be able to wield iron, but you can certainly use bronze!”

“Dad,” Philip stage-whispered.

“John,” Aurora said fondly.

“Bit ahead of myself,” the jolly old man said, and gestured enthusiastically to the group of you. “Go on, continue.”

“Borra,” Aurora summoned your attention, “Suren. You are both exceptional warriors, and your presence on the moors is one of the reasons we’ve kept peace.”

“So it’s with no measure of uncertainty,” Philip continued, moving closer to his wife (as well as the both of you), “we’d like to ask you both to be our children’s godparents.”

You looked at one of the squirming, swaddled bundles, and offered your hands.

The boy-prince (who you’d made no such promises about) passed the child you desired to you with a smile.

It was very human. It had a little, flushed face, very pink, and no claws, horns, or sharp teeth.

“It’s going to be hard to take care of,” Borra murmured.

You nodded, and Aurora bubbled with laughter. “Oh, no! No, you don’t have to raise them! Not unless something were to happen to us.”

“A curse,” Philip offered, “or a war.”

“We would never wage war with you,” you reminded him.

“Not with you,” Aurora beamed. She rested her hand on whatever part of the bundle your arms weren’t currently encasing. “With other humans, probably.”

“We would not let other humans go to war with you,” Borra amended.  He’d gathered the other child from its father and held it, carefully, in the cradle of his arms.

You had to look twice. The first sight was pleasant; the second rekindled the warmth of your longing, and you glanced down at the child in your arms. “You have an advantage, little thing. You’ll be older.”

“And there are two.”

Philip looked at you both in confusion. Aurora lit up. You didn’t think her face could get any brighter, but, somehow…

“We plan to return to the nest we came from for the winter,” you told her, “but when we return in the spring…they’ll be much bigger, won’t they?”

You thought she might spring up from bed, so you lowered beside her. You placed her baby in her arms and kissed her temple.

“Do you mean it?” she gushed, “Really?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips rising. “This will be the first month. We wanted to be sure.”

“You will definitely need armor,” King John added from well across the room.

Borra placed the second child back into Philip’s arms, and the sight of him tucking the edge of their blanket over the fold of their cocoon made your heart squeeze. “Your godmother already knows of our plans.”

“As she does of ours,” Philip replied. “We needed Maleficent’s blessing.”

Their customs were strange, but if it was a blessing they desired…

You leaned in close to the child in Aurora’s arms, and whispered to them, “May you grow strong and always be healthy.”

“And you,” Borra said to the other, his voice low and fond, “And know peace.”

“Both of you,” you agreed.

They weren’t particularly magical blessings, as far as other fey’s gifts were concerned, but Aurora beamed at you as though you’d given her everything she could’ve ever wanted. “I’m so glad.”

“And I’m for you.” You squeezed her hand once more before you stood, and you turned to the old king with new interest. “You spoke of armor. Why? Do you believe we’ll be at war?”

“Well, not with any urgency, but you both live a long time, don’t you? Can’t hurt to be prepared. Better protection than leather, should you ever need it. And – oh, swords! And shields! And your children will need lessons in using them.”

You would need lessons in using them, but if it was to be an exchange of gifts, well. Borra joined you, sighing from the depths of his chest. “I hope they’ll never need them.”

You laid your head on his shoulder, and your fingers linked ever so slyly with his. He knew what you were doing and brought his hand to settle over your stomach. The radiant warmth of his palm soaked into your skin. “They are warriors. And if it’s peace they’re to preserve, there’s no harm in teaching them.”

“Them?” he repeated.

“I’ve been with child for the last two springs.”

He feigned fond exasperation as he stared at you, though his fingers traced the plain of your belly with the utmost love. “Remind me next time to wait until summer.”

“Harvest,” you teased.

He grinned, the points of his sharp teeth glinting in the morning of a new day.

[p4lparker]

Practice Makes Perfect

                                                    A Touch of Lips;

                 Birds twittered outside the window, and sunlight leaked through the slits in your blind. You could feel the warm body underneath you. Head resting on a chest which rose and fell peacefully, you tilted your head up, hands coming to rest underneath your chin as you stared at the blonde. His face was so peaceful, still marred with painful looking bruises and cuts; his eyes covered from you in sleep, but his mouth was quirked slightly a smile painted on them even in unconsciousness, his lips looking so inviting that you couldn’t restrain yourself. You pushed up on your hands on his chest and placed a gentle kiss upon him. It was only supposed to be a peck, but when he began to respond it soon turned into a lazy series of smooches.

               “Well that’s an amazing way to wake up..” JJ whispered against your lips, not wishing to part from you for too long, you both were smiling into the kisses. You shuffled off of him slightly, wrapping you arms around his middle and snuggling into him, as your arms rearranged around him you brushed against his lower body- feeling his hardness against you made you blush madly at the memory of last night. You could remember the way he felt in your hands and the desperate noises he whimpered out as you pushed him closer to his release. As the hay images flittered across your mind’s eye you felt a rush of heat flow through you and settle in between your legs. JJ stiffened at the brief contact, the slightest brush of hands or lips and it sent him in to a bubble of lust. His lips moving more furiously over your own- hands ventured along bodies- whispered moans filled the heady air surrounding you both. Until there was a knock on your bedroom door, you pulled away from JJ quickly, rolling to the side and off him before pushing him off the bed as the door opened to reveal your father.

               “Morning sweetheart..” He smiled, his eyes caught on the black boots at the foot of your bed and cargo shorts. He rolled his eyes and wiped a hand over his face tiredly. “Morning JJ or John B.. “ Your Dad kind of growled out; it wasn’t that he disliked the boys, he just didn’t take kindly to the fact that she was either sharing a bed in with one of them in the chateau or one of them was crawling in to her bed here, and no father wants his little girl sharing a bed with horny teenage boys.

“Breakfast is in the kitchen, I have to go to the station and don’t know what time I’ll be back later so I’ll see you when I see you sweetheart..” Your dad smiled at you softly, which you returned meekly, as JJ’s head popped up from the floor and peered at your dad stood in the doorway. You dad shook his head as JJ tried to not look to embarrassed at being caught out.

“And you… Get clothes on and get outta my daughters bed… You better not have defiled her Maybank or I swear to god..” He pointed a finger at the blond who flinched at the threatening voice.

“DAD! Get out! Go to work!” You cut your father off, mortification racing through your system quickly. You covered your face in your hands, you couldn’t tell if the room was hot or if your embarrassment was burning you alive from the inside out. You could hear your Dad grumbled as he closed the door and slam around the house before leaving for the day. The engine of the cruiser coming to life outside and driving away- but the shame unfortunately didn’t follow. The bed bounced as JJ jumped up on it, pulling you so you could bury your face in his warm chest instead of your hands.

“Has the ground swallowed us up yet?” You whispered and JJ just chuckled dropping a kiss to the top of your head and letting his hands rub up and down your back soothingly.

“Hey, at least we’re both kinda dressed and he didn’t walk in like ten minutes later.. cause then I think we’d all need therapy..” He laughed, your head flying up to stare at him mouth open and cheeks aflame. Your hands left his waist and felt for the pillow behind you before flumping him in the face with it. He sat and stared at you shocked. Eyes wide, mouth dropped open before grinning madly at you and reaching for his own pillow. And thus began “..the pillow fight to end all pillow fights” as JJ had dubbed it, the two of you running around the room wafting pillows at each other, laughing wildly as you both made contact. You were both to enthralled with whacking each other with pillows you didn’t notice John B crawling through the open window, until you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist and toss you onto the bed- a scream leaving your lips as JJ howled louder with laughter. You looked to your assailant and threw a pillow at him.

“You scared the shit outta me John B!” You crowed, before joining in laughing with your boys. The fight soon became an all out battle, unfair for you as you were being pummelled by the pair of them- your laughter was raucous and loud, and it continued until the two boys collapsed on the bed beside you worn out and breathing as heavily as you were. You all laid together, the boys entwined around you- trying to calm your hearts and guffaws of laughter to chortles, you swept your hair from your face with a huff before realising the contentedness that encapsulated you. You were happy here- buried between your boys, having ridiculous frivolous fun, them entwined around you happily, both just being there. You looked to JJ and waited for his merry blue eyes to find you, you stroked a hand over his face, you then looked to John B and grinned at his tan, freckled face and let your finger poke his cheek. The two leaned in and pecked each of your cheeks, causing you smile to widen into a grin that nearly split your face.

“I heard there is going to be a killer storm in the next couple of days so the swell is going to be immense.. So I was thinking we grab our boards and make the most of it before the tourons ruin our beach?” John B stated, as his fingers found your own and they began to wiggle play with the appendages. His calloused tips tracing over your own and around your palm and wrist- tickling the delicate skin there- you looked to JJ who just grinned, and so it was decided that was what the three of you would do. You patted John B’s stomach and moved to stand from the bed, JJ pinched your side playfully as you moved making you yelp. You collected the abandoned pillows from the floor and tossed them back onto the bed with the boys; they groaned at the impacts but laughed along regardless. You moved around the room; searching through drawers for a fresh bikini, you couldn’t decide between the yellow or pink one, holding part of both suits in your hand thoughtfully.

“Yellow..” JJ murmured from behind, you looked to him over your shoulder- watching as John B nodded emphatically. You smiled lightly and put the pink one back- then moved to your closet and collected some shorts and a t-shirt before turning back to the boys and gesturing for them to leave. They both just stared at you not understanding the issue, you sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Dude, leave so I can change..” You stated exasperatedly, the boys fumbled to get up and leave you to do as you said. You got yourself ready and piled your hair into a messy bun on top of your head as you tugged on the bandeau bikini and other clothes, you slipped your feet into your sandals and ventured out to the boys- grabbing one of each of their hands and pulling them behind you to the kitchen. You shoved a cooler into John B’s arms and began whirling around the kitchen making sandwiches and collecting soda’s and beers before popping them into the cooler. JJ helped pass you things and close cupboards etc as you whizzed around. When you were closing the lid to the cooler, you pushed John B to the front door and JJ jogged to grab your board from the back porch, the three of you venturing out to the Twinkie- and the moment you stepped foot out the door, the sun began slamming its heat into you. You all settle into the van and set off for the beach; you had raced JJ to try and get shotgun, but the blonde had won, and now you sat in the back of the bus, head propped between the two as John B concentrated on the roads which were beginning to become busy with summer-fun-seekers and JJ concentrated on slipping a new juul cartridge into the pen before breathing it in. He held it to your lips, letting you take a hit and smiling as you took it like a champ.

The ride to the beach was filled with tunes and chatter- and before you knew it you were pulling to a stop in a parking space and the three of you sprung from the van, you tugged the cooler with you as you hopped out. JJ had already climbed up onto the roof of the Twinkie and was handing the boards down to John B, once JJ was back on the ground and not precariously leaning half off the roof; you all jogged down to the sandy beach. The air was warm, and the breeze was gentle- it was a glorious summer’s day, but the ominous black clouds pulling themselves from the horizon slowly told you the waves today would be sick. You all ran close to the shore line; spreading out a couple of towels and propping the cooler between them; you watched as the boys stripped off their shirts and shoes, you eyes watching their movements making your mouth go dry, as they stood before you in all of their tan gloriousness. You mind quickly reminding you how those taut muscles felt under your hands and the palms of them tingled.

“See something you like Y/N?” JJ asked teasingly, his face donning a grin fit for the devil himself, John B stood beside him- equally as taunting. You huffed as the flush ran through your body- you’d been caught ogling them, and you couldn’t even play it off. You ignored the comment with a sniff, and proceeded to tug of your shirt and shorts- feeling their eyes on you, you raised a brow before turning to your board- grabbing it and jogging off to the water. Wading your way into the cold waves you stood and let your body regulate to the temperature before sliding onto your board and paddling out to wait for a wave. The boys followed close behind, the three of you floating on your boards as you waited for the waves to begin roiling. The wind picked up as the sky began to darken; you turned your gaze to the once busy shoreline, and watched as the masses began to pack up their belongings and flee the sand as the first few drops of rain splattered onto them, you tilted your head to the sky and let the rain drizzle onto you. As the waves began to get more wild, you waited and began paddling back to shore- the crashing wave chasing you down, when it was upon you- you leaped up to your feet keeping low to keep your balance as you felt the wave take you. Arms out to the sides to keep your balance, you swayed your body with the waters movement below- cutting turns and twists into the wave. Letting out a whoop of joy as you rode the wave for as long as possible before the swell dumped your body in the water below. The boys followed your lead and began chasing and riding their own waves.

You stayed in the water for as long as you could- before your skin was beginning to turn blue from the pouring rain and the freezing ocean. The heavens had opened and the rain poured over you all, but it didn’t stop your laughter or joy. You let the waves push you further into the shore, sliding off your board and wading through the knee deep water until you were able to collapse on the soggy sand- waves lapping at your feet. John B followed you out, dumping his board next to yours before sitting behind you; his wet chest to your goose bump covered back, legs either side of your own, arms locking around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your neck- the both of you watching JJ surf more waves, he was the better surfer out of the three of you. John B brushed his hair back with on of his hands before reaching round and pulling your face towards him and kissing you gently.  He smiled into the kiss, before swaying the two of you to an unheard song. He pulled away and pecked the tip of your nose making you giggle- the rain still poured over the pair of you, both watching and whooping as JJ showed off his skills. You sighed happily and leaned against John B’s chest, resting your hands around his forearms- both watching on as the waves became more and more wild, when JJ was dumped from a wave for the fifth time in a row he decided to make his way back to shore to you both. As soon as his foot stepped back on soggy sand, sinking in slightly- thunder cracked and lightening flashed over head. You felt your heart start at the surprising noise- your breathing gasping as you flinched further into John B’s chest. He laughed at your reaction and pressed a kiss to your wet crown before tugging you up- reaching for both of your boards as you collected the cooler and your soggy clothes. You all ran to the van- you diving inside the back of it and wrapping a blanket around your shivering frame, after hoisting the boards back into place on the roof, JJ joined you. Slithering into the blanket with you and wrapping himself around you, as you both shivered together. John B jumped into the cab, starting her up- shaking his long curly hair from his face like a dog before urging her out of the parking spot and down the much quieter roads.

The storm was becoming more violent outside, thunder crashing and lightening flashing more frequently, you could all feel the wind push against the sides of the Twinkie as John B steered her down the familiar path to JJ’s dwelling. As you neared the house you could feel JJ stiffen behind you, and it had nothing to do with him being cold- it wasn’t a home, it could never be called that. A home was filled with love, not terror. The chateau was home, with you and John B- and as he pulled into the dirt track drive you all breathed a sigh of relief as it was empty. Meaning the elder Maybank was working so JJ would have some peace and safety for the night. JJ kissed your cheek laughing as John B raised a brow and pointed to his own, before leaning forwards and dropping a kiss on the brunettes cheek also- he grabbed his gear and an to the door, waving wildly at the pair of you before disappearing behind the door. You slide yourself forwards and clambered into the passengers seat next to John B who began the drive back home. One hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh- covered with goose bumps, he turned up the heat and tried to get the radio to play, but the storm interfered with the signal. The music being drowned out by whitenoise and crackling- as the monster of a storm raged outside. You noticed visibility out the windshield was getting worse, and it made you wonder how John B was able to even see.

Thunder bellowed overhead, and John B swerved to the side of the road; a gasp and a yell leaving you both at the sudden movement. And then pained groans as the Twinkie dipped over the shoulder of the road- lurching you both forwards uncomfortably, you continued to roll forwards until John B remembered to slam the breaks on. The jarring impact of you stopping flung you back against your seat. John B lifted his hands from the wheel and looked over you with worried eyes. When he was sure you weren’t harmed in any way, he wrangled the bus into park and switched her off. You couldn’t see through the wind screen; the rain was coming down in thick sheets. The clashes of thunder were coming every other second and rumbling so loudly within your chest it felt as if your heart stopped beating regularly.

“I can’t drive in this! It’s not safe… looks like we’re camping out here for a while ‘till she passes…” John B called to you, trying to be heard over the cacophony just outside. You nodded and moved to the back of the Twinkie, he followed; the two of you piling all of the blankets and pillows back there in to some sort of comfort, it was like building a fort. Once you were content that it would be comfortable, you flopped yourself down into the blankets, making grabby hands at John B until he laid next to you. You giggled as he snuggled in wrapping himself around you like a blanket himself. He reached one hand from you to your phone- abandoned on the floor, scrolling through it until he found your music, he chose a playlist and let it play aloud. The then switched out of the app and opened up the camera one; holding the phone to face you both, he pushed his face against your own until his lips were pressing into your cheek. He snapped the pic, the tell-tale shutter sound shielding the music momentarily- before moving his lips to cover your own, in a gentle kiss. Again the shutter sound echoed, and you laughed at his cheesiness. But let him have his mini photoshoot all the same. Secretly enjoying every moment as your heart swelled and a warm, fuzzy feeling settled within your stomach. When he was happy he’d captured the moment well enough, he let the music play and let your phone rest near your heads. He let his eyes close and laid on his back before snuggling your head to rest on his chest, you laughed, leaning up and pecked at his cheek before settling back on him once more.

The wind howled around you, the rain pattering down quickly and never-ending upon the roof above, thunder booming making it feel like it was shaking your very being and lightening flickering, lighting up John B’s peaceful face in a darkly beautiful way. He had his eyes closed still, but his lips quirked.

“You’re staring…” He whispered, turning his face to you, before opening his dark eyes and staring back at you. You just smiled gently back at him and he let a huff of air pass through his nose- almost like a laugh. You could feel yourself relax and your breathing slow, and sleep was calling to you both, dragging you towards it peacefully. Until a particularly loud burst of thunder ripped through the sky, making a yelp leave you as you clung to John B.

“Hey, you’re okay.. I got you..” he murmured, one of his hands raising from your waist to tilt your face up towards him- he then leaned down and kissed you. Trying to let his lips calm you, but as his supple lips met yours, and his tongue swept along your bottom lip- they did the exact opposite. The gentle kiss became the spark that ignited flames within you, and his gentle hands smoothing over your skin only coaxed them into an inferno. You manoeuvred yourself to hover above his lips, legs straddling his waist- one of your arms supporting you, the other resting against the side of his face as his lips danced with your own, you pulled away slightly and his pouted lips followed you- making you giggle before meeting him again and kissing him with fervour. You opened your mouth and let your teeth nip into his plump bottom lip, making him groan as he opened his mouth and let your tongue in. You explored his mouth, tongue stroking against his. Hands began to wander, his large ones cupping around your bikini clad backside and squeezed- pulling you closer to him, moving you back and forth on him. You could feel him, and from what you could feel he was feeling the heat all the same- your bottoms becoming damp as your arousal settled there. Your ground yourself on him- languidly, this whole entanglement was leisurely and passionate. His fingers trailed up you back and tugged at the material covering your chest from him- you leaned away and pulled the bandeau top up and over your body and head. As more skin was revealed his eyes marvelled at you, focusing solely on you, taking a mental photograph- memorising the ethereal way your skin glowed in the striking lightening. His hands moved slowly ghosting over your soft skin and cupping your breasts, thumbs moving over your hardened nipples and toying with them gently, the moan slipping from you made his pupils blow and mouth drop open.

You lunged forward again and captured his mouth- kissing again, his lips always welcoming. You hands venturing down his body, tracing over his abs- feeling them contract under your palms- then lower to palm his growing hardness. He stiffened and whined at the contact; the storm outside almost drowning his noises out, you fingers fumbled with the waist band, tugging until he got the message. You pulled back and helped him push his shorts off his body, when he was free you scanned your eyes over him. He was different to JJ, not bigger, not smaller- just different but non-the-less pleasing. Your mouth went dry as you saw the blushing head leaking pre-cum. You let the pads of your fingers trace over it and spread it around, lifting it to your mouth and suckling the taste of him from the tips. You had to fight the urge to go back for more. And John B jut watched you eyebrows so high in his hairline you wondered off-handedly if they would ever return to their usual place. His mouth was wide in an O shape, but no sound escaped him, but he could’ve watched that image of you on a loop in his mind until the end of his days; as he was positive nothing would ever be that enticing. That sexy. You licked your hand thoroughly before letting it wander along his shaft- his head falling back against the floor of the Twinkie with a thump. You let your hand squeeze and run along him building up a smooth pace; not too fast or too slow, and he seemed to appreciate it, if the moans leaving his plush lips were anything to go off. You pressed kisses against any flesh your could; nibling and sucking your mark into his left pec. Smiling at the blossoming bruise that formed- you watched as he was lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You moved your lips down his body kissing and licking against the tan skin, soon enough your face was where your hand was working him. You don’t know what made you do it, but your mind couldn’t keep up with your body- as you surged forwards and let your lips meet the blush head of him. He was lost in the sensation, until he felt something new but not unwelcome- his head popping up and staring at you eyes wide- brows furrowed. You were looking at him for his reaction, and you weren’t disappointed, the look on his face spurred you on, as you wracked your brain for anything you could remember from watching porn. You tentatively opened your lips and left open kisses on the tip.

“F-f-f-uuuuck!” john B whispered, his hands pushing his hair from his face. His response pushed you on. Your mouth opened and took him inside, you bobbed your head down as far as you could before hollowing out your cheeks and sucking on him. You watched him from beneath you lashes, his hands were fisted in his curly locks and tugging at the ends of the strands and his face was screwed up beautifully in pleasure. You moved slowly, taking him in and out of your warmth- moving your wet hand over the parts of him you couldn’t fit into your mouth. His moans made you hum in appreciation- you picked up the pace slightly and pushed him further into the confines of pleasure. And he was so close, so, so close to that delicious release- he wasn’t lasting long, especially when you swiped your tongue over him teasingly as you gained confidence. As he could feel the familiar tightening in his stomach, he tried to let you know to pull away. When his frantic hands tapped at your shoulder you pulled back- he sighed out and took himself in his hand and pumped himself quickly.

“mm gonna cum..” He grunted out as he pumped his hand quicker until spurts of white coated his hand and some landed on your chest. His eyes couldn’t decide whether to screw shut tightly or stare at you wide eyed. He was wrong, this was the most beautiful and sexy thing he’d seen; you covered in him. Once he had ridden out the aftershocks of his release he lunged towards you and kissed you furiously, passionately- his lips slowing until it became more his more familiar languid style. His fingers found their way to your bottoms and began to stroke you over the material. Before slipping underneath- you moved your hips against his hand and tried to gain more friction; chasing your elusive high. John B began shifting his weight until he could roll you beneath him; his hand slipping from the front of your bottoms to the sides and began to tug them down. Once you were bare for him his fingers returned to our most sensitive area- and yours began their exploration of him once more you could feel him begin to harden again, as you both teased eachother. Lips fused in a never ending kiss. You lifted your legs, and began to wrap them around his hips, dragging him towards you. His fingers working you to your end swiftly- pads of his fingers circling and drawing figure eights on your clit, your peak came and you rose with it moaning out loudly at the sensation. He pulled his lips from you, your eyes focusing on his features he looked directly into your eyes, panting slightly.

“Wait!” You gasped out, as your mind began to clear- the look on John B’s face surprised you, you had expected disappointment, not the gentle smile he was sporting. He nodded, not needing an explanation- he pulled his hands from your core, licking your taste from them before rolling off of you. He pressed his lips against yours lazily and kissed you- the way you were beginning to love. He tugged you to rest against his chest once more, pulling blankets around you both as you snuggled together and listened to the raging storm outside and let it ease you both to sleep.

___________________________________________________________

Taglist; @fobobozobo @nikki082489 @softkidinlove @poguesforlife​ @belledutchess​ @brilliantbecca94​ @n1ghtsh4d3-67​ @lasnaro​ @whoreforouterbanks​ @kaelyn-lobrutto24​ @danicarosaline​ 

[thran-duils]

Devils Look Like Angels (Ch. 9)

Title: Devils Look Like Angels (Chapter 9) Summary:  Fem!Reader x Psychotic!Castiel. An unhinged, criminal, supernatural artifact collector extraordinaire… and the reader caught his eye. It will not take her long to realize that beneath the charm and mystique is a crazed killer who will go to great lengths to woo her. Words: 1,399 Warnings (for the fic in entirety): Stalking, angst, death/murder, violence

Chap 8 || Chap 10 || Masterpost  || Fanfic masterpost

Flicking through articles online, you searched for something that smelled of a case. The last couple of weeks, you guys had laid low and to be honest, all nervous to venture outside now that you were aware Castiel knew exactly where you lived.

Sighing, you closed another article, growing agitated that you had not found at least something yet. You decided to branch out, looking at the southeast coast.

“Nothing?” Dean questioned from across the table. He was doing his own search on his laptop, lazily twirling a beer bottle on its end on the table.

“Not yet,” you admitted. “At least not anything close by. I’m looking at Louisiana.”

“Haven’t been out that way in a while.”

“And it has sandy beaches,” you quipped, throwing him a smirk that he returned.

Article after article. You were growing tired of staring at the screen. You would rather be staring at the bottom of another beer bottle.

Something caught your eye.

You groaned.

“What?” Dean asked.

Turning your laptop around to show him, you said, “I’ve had enough of werewolves this year. Haven’t you?”

<> <> <>

Sam shouted in pain as he was slammed up against the rock wall behind him. The werewolf was in his face, getting too close, chomping at his arm as he tried to grab his knife since his gun knocked out of his hands. Dean grabbed it by the shoulder, tearing it away with enough force to give Sam the room to drive his machete into the wolf’s neck.

It howled in pain when Sam tore the knife back out and kicked t to the ground. Dean cocked his gun and aimed directly for the head.

You were at Sam’s side quickly, “Did it bite you?”

Shook, it took him a few seconds to register what you asked. He shook his head, “No. No. I’m good.”

He held out both his arms as proof.

You and Dean instantly relaxed.

Clapping him on the shoulder, Dean said, “Well. We got the son of a bitch. Let’s go to the beach.”

<> <> <>

Running a towel again over your wet hair, you left the motel bathroom. You were the last to shower, considering Sam had been beaten up the most and Dean had taken some hard hits too. They must have gone to the beach to have some beers already because the room was empty.

Tossing the towel on your bed, you slipped your shoes on. You were wearing boxers and a sweatshirt, and you hoped the sweater was enough to keep out the ocean breeze.

Grabbing the room key, you left, locking the door behind you.

As you walked down the porch to go downstairs, a group of younger men – obviously drunk – were coming up them.

One low whistled eyeing your legs and you locked eyes with him, your annoyance evident.

“Where are you going? The party is back that way,” he said, blocking your way. He held up a handle of hard liquor, waving it in your face.

He was tall, almost as tall as Sam, you guessed. His brown hair was tousled, his arms covered in tattoos. If he was not acting like an absolute douche, you might actually flirt back.

Considering that was not the case, you tried to sidestep by him without a word.

He advanced, blocking your way again with a hand on your arm.

You noted his wolf tattoo and almost scoffed at the coincidence.

“Yeah, can you move? I’m meeting my friends.”

“Well,” he said with a wide smile. “How about you invite them too, gorgeous?”

Smirking, you said, “Unless you’re into mid-thirties men, I don’t think you’ll be getting what you’re asking for.”

The guy leaned back, examining you with a drunken look. “You a prostitute?”

This time, you actually did scoff. “No. Now move, you overgrown jackass.”

You shoved past him, his friends laughing at the exchange. You wanted to pistol whip the group of them.

“Whatever, bitch. You’re not even that hot anyway,” the guy called after you.

You merely answered with a finger over your shoulder, which caused another round of howling laughter from the group.

<> <> <>

Another package waited by your car. You had only been home for a few hours at most.

Gingerly, you removed the lid from the box and stared inside. It only took a few moments for you to register what you were looking at.

A shrill scream erupted, and you tossed the box away from you. Your gaze was locked on the upturned box, your mouth hanging open in horror.

Over the blood rushing in your ears, you heard Sam and Dean rushing out of the bunker door from behind you.

“What? What happened?” Sam shouted, his hands on your shoulders trying to get you to focus on him.

Your breath shuddered as you raised a shaky hand to point past him at the box in the gravel. Tears pricked at your eyes.

His eyes followed your direction and he swiftly turned to swoop the box up. You let out a low moan seeing the piece of skin had fallen out, sitting in the setting sun.

“What the hell…” Dean asked no one in particular, staring in revulsion.

Sam backed a few steps away, not taking his eyes off of it.

Your voice shook as you said, “It’s that guy.”

“What guy?” Sam demanded.

“That douchebag from the hotel! The one I told you about that was messing with me when I was trying to come down to the beach. I recognize that tattoo. Oh my god.”

Castiel had been in Louisiana. He had been watching you still, quietly hiding in the shadows. You had been basking in the false sense of security. Once again.

It was too much.

You leaned against Sam for support, not trusting your knees to not buckle beneath you.

<> <> <>

Ringing roused you from your sleep. Drowsily, you answered, “Hello?”

“You were sleeping, kitten.”

Your eyes snapped open wide hearing his voice. You had not even checked the number before answering in your sleepy state.

“Y/N?” he questioned when you did not respond.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbow, “What?”

“I woke you.” It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry. I despise being woken up.”

“Why are you calling me?”

You caught the slight scoff before he asked, “Did you get my gift?”

“I wouldn’t call that a gift, Castiel.”

You heard him exhale curtly this time.

“A token. A sign to show you I will not allow you to be disrespected.”

Rubbing your eyes, distressed, you felt a bubble of anger rising. He had invaded your space, the one space that was supposed to be yours. To be secret. And then he had done that heinous thing.

“How? How long were you there? How did you manage to be there? In Louisiana?”

You wanted answers to this madness, and you wanted them now.

“Now, if I showed all the cards up my sleeve, how would I keep the element of surprise in our relationship, kitten?”

“We… we don’t have a relationship, Castiel!” you blurted. Your voice trembled as you fought tears, “You cut some guy’s arm off and left the skin of it on my doorstep! That’s not a relationship, that’s sick! Do you realize that? Or are you that daft?”

Clarity rang that you had in your tired stated let your emotions get the better of you. You were poking the bear – the exact thing you had pleaded with Sam and Dean to not do. Stupid. Impulsive.

Breathing shakily, you wiped at your eyes waiting for his reaction.

“Well. Our first spat,” Castiel laughed, void of humor. “I did not think it would resort to personal jabs but in a whirlwind of emotion…”

You were silent, more flabbergasted than anything at his blatant disregard of your words accusing him of his insane behavior.

“Right. No more body parts as gifts. I will keep that in mind, kitten. Thank you for being honest, most would be too afraid to with me.”

Anger boiled back up to the top, your clarity for civility moments ago was discarded. “I am going back to sleep, Castiel.”

You did not even say goodbye before hanging up your phone. And turning it off completely for good measure.

You stared at the ceiling for hours, unable to fall back asleep.

~~~

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